Cropredy is a small village in north Oxfordshire and was once home to several members of Fairport Convention, a folk-rock band. Some thirty-eight years ago they set up their own festival and have had one ever since despite one wobbly year when the main organiser and her husband, the base guitar player, split up. This year is the band’s 50th. anniversary and so, with due fears of mawkishness, I had booked my ticket long ago.
The music starts at 4.00pm Thursday so I had managed to scrape back to bare metal quite a section of upperworks and even give it a coat of Firtan. With a day at WVM there was still time to wash off the Firtan and get two coats of red oxide over it. As red oxide is porous and Firtan is only good for a short while all this was necessary to prevent me having to start from scratch at a later date – and still one more coat would be necessary before the long break. But all work and no play…
Dominic is an old mate of longer standing (with some fairly long breaks) than Fairport’s Cropredy Convention, as it is punnily named, has been in existence. Of late we have met up there quite a few times for our annual RV, sometimes in the company of Cap’n John, sometimes in the company of others. This year he was accompanied by his fiancee and so I didn’t have to take a tent for him.
Thinking that I would stop at Lidl’s for some cheap beer it turned out quite expensive – there was a really, really must have one of those or my gusset will burst into flames cordless circular saw… Expensive savings will appear to be a theme today.
Sarah has a five-years old daughter called Phoebe who is an absolute sweetie but does need her sleep, thus by the time we actually met it was almost her bed time so the shared supplies weren’t quite. Bishop’s Finger is a pleasant if slightly stronger than usual beer and five fingers make a fist (I can almost hear the pedants’ cries of anguish but there isn’t a beer called Bishop’s Thumb), so Thursday became Bishop’s Fist night.
Being one of the UK’s earliest folk rock bands Fairport attract fairly eclectic fans (there are also some acoustic ones) and, as Cropredy straddles the Oxford canal, some river rats and chancers.
Between the festival site and the canal these two, obviously acoustic, fans were indulging in a spot of private enterprise.
It is a festival of much continuity and much change. Thursday, as usual, started with an acoustic set from Fairport themselves and continued with some good folk rock throughout the evening.
On Friday and Saturday the music doesn’t start until midday and so the whole village gets in the party spirit. The cricket pavilion is open for showers, the junior school does breakfast in a bun with all funds swelling their coffers and the litter is cleared by the scout troop, who invite donations on Saturday afternoon. I do wonder sometimes whether the opposite force is that some usual village type fund raising activities go by the board.
One of the continuties is the Saturday opening slot being Richard Diigance, the London version of Billie Conolly, Jasper Carrot, Max Boyce et al – the comedian/folk singers who grew out of the ever longer, rambling introductions which were common in folk clubs of the late 1960s.
The school breakfast in a bun has recently extended to buy a travel mug, get a season ticket on the hot drinks. Dominic mentioned that five drinks was the break even (he was excluding the value of the mug) and I replied to the effect of economies and false economies. In Moscow, the first time, and in Berlin, the second time, carnets or season tickets have been false friends. In Moscow, following a travel tip, I bought a carnet of ten metro tickets for the price of eight – and used only one. The tip did not take account of those of us who prefer walking. In Berlin Sven kindly bought me the weekend season ticket and again I used it for only one journey. A fool and his money being soon parted is a tenet of English civil law – and I am living proof.
The change side of things concerns some of the bands and here I differ from the organisers. I like folk rock; Petula Clark may well be great for her age but her USian style of presentation and her style of singing do nothing for me. I fear Cropredy and I may be growing apart; I hope that the Cambridge Folf Festival remains true to itself. For all of that, the folksy bands were up to their usual high standard and the joke of Richard Digance taking a year out but being screened at the time that he would be doing his really cheesy bit of getting the whole field (or at least, the human part of it) waving hankies as he played a cod Morris dance was pleasing (to the cogniscenti, at least).
To show that old folkies never die, they just creep into VW micro-campers:
The split windscreen is the ultimate, beating everything else – including the Land Rover – but definitely wouldn’t beat anything over 100 yards (or any other distance for that matter) but it has stood the test of time.
One big advantage of going with someone who has a small child in tow – when Dominic and Sarah took Phoebe to bed I inherited some of his stash – not quite as good as bottles of Bishop’s Finger – but cans of Old Speckled Hen (known to the select few as Spotty Chicken, hence the title) make a welcome substitute. Which is more than can be said for the non-folksy bands.
With the ever looming deadline (ferry booked and Geo. and family arriving soon after me) it was handy to be up and away early on Sunday morning, so much so that I even managed to slap another coat of red oxide on the work-in-progress. It certainly makes a difference:
There’s only four times the length done so far… on each side… and the roof… and the side decks… and the bit above the rubbing strake… and the stern… Then it will be time to start ripping the inside apart. Just the idea of it makes me think I need to lie down in a dark room.
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