Bohemia, the words

What a beautiful place! Mown green lawns glowing in the overcast light, a quaint chocolate-box cottage, woods, sky, balmy breezes, old fashioned tents and bunting, and the air scented by Hampstead money; the minibus from the car park rolled through secret woodlands with shady ponds and sunbeam-lit glades into Eridge Park.
Nobody seemed to quite know what was going on; I was tired from a round trip to Leeds the previous day and was tempted to be grumpy but I inhaled the 1940s Sussex atmosphere, all of it, counted to a hundred and marched to a tent with a PA, where I announced that I was due to play at 3, and found a PA guy with a very cross face. So I played for half an hour, to the copious bar staff and a charming little girl who took to the dance floor and danced all the way through; people wandered in and out; a woman in a red coat sat at the back and a couple of guys in forties garb supped pints to my right. I sang to the invisible hordes and out of the hole in the top of the tent.
After I'd finished, I strolled past people playing ancient games that involved items on the grass and shouting, past the lawn tennis, and spied Katy in the distance, clearly not enjoying having to organise her tent. Yes: I discovered that I'd played not only in the wrong tent but also at the wrong time! Katy got me a coffee, we sat on a swingy seat for a while and chatted, and then went on down to her tent where Steph West had struck up on her harp.
The only other harp player I have seen recently is Serafina Steer, who is funny and loud; Steph's style was very different and probably a lot more traditional. She has a lovely aura about her and sings a combination of achingly sad folk songs and merrier music in a beautiful clear lyric voice, at one with her harp and at ease in front of her audience. She is very much a pastoral performer; where Serafina is brittle and urban; Steph's music fitted in perfectly with the dreamy atmosphere of the late afternoon and the assorted Bohemians loved her.
Afterwards, I played some songs (Little England, Temptation, Love on the Wind and Heaven Avenue), and I was glad I did; Katy danced like the free spirit that she is, and a singer-songwriter called Sarah Spade asked if she could do some of my songs in her set. I was absolutely delighted and now have to find out what the chords are so I can send them to her.
So what looked like being a disaster for a weary person turned out quite well in the end; pity I was too knackered to stay the night.
Just one thing though, posey men with waxed moustaches: there is no such thing as ironic vanity, you know. Billy CHildish allows his moustache to flop and floff about his mouth when it is off-duty. I saw enough self-admiring gentlemen there yesterday to take me through to the end of the year. Hats off to the baffled-looking chap who had come dressed as a 1960s doctor!