Paella At Paolo’s

Friday 23rd. And we’re off to a flying start; the news is that tonight’s gig has been cancelled, and even though I’m disappointed, as with many things in life that don’t work out as planned, every problem comes with a gift in its hand. In this instance the gift is a little more time to rest after yesterday’s lengthy day and late night. 

The Duomo.

The late night was due to an eagerness on my part to see Giulia’s band–Underfloor–perform. I’d been reliably informed that the gig was to begin at 10 p.m. - “late enough”, I hear you say, and if I have misheard you, or just imagined that I heard you, I’ll tell you, that’s late enough. So, after a beautiful dinner of Paella at Paolo’s I was transported to a rather remote and unpopulated industrial estate that just happened to have a night club in the middle of it. 

Once there, I was met by friends Michele (pronounced Mick-el-e) and Dorothea, and was informed that the band would be on stage in ten minutes. Now, if you’ve spent any amount of time in Italy you will know that ‘ten minutes’ quite possibly will not relate too closely to the passage of time that’s normally associated with the period or timespan of ten minutes as one often regards it to be. Here was an occasion that did not contradict this implied stereotype.

The joys of Italian cuisine and good company.
Left to right: Paolo, Santino, Giulia, me, Michele.  

When the band did take to the stage - at 11:30 - they impressed with some very solid progressive rock, and good musicianship and energy all round from each of the members: Guido, Alessandro, Lorenzo and Giulia.  

The Ponte Vecchio at night.

On to Friday, and If I’m going to suggest that the Italian approach to timekeeping is not one of the more skilful, I’d also have to say that they make up for it in so many other ways that would put into question even the smallest preoccupation with such matters. I think the most hardened character would struggle not to be moved on the deepest level by the qualities of passion, generosity, warmth and the sheer pride in one’s own culture that is so much a natural part of their psyche. As a guest in such company, and when combined with the aesthetic impact on the senses that such history can have as it comes at you from all angles, for me these are rich moments that somehow make sense of my time on this planet.

Beautiful Tuscany.

The Mortal Plain, Seat 14F.

Thursday, another ridiculously early start, and again no need for an alarm - with the customary insomnia on this occasion serving a constructive purpose, as I wake first at 2 a.m. and then 3:44; perfect timing. The train left Preston right on time at 05:12 bound for Manchester airport. 

Now I’m back in the air, a space that feels more like home by the day; this is a good place to be, in fact this seat on the plane is a good one to be sat in. There are times when it pays not to do the online seat selection, etc., as I was fortuitously allocated a window seat with extra leg room by the lady at the checkin, and not only that, but quite unusually they let me carry my guitar to the gate, and they even tried to find a space in the passenger cabin for it. 

So it’s back to Italy, and I’m trying to recall the time of my last visit; it was some years ago. Firenze, a regular destination for me once-upon-a-time, was usually visited courtesy of my dear, dear friend Ernesto de Pascale when he was on the other type of plain, the mortal one. A larger than life, and beautiful man, full of fascination, curiosity, ideas and creativity. A journalist, promoter, producer, radio and television presenter, songwriter and musician; I guess he never stopped, which could well have had something to do with why he’s not here with us now. 

Ernesto de Pascale

Ernesto would get me work at festivals, and at venues like the Teatro del Sale, although I’d have to say, there really isn’t another venue like the Teatro del Sale. A magnificent Renaissance style building in the heart of old Florence, it is owned and operated by master chef Fabio Picchi and wife Maria as a buffet style eating establishment, serving medieval Tuscan food. In the evenings the food is cleared away at 9 p.m., the customers turn their seats to face the stage, and the entertainment begins. 

Teatro del Sale.

 In 2006 I played five straight nights there, Tuesday till Saturday, with the final show broadcast live on Ernesto’s own radio show across Italy. Three of those nights were recorded and video’d, and now they constitute my CD and DVD: Live in Florence.

Fabio Picchi

Today I arrive at Pisa at 11:55, to be met by Paolo, the very person who sent me the text message three years back telling me of the massive stroke Ernesto had just suffered. He passed away ten minutes into his 53rd Birthday.

I wish I were playing the Teatro del Sale this time, but alas, it is not to be; they have a stage production taking place all week. The shows I do have are: Fiorno Sull’Arno, Firenze (Friday), Pianeta Melos, Pistoia (Saturday), Full Music, Firenze (Monday), and The Sarzana Acoustic Guitar Meeting (Wednesday).

The Case For Symmetry.

As was the case when I stayed with Don and Linda in Adelaide, I'm fortunate to have time to experience a little more of Perth than was the case the last two occasions I visited. On the Saturday, John and Deb took me to Fremantle, about a half hour from the suburb of Carine where they live. It has to be a “must see” place for anyone visiting this part of the world, with a style and history all of its own. And if you’re a beer lover, check out the local “Little Creatures” brew; with an IPA that’s 6.5 on the richter scale I was feeling pretty happy there for a while. 

