The world from my window

It's that time of year again when the genteel seaside resort of Sidmouth opens its doors to folk fans and performers from around the world. There's been a folk festival here in the first week of August every year since 1955. Tens of thousands of visitors flock to this part of Devon for it.  The esplanade is full of morris dancers and solitary buskers. Girls are doing jigs and reels. The pubs are full of musicians just picking up their instruments and going with the flow. There are ceilidhs in halls and pub patios, workshops in community halls and vocalists in the gardens. And much ale and cider is consumed. And then there's the paid-for gigs all through the week, with artists on the multi-faceted bill including  Show of Hands , Oysterband , Ralph McTell , Seth Lakeman and his father, Geoff (who I remember from the days when he was the Daily Mirror's man on the spot in the West Country).  And much ale and cider is consumed. Still, we're here...

It's that time of year again, when the coach stops off at Lush Places to pick up villagers for the annual outing to Sidmouth Folk Festival. There were only six of us this year, after several cancelled at the last minute and another overslept. Still, the people from the next village made up for it, with seventeen of them climbing aboard as we pulled up outside their pub. The view from the bus was glorious as we wove around the lanes, past Dorset's highest point and then on to the main road down into Devon. It was a quick stop-off at The Volunteer Inn first, where one pint turned, quite magically, into several. And then we wound our way down to the seafront where it was all happening, including a mesmerising performance on a handpan and then off to another pub in a quiet backstreet where there was some foot tapping music going on. There was more music and more stops at various pubs in the town, a picnic lunch on the beach before the tide came in, music and more stop...

So, bathing in the success of our Diamond Jubilee weekend, I start daydreaming about the Lush Places Concert: The Enchanted Village Festival. It is a daydream I have often, rather along the lines of Wayne's World 2:  'If you book them, they will come.' We can source a 45ft trailer and a community field to put it in. All we need now is the bands. The headline act would, of course, be our very own Imagined Village . Then we could have my nieces' old school friends, The Staves . They'd surely play, wouldn't they? After all, they were at the same childminder's. And then Stornoway . I've just found out that the parents of one of the founder members live in the village. A winning combination, I think, don't you? That's about it. Love Maddie x

This evening, I tear in from work, take the dogs for a tour around the maize field, stop off to give Pelly Sheepwash a cashmere scarf of turquoise blue, then ring Mrs Putter (a new face on the blog) about a book club she and I are going to run this autumn. Both book lovers, but nothing too heavy ( War and Peace brought me the onset of early labour resulting in Number One Son 21 years ago), we've decided to experiment with the circle of six. The rest of the club consists of dear Mrs Bancroft (I love her), Pelly (of course), Darling Loggins (who scares me, just a little bit) and Mrs Champagne-Charlie (who, I hope, will be in charge of liquid refreshments). So Book Club begins next month but not before Mrs Putter and I get together to discuss ground rules later this week. It is our idea, after all, so what we say goes. Anyway tonight, Mr Grigg comes home from work, accompanied by Mr Loggins whom he has found loitering outside. I have no time for chit chat, there is a pan of bro...

Attila the Hen, someone who holds high office in this village, is struggling with new technology. The laptop she is using in her home office - a first floor bedroom - is beyond her. Whatever she seems to do, it won't turn off. She was advised to put it somewhere out of harm's way. So she wrapped it in a plastic bag, lowered it from the window on a rope and left it in the garden over the weekend. In sub-zero temperatures. Now that's what people mean when they say the internet keeps freezing on them. Mr Grigg has been licking logs again. As he was unloading the latest batch, someone from The Other End of the Village asked where they came from. 'Not being funny but...' usually means someone is, but it appears they had a load of wood stacked in a gateway until the cords suddenly disappeared. Valuable stuff, cut wood. Serves them right for leaving it lying about. Can't trust anyone these days. Preparations are being made for an old English Christmas in the hall, wit...