f46 Midsouth Bound
Elizabeth Kinder had never been to Sidmouth Folk Week. Nor had her mother. So off they set for a few days of mother-daughter bonding, with ukuleles and morris bells…
they turn into a side-fucking-road.” The Land Rover saloon too close behind is sounding its horn as it overtakes. My mother flashes V signs at the driver and the cars’ other occupants as it roars on its way up to the A3502. “That’s right. Fuck- ing KILL YOURSELVES!”
“Y
“Mum! Please put your hands back on the wheel!” Scenery is passing by in a green blur outside my window. Slowing down is clearly a relative concept. “It’s not worth getting wound up by a twat, mum!” “Elizabeth! Please Watch Your Language!”
We screech into the turn and pull to a stop by a five-bar gate. Examining the map we quickly realise we’ve passed our turn- ing, so clear on paper but not on the road itself. A few minutes later we turn into another lane and on through the right gate. Across the valley, other fields lying on another hill are caught glowing golden in the sun of this August afternoon.
We breathe in the view and the clear
air, and suddenly time seems to dissolve, as we’re rooted in a sense of timeless beauty. And so we walk in companionable silence in the warmth and peace to the Bulverton Marquee.
The Ukulele Orchestra Of Great Britain
ou fucking bastard! Fuck off! I’m indicating! You can see I’m fucking turning left. Everyone has to slow down when
Up here it feels very different than it does at sea level, a feeling that is not just to do with geography. Back down the hill, the town is heaving. The streets are filled with music and dancing and joy in many fabulous costumes. It seems the strains of accordeons and fiddles and gorgeous voic- es are on every corner, pouring out of every window.
Revellers spill out of the pubs and cafés, as shoals of people, alert and vibrant, continually re-configure the crowds, carried along by a multitude of invisible currents to their destinations, each one picked from a profusion of diverse attractions that (kicking off daily by 9.30 am) create Sidmouth’s sparkling Folk Week.
Up here, it’s 5 pm and quiet. Maybe
everyone’s gone into town, but it feels still as if they’re sleeping. Like teenagers (they probably are teenagers), they’ve been up all night partying. When the late-night ses- sion at The Bedford ends, this is the place to come, we’ve been told, to carry on the fun. A 9.30am dance workshop up here is likely to be a great coda to a lively night.
And so my mum and I are alone as we wander into the marquee to catch Police Dog Hogan soundchecking. We find a seat at the back and as the gorgeous shimmer- ing overtones of the strings wrap around us, echoing and resonating in the empty
space, my mum closes her eyes, peacefully enjoying a sublime moment.
We had been talking about going away for a few days together, just us, for some time.
“What are you doing the first week- end in August?” she asked.
“I’m hoping to go to the Sidmouth
Folk Festival.” “Really?” “Yes. It’s always seemed a bit niche, a
bit naff, so I’ve never been. But there are lots of great artists playing, some of them I’ve interviewed but not seen live, and actually, two bands I think you’ll love are playing on the Saturday night.”
“OK,” she said. “But are you sure? There used to be an awful programme. The White Heather Club. Dreadful stuff. I think that was folk.”
“Anyway, you can’t go!” said the edi-
tor. “You’ve left it too late and the place is booked up.”
I tell my mum. “Doesn’t matter,” she says. Having discovered that The Ukulele Orchestra Of Great Britain is billed for the Friday afternoon, she’s now more than keen. “I’ve got a caravan in the hills out- side Sidmouth.”
“You have?”
“Yes. Near the donkey sanctuary; worth a visit actually. Besides, it’s very use- ful when I need some time and space to go through my students’ doctoral theses…”
And so on the first Friday in August we’re in the car, bags in the boot and my mother’s ukulele on the back seat. “I’m hoping,” she says, “that there might be some impromptu sessions.” Crawling along the A303, she’s becoming increas- ingly worried about missing “the main attraction.”
Suddenly there’s a break in the traffic. “Mind your tea doesn’t spill,” she says. “Mum,” I say, “that speed sign.
There’s only one ‘0’ after the ‘5’.”
The members of The Ukulele Orches- tra are beautifully turned out in dinner suits, sweltering in a big marquee (that we later learn to call ‘The Ham’), by a car park
Photo: Kyle Baker Photography
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