There are plenty of impressive wineries to visit around Perth and in the Swan Valley. The only down side to our own winery tour was the crowds; it just happened to be Mothers Day and everyone had the same idea as we. The final excursion was to Kings Park, which holds a lavish and exotic mixture of plant life, and offers a breathtaking view of Perth from its raised vantage point.

A winery in the Swan Valley. 

Now there’s just one more night of work to think about. It was something I felt very uncertain about. John had tried hard to put another show together for me in Perth, and had come up with this - the Monday Supper Club at a café called The Dome. What would it be like? I wondered. Some of these restaurant gigs are not good at all; people generally don’t go and eat with the intention of listening to music. Well, I’ll tell you what it was like - bloody brilliant. It was as if we both did our jobs well; I was good, and I don’t mind admitting it ... and the audience? - God damn, they were good too! … we were both on top form. 

And a strange thing occurred on this night. One of the most difficult things to know before you leave for a tour like this is how many CDs you might sell, and therefore how many to take with you. I have a system, to save on weight and bulk I take whatever number I decided out of their jewel cases, along with the inlays and booklets, and I mail them ahead of time to someone in the territory I’m about to visit. When I arrive I’ll buy the cases, and put the CDs back into them. On this trip I'd sent a batch to Anne-Marie in Auckland, and also to Dominic in Victoria, plus I had quite a few in my suitcase. 

Throughout the tour they were selling well, and by the time I reached The Dome, after twenty one gigs plus a festival, there were just thirteen left in my possession. After finishing my forty five minute spot, all thirteen were sold without there being one more potential customer. In fact, I’m convinced that if I’d had a fourteenth CD it would be travelling home with me right now.  

As I wrote my first post, Outward Bound, 25th March sat on a Boeing 777, so I complete the symmetry this 14th May in the same plane heading back home. I love symmetry. Much of what I write in music could parallel this journey, in that it usually ends as it begins. 

Often, I’ve considered whether this might be a weakness, an unwillingness, or inability even to embrace the natural haphazardness of life. But to me life does appear to have both, and whether it’s chance or design you’re after, randomness or order, whichever one you’re convinced of, what you see is the reflection and projection of your own preference.  

Munich is about three hours away now, and Manchester a further two. On my arrival there are eight days to decompress, to catch up with business, then it’s back to the airport for a long overdue visit to Italy, Tuscany to be precise, and then the next episode - albeit a much shorter one - begins.

Fixed On The Horizon.

2 a.m. Don and I seized the one last chance we had to recall the times, the places, people, the very events that have brought smiles to our faces before. It’s not something that happens all that often, in fact these occasions are so rare that they can become the very thing we reminisce about. But despite the many salient moments that fall naturally from the lips, the one thing we cannot recall is how we first met. “It was probably at a folk club in Preston”, I say. Don agrees, “Yes, I think you must be right”.  

It had to be something like 1970 when we did meet, Don moving up from his native Liverpool to study graphics at the Harris College in Preston, a time when many - not just we - shared a deep interest in all things acoustic. The term “Folk music” back then could apply to pretty much anything played on an acoustic guitar; it’s as though it hadn’t been around long enough for divisions such as “traditional”, “contemporary”, “blues” and the like, to dominate our evaluation of this inclusive genre. And it was mainstream then.

Since those earliest of days, I’d describe occasions such as these–finding ourselves back in each other’s company–as both fleeting and rare - in a span of over forty years, they really can be counted on one hand. Still, the regularity of encounter or contact, and an unspoken yet understood bond that connects two individuals, are by no means synonymous with one another.  

Don’s Wife, Linda, and Son, Thomas were at the airport to meet me when I arrived at Adelaide on the Tuesday afternoon. The plan is to have a couple of days in which I can familiarise myself a little more with a city I’ve twice visited before, but whilst there have only seen the venue, the usual hotel and the tour bus. To be more accurate, I’m going to see a lot more than just a city, Don’s eager to show me something about the route he’s chosen to take in life, and all that which has come to pass as a consequence. 

I hardly had time to breath before being whisked off to a rehearsal with his band: Bogaduck. Tuesday is their regular weekly rehearsal night, and as I sat, observed and drank wine, Don and fellow musicians, Thatch, Ken and Gus tolerated my presence gracefully. 

Bogaduck

For miles upon mile, the coastline in this part of the world is golden and expansive, something I couldn’t help noticing on my inbound plane journey. On Wednesday I forgot about the guitar, became a tourist, and was given a guided tour out along the Fleurieu Peninsula to Goolwa, a lovely area especially popular with surfers. We tried hard to do some kangaroo spotting on our way back, though not very successfully. Apart from one poor deceased creature lying by the road, there may have been a couple I caught the briefest glimpse of out of the corner of my eye.

Goolwa beach.

Port Noarlunga’s a good forty five minutes drive from Don’s house in Echunga, and is the location of the South Coast Folk Club where I’m booked to play tonight, Thursday. I get my soundcheck out of the way and we, five of us, go in search of food, fish and chips. 

It was this big!

It’s ridiculous really to consume such foods before a gig, but I did it anyway; they were heavenly, and I might’ve even performed better because of it. Perhaps the carbs that didn’t find their way to my waist provided a little fuel for my fingers to burn off! The excellent Ray Smith opened the evening. 

At the South Coast Folk Club.

Back home, at the end of a very good evening, Don and I sat, and we talked, and remembered, and laughed, and eventually we wished each other a good night … until next time, whenever that might be.

Friday afternoon, 1:40 p.m. and I’m bound for Perth, a journey of considerable distance. To say that Australia’s a huge country is … well … it’s stating the obvious, but let me tell you, it’s really bloody huge. And now that I’ve accurately described its size I’ll tell you about my time in Perth. After the 3 h 40 min flight I was greeted by John Ralph, an ex Brummy who runs the Wanneroo Folk Club, a club that’s not actually in Wanneroo anymore but once was … hence the name. After a brief introduction to my room, and to John’s Wife, Deb, we load up with PA and guitars and head for the venue. 

Perth from Kings Park.

This is all feeling decidedly strange - not this particular gig or anything, it’s just the dawning realisation that my time down here is drawing to a close … and I don’t know if I want it to end. It’s been hard … and it’s been beautiful. I don’t know which way the scale is tipping, if it’s tipping at all … there couldn’t possibly be exactly the same number of “ups” to “downs” … and I haven’t been counting, I’ve just been doing. I’ve been a traveller … a meeter … a hand shaker … and a leaver … but the leaving that’s imminent is on a different level. I’m about to leave the whole journey; before I only left within it. And this is too early for such thoughts … “Just tackle it when it happens”, I tell myself, knowing full well that’s not exclusively what I do. 

The Round House - historic prison, Fremantle.

Once, during a session with the Ouija Board (The Glass Chronicles), I was likened to the Captain of a ship who always had his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, consequently neglecting the needs of his crew, and those aiding in the passage.

It’s very much about living in the moment, and that’s what happens most when playing and performing. On a more technical note though, for my liking I could’ve done with a little more level on the guitar at John’s gig here in Perth, but regardless, the night did seem to go well, extremely well. And once again I was privileged to meet with the most appreciative and generous people.

The Beauty Of Completion.

Melbourne airport, Tuesday 11:35 a.m. and after a good number of attempted text messages and calls that just ended up floating in the ether, Wendy eventually tracks me down outside the domestic arrivals terminal. She concluded, quite logically due to my journey originating in Wellington, it would be international, but I must’ve neglected to inform her about the transfer made in Sydney.  

It was very generous of her to pick me up, and I was grateful for such good company. We had a few stops to make, first to a music shop so I could buy some strings and a jack-to-jack lead, second stop: lunch, third stop: the manicurist for a layer of acrylic on three nails (of my picking fingers), fourth stop: an Ozzy sim card, and a bit of shopping. With all essential tasks completed she dropped me off in the rain outside Southern Cross station. 

It had been such a long day already, and now I was faced with a good forty five minute wait for a train to Warragul, the town in which Dominic lives, then once on that train, there was another two hours fifteen minutes of travel time. The train pulled in, we rendezvoused, and I headed for an evening of food, wine and good company with Dom and his lovely wife, Christina. These long, long days of travel can feel worth the attrition for the beauty of their completion; perhaps a metaphor applicable to life also!

Wednesday, and I prepare for the Guitar Masterclass to be held at the Victoria Railway Institute Hall. Dom prints off a stack of manuscript and guitar tabalature for me, more than I’ll need - it’s always better to go into these things with more subject matter than is needed, that way to avoid any potentially awkward moments as one subject or exercise draws to its natural end, and needs to be followed by the next. Nine people attended in all, a good number, all very friendly, amiable and inquisitive.

On Friday it was the Burrinja Cultural Centre in Upway. Tonight I not only had the pleasure of seeing one or two familiar faces from the concert I played in Emerald three weeks earlier (see post: “The Good The Bad And The Purgatory”), but also had the privilege of meeting Nick Charles - a well known guitar player in these parts and beyond - who turned up with his partner, Penny. It was great to meet Nick; and speaking with each other later, there may well be one or more irons in the fire for joint ventures somewhere down the line.  

Back to the Railway Institute on Saturday for the Warragul show, a self-promoted evening - Dominic not only being the “self-promoter”, but also the provider of all things sound, lighting and refreshment-wise. Not a huge audience tonight, but more than we predicted. 

The final show of this Victoria stint was a more unlikely venue: The Cranbourne Uniting Church. For anyone who isn’t familiar with Uniting Churches - as I wasn’t - it’s a collective of three faiths: Presbyterian Church of Australia, Methodist Church of Australasia, and the Congregational Union of Australia. You find them all over Australia. Maybe one could liken it to what has happened with a few football teams in the UK; with attendances falling, it can make more economic sense to share a ground with the team down the road rather than incur the unmanageable costs of remaining independent. Football and the Church, both suffering from a decline in attendees, and both religions. 

The hosts and the audience at Cranbourne were some of the warmest people you could hope to meet. Nick and Penny turned up again - I really appreciated that. And the biggest of surprises that evening was the most unlikely appearance of friend, Keith, who I’ve known for years, and who I’ve never previously seen outside the boundaries of Preston. He just happened to be visiting his son in Melbourne, spotted I was playing nearby, and there he was. As he stood there facing me, for longer than just a moment I thought I hadn’t gone anywhere, and that this Antipodean experience had been nothing but a journey imagined or dreamed.  

Tuesday. Next up, again, is the leaving; it just keeps happening. Goodbyes are said to Dom and Christina, then I head for the 05:15 train to Melbourne, the Skybus to the airport, and then flight VA 219 to Adelaide.

Main Street to Mongolia.

Following the Canterbury festival, three days with Cousin, Mike Nicol and his wife Elaine in Burnside, Christchurch was exactly what the doctor ordered. I loved every minute of their company and of my time there. 

Shipping containers now used as retail outlets in Christchurch city centre.

A chair for each of those lost in the 13/06/2011 quake 

A mural illustrates the spirit and imagination of the people.  

Thursday, and I’m on the final leg of the NZ shows. Whilst here, apart from the lifts I’ve been offered, I’ve become pleasantly accustomed to travelling by bus, but on these last few gigs it wasn’t going to be practical. I was about to head for the wild west, and to areas where the bus services are sparse; the only solution was car hire.    

I’m on my fifth visit to New Zealand, and only now am I beginning to appreciate how diverse the place is. The west coast could almost pass as a different country, both in landscape and in the character of its inhabitants. The road that takes you across from Christchurch to Greymouth, called Arthur’s Pass, is a route that takes you through yet more glorious settings. Once on the other side, the clean and prosperous look of the east coast is replaced by something a little more earthy and rustic. 

My final destination that day was the tiny settlement of Barrytown, about 20km north of Greymouth, in fact the evening’s venue was the Barrytown Settlers Hall. Now, back in the UK, through the years, I’ve performed in many a small village hall in many a small village, some smaller and more remote than others, but here was a town more remote than any I’ve had included on a gig list before.

This evening's venue.

When I stepped from the car onto the one street that runs through the town from Highway 6 down to the sea - aptly called Main Street - and as I looked over to my right at the hall - not exactly dilapidated or ramshackle, yet obviously not the recipient of recent lottery funding - an inner belief that a concert would successfully take place on this day was hard to locate.

A view along Main Street.

Without going into too much detail, in truth, I’d travelled to an event that had not been well organised at all - much of the business end of things having been cobbled together at the very last minute, and just how “last minute” I would discover later. I’m afraid this has become a theme running throughout almost all of these NZ shows. I’ll expand on this at some point, but for the meantime I shall leave it at that.  

Where Main Street ends.

Almost directly across from the hall was my Backpackers accommodation. I noticed an envelope held by a clip on the front door of the building. It had the name Ken written on it. Inside were instructions that told me where my room was, and the fee, $60, that I needed to pay. “Room number two”, it said, and sure enough, there was a key in the door of No 2. It seemed a strange paradox that one would need a key for a room in an area where it’s obviously safe to leave a key in the door. 

There wasn’t a soul to be seen, not in the Backpackers hostel, the street, or the hall. Still, I’m learning not to anticipate imagined outcomes so much these days; this is New Zealand, the land of surprises. 

So it’s 7:55 p.m. and one person has turned up - Clint, the sound man. In darkness we stand outside the venue waiting … waiting for someone to unlock the building. According to the information I have, the show starts at 8 p.m. which means I’m due onstage in five minutes. I’m ready to call the show off … but wait … another car is pulling up … we have an audience. Now three of us are standing outside the hall. 

Things start to get decidedly busy when a fourth person arrives, and it’s the man with the door keys. First thing he says is, “Didn’t anyone tell you, the side door is open? … we told your agent”. “No, I’m afraid the information wasn’t passed on to me”, I replied without the slightest hint of surprise. We proceeded to carry the PA equipment into the hall … Clint, myself and our audience of one.   

I feel certain that in following the story so far, the projected sense of something akin to futility in the reader probably corresponds quite closely to that which pervaded my thoughts at the time.
          

Clint assembled the PA, we did the most briefest of sound checks, and one-by-one an audience gradually materialised before my very eyes. I had been informed earlier that that was how things worked in this neck of the woods, reliably informed - by the evidence in front of me - but I did have to see it to believe it. I’d also been previously warned that “those people over there on the west side would probably have a knees-up”, and yes, a certain element at the back were definitely in the mood to party. It was OK though, and the evening, though not a huge success, fell far short of what had looked a certain failure.

The staff were great, very generous and friendly - as most are here in New Zealand, nevertheless, at the night’s end they spoke the ever familiar words to me, “We didn’t receive the posters until a few days ago” … “the gig wasn’t confirmed until the last minute” … “please give us more notice when you come next”, etc., etc. It would be way too easy for me to feel a little dispirited about these repeated sentiments expressed at almost every venue I’ve turned up at, but to be honest it’s too late for despondency … I’ve taken the decision to enjoy the positives, and believe me, there are plenty of them.

The drive north along the west coast north towards Nelson, is, quite frankly sensational, some of the most colourful and dynamic terrain you could ever wish to see. 

I was heading to my next stop: Havelock, with a house concert arranged at the last minute at Liz and Tom’s there. Lord knows how she did it, but Liz managed to fill their sizeable front room with only about 24 hours to get the word out. It was a good night, and they were great hosts. 

Saturday, and the first time I’ve ever performed in a yurt. No, I’d never heard of one before either. It’s Mongolian, a bit like a big tent but made of wool, and it smells a bit. I had a great night inside it, performing to a decent and appreciative crowd, many of whom seemed to be drawn there by the Steeleye connection, in fact I was asked if I could play “All Around My Hat”, not for the first time I might add. 

Earlier that Saturday afternoon I drove over to the Nelson suburb of Richmond, and visited my Aunt Grace, the last surviving relative of my Father’s family. She recently turned 90, and it’s hard to believe just how sharp and on the ball she is, astonishingly so. She and Cousin Alan filled me in on all that’s happened in their lives since the last time we saw each other back in 2011. 

My final NZ gig took place on Sunday afternoon at Salvador Diego’s house in Blenheim. Salvador, from Argentina, is a great music enthusiast, and one of the first things he did was wave a Steeleye Span CD in front of me - the last one I worked on with the band: Cogs, Wheels and Lovers. Signing the album “To Salvador” was obviously in the terms and condition of my appearance there. 

This was a house concert unlike others I’ve played in the past - a real family affair - with children … quite young ones who ran back and forth from one side of the room to the other as I manoeuvred my way about the fretboard. They then ran round my legs; if I'd stood legs apart, they’d have probably gone through them; I tried to look unperturbed, but really, this was not the desired performance scenario I’d spent years working towards. I have to admit, the gracious smile placed on my face belied that which lay behind it.    

During the process of events that afternoon I also uncovered an important piece of information; it concerned the accommodation for that night … I hadn’t got any. Just another minor detail missed! Luckily, Tina and Paul, who where in attendance that afternoon came to my rescue, and I couldn’t have wished for a more congenial outcome; they were great company and I most definitely landed on my feet.   

Monday morning, and the ferry I boarded in Picton took me back across the Cook Strait to Wellington. The farewell curry that evening with Mary, Peter, Sarah and Robin was the perfect finishing touch to my New Zealand tour. Next stop: Australia ... again!

A Round Trip To Cook Strait.

Friday 11th April, and friend, Wendy on her day off, picked me up from Marguerite’s and drove me the 44 km to Emerald. The GEM theatre there is small and intimate, and I felt comfortable on its stage. Along with the Thai meal that Dave, the organiser, treated Dominic and I to before the gig, this one-off 3,082 mile round-trip concert began to justify itself and continued to do so later into the evening.

The view from Le Cafe, Picton.

First thing the following morning, and after a brief stay at David’s house - an abode whose interior may possibly have had some order to it, though not easily identifiable with the naked eye - he very kindly transported me to Tullamarine airport for the early flight back to NZ, this time to Wellington.   

Another delayed flight; another $80 excess baggage charge. I was met by Ruth and Gerard Birnie, a great couple who seem quite dedicated to all things “folk”, and who have organised tonight’s house concert at their home in Paraparaumu on the Kapiti coast, north of Wellington. 

I confess, this was not an easy gig for me. I’d describe myself as a semi-insomniac, regularly waking after about four hours, and very often not being able to get back to sleep. The accumulative effect, especially when on the road is often challenging. So lots of travelling, a lack of ZZZs, and the effects of a steep descent into Wellington airport on my ears* left me in a kind of shaky, dreamlike, detached state of mind, not so good when faced with twenty three people in someone’s living room. 

*I should make it clear that I did not actually descend or land on my ears; that, of course would’ve probably meant the cancellation of the house concert.       

      

It was good to see friends and familiar faces in Ruth and Gerard’s front room, one of the more notable being the presence of singer/writer/guitarist Helen Dorothy; an artist with a pretty unique take on things, and I’m a big fan of hers. 

Thursday 20th was the ferry crossing across the Cook Strait, and possibly the worse rain I’ve ever experienced in my life. This, coming from someone who lives in the north west of England is no small statement. Yes, many times I have witnessed rainfall of such intensity, but not of that intensity for that length of time - maybe eight hours. It was a real, full-on tropical storm. The ferry departure was delayed by two hours, then when at sea we got thrown all over the place. In the midst of tumbling baggage and crashing sounds in the cafeteria area the order came over the Tannoy from the captain to remain seated, along with the warning that conditions were about to get even worse, thankfully a forecast worse than the actual outcome.          

Easter weekend is now approaching, and the next stop is Le Cafe in Picton, a lovely café on the waterfront. Features of the evening were: a semi-functional PA system (we just about got away with it); brilliant beer; Peter, the very amiable Swiss proprietor; and finally, the chap who announced to me that he was from Preston, and who - once I’d stopped playing - embarked upon a journey of endless reminiscences. I tell you, you can take the boy out of Preston, but you can’t take the boy from Preston out of Picton.

Picton.

Easter Friday, and if you thought the alcohol licensing laws were bad in Britain, try coming to New Zealand. Thought I’d buy me a bottle of wine to take to this weekend’s festival; OK, for those who know me better, I hold my hands up, yes, two, possible three bottles if I’m to be honest. The thing is with Good Friday they - the authorities - might want to consider some kind of name change. My point being that the values of “good” and “bad” are quite subjective; let’s say, when it comes to the resurrection, if it actually took place, then yes, that’s good. But I’d go further than that, in my view there’d be just reason to call it Fucking Amazing Friday. 

With this same line of reasoning, if you want to, say, buy wine - the very stuff that he, the crucified, converted from water, without any apparent fermentation process (or oak ageing, as I can gather) - then it really is quite an unfortunate Friday. Never mind, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of such offerings  when I get to Waipara where the festival is situated.

Peter and Mary drove me to The Canterbury Folk Festival on the above mentioned Friday. We took the inland route, not the coastal road, this was due to landslides after all the rain on Thursday. With talk of the coastal road being cleared maybe soon that afternoon, we were taking no chances; this meant a journey of six or seven hours, as opposed to the three or four down the coast. We left Robin, friend and part of the entourage, but driving separately, in Picton. Setting off much later, he chose to take the coast road; his and our arrivals were virtually simultaneous.   

The festival site was at the Boys Brigade Centre, Waipara, in the heart of some of New Zealand’s most prolific wine producing regions. I was surrounded by vineyards - ironic, I know. On arrival I was shown to my room. My heart sank when I saw the bunk bed. Forget en suite, the bathroom is shared and halfway down the corridor. Oh, it’s OK, I’m just a little tired. I’ll get used to it ... and get used to it I did. 

I also came to understand how alcohol can indeed be produced in the most unlikely of ways. Perhaps I’d been overheard, I don’t know, but having made a few mutterings on the subject of NZ’s Easter prohibitions, imagine my surprise on the Saturday when entering my room to find a bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich on the table. Then, an hour or two later there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Robin bearing a gift in the form of Shiraz. Later this was followed by a further bottle of red, materialising quite magically, again on the same table as earlier; all of these events conspiring to challenge the skeptic within me!             

        

The whole weekend was one of the most spiritually rewarding times, meeting and making friends with some of the very best of people. It was the richest of experiences.

The Good, The Bad And The Purgatory.

A scenario you’d think I’d have mastered by now, but in truth something I’m not getting any more used to. There is much about “leaving” that pulls and tugs on the heart strings, challenges the emotions, and gives pause for reflection. 

Today, Thursday, and it’s not so much the sentimental aspect of departure that’s an issue, as the anxious one. The suitcase is packed, the guitar secured in its case, the backpack fully loaded, and then there’s me, convinced something crucially, vitally important has been missed. If I were leaving a house that was inhabited, then it wouldn’t be so bad, but this house - like many I’ve said a final goodbye to and have had to leave locked behind me - is non-re-enterable. Once that front door is closed there really isn’t any going back.

So I put the luggage outside the house, placing the guitar case against the door so it doesn’t inadvertently close, and I do one final check; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, washing line, then back outside, where again I stand a while and look at my luggage. I do have my passports, money, don’t I? - of course I do, for Christ’s sake, how many times is that I’ve checked! 

I look again at the guitar case, and can’t recall putting a guitar in there. Opening the case up - sure enough there’s the guitar.   

Right, the time has come to commit - never been too good at that actually - however, it will have to happen at some point. But I’ll have just one last final look through those rooms. And so it goes on. You know, it’s amazing I actually get to go anywhere.     

So, let’s see, what exactly has happened between the Camembert pie and Wellington? - Wellington being my present location. Well, a great deal has happened, and a great many miles have been covered as it happens.   

Thursday, as stated was a day of leaving, Auckland in this instance; and also a day of arriving, Melbourne in this instance. I want to say that the journey - after I had finally found the courage to close the house door - was the trip from Hell, but I’m a realist, and it couldn’t possibly be a trip from hell - both in reality, or even metaphorically. There are much worse things that can happen in life. Given the three biblical inferences available, and with Heaven not being relevant, it leaves Purgatory as the closest option. 

It began quite smoothly with a shuttle bus that arrived at the house - the house I was going in and out of - and a female shuttle bus driver who not only played football (when not driving), but who, after I’d mentioned I was from Preston in the UK, remarked, “Don’t they have a team called Preston North End?” I was impressed. I told her about the recent death of the legendary Tom Finney, and that she should keep an eye on the Division One play-offs this year. 

My football playing driver did mention to me that I should make sure exactly what was included in my Virgin Australia flight ticket, as often, food, drink and more are considered to be “extras” and not part of the original deal. I assured her that the “multi-stop” arrangement I made with Singapore Airlines had the same conditions applying to all the included flights. She said, “Oh, OK, no problem then”. And here endeth the good part of a soon downhill journey. 

Auckland International airport, and as I exit the shuttle and proceed to the check-in desks the bad part begins. 

Check-in looked easy at first glance, just a case of sticking the passport into a scanning machine; pressing the appropriate buttons to state I’ve packed my own luggage; two bags to check-in; might even change my seat while I’m at it. What’s this? - it’s telling me I have to see an assistant. On acquiring the help of an Air New Zealand woman it becomes plainly apparent that my shuttle driver’s prophetic words were, well … prophetic. 

The extra item of luggage - the guitar - was to cost me $80 to check-in. There was no chance of a seat change. And sure enough, food and drink was not included in the ticket. The charge for the guitar got to me big time, I’d gone to great lengths back in the UK to learn what Virgin Australia’s luggage policy was, and even phoned the company about it; they told me I had to go through the company I bought the ticket with - Expedia, which is what I tried to do, but there’s only so long you can spend on hold, and their website was no help whatsoever. Eventually I found some information that led me to believe the airline had a single weight policy, as do Singapore Airlines. 

I was wrong, and considering that if I had been able to pre-pay for excess luggage it would’ve been significantly cheaper. I felt as though I’d been fleeced. Soon becoming philosophical about the whole affair, I proceeded to the gate, and I waited … and continued to wait. Fair enough, the departure would be delayed; you can’t get too phased about that, there’s no point. 

On board I find myself squeezed between two seats. The amount of space seems very limited and unpleasant, but what the hell, this was only to be a four hour journey - so I thought. Approaching Melbourne there came an announcement, “This is your Captain speaking, because of low cloud at Melbourne only one runway is in operation rather than the usual two, and due to a build up of traffic we will remain in a holding position until permission is given to land. I estimate another forty five minutes before touching down. Apologies on behalf of Virgin Australia and Air New Zealand for the delay”.

When the plane finally lands we are something like an hour and a half behind schedule. Again, there’s nothing you can do about these things, so best just take it in your stride. Now to baggage claim - Carousel No: 2, and a good forty minutes of waiting before another announcement - not the Captain this time, though a voice with an equally apologetic tone, ”All passengers arriving on flight NZ 852, there is congestion in the baggage handling area and we apologise for the delay. Your luggage will be with you shortly”. The word “shortly” is pretty adaptable I guess, and in this case it meant another half hour. 

With one very long line to the exit, the customs officials were just waving everyone through - they didn’t even check my golf shoes. Approaching 12 midnight (2 a.m. Auckland time) I was greeted by Marguerite, who’d been waiting close to three hours for me. Just as I’d begun experiencing a diminishing will to live, we walked towards the car park. This was when the final blow was dealt; Marguerite had completely forgotten where, in this huge parking area, she had left the car. 

I followed her upstairs, downstairs, in and out of elevators, before suggesting I stay in one place, and she can come to get me on the re-discovery of her vehicle. She found the car, came to get me, and we travelled another forty five minutes to her home in the Melbourne suburb of East Malvern. 

A very tough day’s travel, but once at Marguerite’s everything gets easier. Tomorrow I play the one show I’ve come to Australia for, and I’ll tell you a little about that later.

Who Ate All The Pies?

Well, I’m on the second of my four days off, although strictly speaking it’s more like three days, the fourth being a travel day on which I head for Melbourne. 

More than a handful of people have asked me, “You’re going to Australia for just one show?”, and yes, I am, the reason being that when my man in Oz, Dominic Finley, told me of this potential gig that was part of a festival in a place called Emerald, Victoria, and he said, “do you want to do it?”, my mouth just seemed to open, and the sound, “yes”, came out. Not sure how it happened, but it happened, and being a man of my intended or otherwise word, I will be heading in an Aussie direction tomorrow.

To tell you the truth, I’m very much looking forward to it - everything bar the logistics of getting there and back; I mean, there’s the waiting, and the checking in of luggage, and the waiting, and the filling out of customs declarations, and then the … yes … the waiting … and they’ll be examining my golf shoes at Melbourne, and then again as I return to NZ. If I’d have had any sense, I would’ve become a rock star years ago, and so now be travelling by private jet. 

Speaking of golf, yesterday I played with good friend, Jim Hall, at Takapuna golf course. He’s what’s called a ‘bandit’ in golfing circles - with a handicap so high that you have to perform out of your socks if you are to have any chance of beating him. So after I’d hired my clubs, paid the green fee and bought some golf balls, with considerably lighter pockets I proceeded to play decent, steady golf, let’s say I played out of one sock, and with a stake of a dollar on the front nine, a dollar on the back nine, and a dollar on all eighteen, my pocket was a further three dollars lighter at the end of the round.

New Zealand is a country with unique and notable attributes, there are things here that Kiwis are particularly good at. That’s not to say the same doesn’t apply to many other places, but if we take Scotland as an example, if it’s a choice of … let’s say, sunshine, beautiful wine, and avocados, compared with … lets say, gale force winds, Iron Bru and fried Mars Bars, New Zealand does have notable attributes.  

Another thing they do incredibly well here is pies. And they stick just about anything that tastes good inside them, which makes a lot of sense really. I’m currently sat outside the Euro Patisserie in Torbay on Auckland’s North Shore. This hive of pie production states quite clearly on its shop window that it is a ‘NZ SUPREME PIE AWARD GOLD WINNER’. Now the one thing I’ve begun to notice is that most of the pie shops have won some kind of award or another, and I doubt if anyone actually takes these people up on such claims. Could it be that the awards are very much like the pies themselves - there are enough for everyone? 

Waiake Beach, Auckland North Shore.

The pie I just had was ‘chicken, Camembert and cranberry’, and on the basis of that alone - even if it were an award 'selfie' - I’d say it was well deserved. Of course, the only snag with this kind of food though is the calories, but it’s nothing that another round of golf won’t cure.

The Ferryman.

Waiheke Island. Artworks Arts Centre. Audience numbers are increasing by the night - and who knows, by this time next week we could be up to 30. The people  were wonderful, all of them from the staff to the punters. 

This was the first show I’ve ever done where I’ve had to keep a keen eye on the time so as not to miss a ferry - 9:30pm in this case - to the mainland. I was off stage at 9:10, and feeling rather pushed for time, courtesy of driver Renee, was at the ferry terminal by 9:25. The ferry was late.    

From the ferry by sea, I disembarked at Auckland to be met by Anne-Marie who ferried me by land to South Head, an as quiet as they come area near Helensville a suburb that sits north-west of the city. Here I stayed wth Mike and Jean - great friends and the best of hosts - for three nights. Tuesday, Mike and I played golf at South Head; Wednesday, I was ferried yet again, this time to the local vineyards - Matua, Coopers Creek and Soljans - and many a free taster was tasted.

Above and below, vineyards, and a selection of wildlife that kept me company at South Head.

Thursday was, “Back on yer head” with a trip to Hamilton. No, no, no don’t go thinking I’m making a statement about the city here, it just came out that way. Mind you, saying that, on arrival I phoned my friend Jim, and when I told him of my location he suggested that I’d drawn the short straw. So later on I mentioned Jim’s comment, in passing, to Wayne and Shelley, the couple who organised this evening’s event; that was when I learnt a new acronym: JAFA - just another fucking Aucklander.  

Last night I played in Tauranga, courtesy of Paul Lethbridge’s acoustic club. Best attended evening to this point, and I have to say, I love playing here; this was my third visit, and for me each one has been a night to remember. Paul and wife Maggie were so welcoming, and to see friends Emily, Campbell, Rosie and Simon at the gig was special. 

Journeyed back up to Auckland on an Inter City bus, took a taxi to this evening’s venue, the Thirsty Dog, and that’s where I sit and write this. I’m getting tired.

Lord Have Mercy.

Whangerei. The Old Library. Once upon a time, I think this was a new library, but not any more, not since they built a more recent one just behind it. I imagine that in years to come there will be more of them, one behind the other, with names like, "Relatively older", "moderately newer", and "a bit more recent". This was last night's venue, and now as I am writing, and sailing the seas to the island of Waiheke I can reflect on what was my second musical engagement.   

One of the most striking events of my day in Whangerei was meeting Ki, an earnest young American who took it upon himself to walk into the venue as I was sound checking. He loved the guitar playing he'd heard from outside, and when we talked he was full of deep philosophical musical analogies that seemed to indicate a search for meaning was taking place within his soul. When he spoke, whatever it was that he came out with was followed by a gaze, a look towards me that seemed to ask for recognition, a nod of approval maybe. I took to him; he reminded me of me.

   

I needed some fresh air, and the two of us took a walk. Along the way we bumped into Mercy; they knew each other. When I inquired, she informed me that she was from Galway, so I asked, "What brought you to New Zealand?", "God brought me here", she replied. That was just about the point when the three of us walked past a trance of Hari Krishna devotees engrossed in bell ringing and dance. This was turning into quite an afternoon. Maybe someone was trying to tell me something.

Anyway, Mercy talked to me all about sin, and good and bad, and how wrong other believers are in their biblical interpretations, and she seemed so lovely and so innocent, and so Irish that it was just good to listen to her. 

The concert went well, with a larger audience than the previous evening - but only just.