France 29

Now instead of talk about the second Lockdown that we all find ourselves in, 

I thought I'd take you about as far away from that as I possible can.

To the foothills of the Monts D'arree no less, along the backbone of Brittany, where there's a little slice of land that is practically the most important place in the history of this band, and we haven't even played there, indeed half of us haven't even been there. It's not a venue, nor the home of some famous producer, it's not a recording studio, it doesn't even have electricity and is so far removed from the buzz on which our lives are centred that one is likely to encounter technological withdrawal symptoms after the first few days of being there. Yet it is fundamental to our journey and without it I doubt we would be together now. Judi's campsite in France has played such an important role in the evolution of this band you could almost say we belong there. 

Now, I have been going for 29 years on the spin, Judi is my second mother, my link to the place is obvious, but what about the rest of the band? The piano and bass players have been a handful of times between them, though never together, and the others have never set foot in the place and yet it is as much a part of their musical journey as it is mine. Why? Because not only is Judi our number one benefactor, the patron of our arts, our philanthropical fairy godmother, but her campsite is the primary link to our friends across the channel. And I would say we are as synonymous with harebrained voyages into Europe in woefully inadequate vehicles as we are with a good old knees up at Cornish ale festival. Her simple campsite has seen thousands through the gates, and the majority of those has been from the Low Countries, and many of them have become lifelong friends, returning year after year, and crucially leaving with a copy of our CD thrust under their arms; and there to remain in their cars for the rest of time. The car CD player being the final bastion of tangible music. And that dear readers is why we first ventured into Europe 6 years ago and it's why we have returned every year since.

Now many of you won't have been there and therefore this entry could well be lost on you but I implore you to continue; we made a few of you cry with a tribute to our car the other month, let's see how we fair with an actual home. 

It's a simple place; largely unchanged since she bought it in 1991 and that's the beauty of it. At first glance there's nothing much to get excited about, a set of rusty swings at the top and a gurgling stream down the bottom and in-between various green openings with birch trees dotted about. There's a dilapidated sanitary block made out of faded larch with a tin roof that amplifies the rain. The bureau is an old painted caravan that looks like it's been snapped in two and stuck back together, badly. In the centre of the place is a large formation of rocks that once belonged to a Neolithic tomb and is the point at which two lay-lines meet, and is definitely haunted. And then there's the large wooden shed with mismatched windows, uncomfortable armchairs, communal cooking stoves and various useful things like crockery and cushions and books in different languages. Teenagers are bored within seconds, there is no wifi or phone signal, not even any electricity. Younger children love it though, once they have unearthed all the free bikes lined up under the trees and the colourful caravan that's full of old toys and books. But it is the adults that are most enamoured of all, and mostly for the very reasons above; no wifi and the kids are happy! In a world that is so screen oriented there is something so refreshing about taking a break, switching off and getting back to nature. Showers are hot, campfires are plentiful, evenings are lit by oil lamps and the milky way with a soundtrack of crickets and toads. 

Am I painting a picture yet? 

Families return year on year, unable to stay away, children grow up and become parents themselves and return with their own children. People have been married there and others have had their ashes scattered. It is a beautiful place that perfectly balances pin-drop peace and quiet with the raucous role of laughter and song. 

I would say it appeals to all walks of life, but there are some strange folk about that just don't 'get' it. They pull up in their giant motorhomes with names like voyager or privilege and immediately demand to be plugged in. They don't stay. 

But mostly it's made up of good folk who become firm friends. And much of the charm is down to the proprietor; Judi's most famous tagline is Elle le fait sans electricité, and though the campsite doesn't have any, Judi makes it in other ways.

And it's cheap. Beyond cheap. Once a family have returned a few times and upgraded from customer to friend, they have a battle on their hands to actual pay for their holiday. It's not uncommon for Judi to slip the fee back into their pockets as they walk to their vehicle. Or if they've been savvy and hidden it in the bureau they'll likely find it turns back up at their house in the post! 

And now it's sold. Just like that. Or rather quite the opposite. We've had several final years and then the absolute final one! where we had a huge farewell party, bringing back all the famous faces that have grown up and grown old here; they all came for that last big hurrah and then... it opened the following summer for another 'final' time. 29 summers in total; most of my life. It's my happy place. My hideaway. Never slept as well as I do at Judi's place, on a child's bed in a little caravan, hearing the faint roar of the stream, the murmur of voices from a nearby fire and the almost constant white noise of the crickets. This has been my world every summer and I will miss its simplicity and natural magic more than ever in this increasingly digital world. Walking amongst the trees that I planted with Judi when I was a small child and now seeing my own children playing under their shade I realise the cycle is complete. It's almost like losing a friend. Old familiar. Old reliable. And I know it's the same for countless others too. It is a place that has a lasting effect on people. 

The long list of relationships we have made as a direct result of the campsite means we could quite easily tour around The Low Countries and never run out of beds. These relationships have enabled this band to explore, and without these trips I know we wouldn't have lasted; we wouldn't have found the strength to persevere through the cut-throat, underpaid, treadmill of the yearly circuit without the annual adventure (and misadventure) our trips to Europe offer. And the campsite has been the access to that avenue. So in that sense, yes it has been our most important place, despite half of us never setting foot inside. Without it they may not have had a band to play in at all.  

Mind you, this year it's felt that like there hasn't been a band for anyone to play in. Our decade year has been as empty as a church. We did finally play our first gig of the year the other day. In October! A ‘heavily reduced’ capacity crowd were packed into the old art centre in our hometown. I say packed, it was hardly that, more like placed onto little cabaret tables 2 meters apart. The bar came to them throughout the evening like air stewardesses wheeling trollies around on a plane. We came onto the stage in world war II gas masks and made light of the mandatory face coverings. That set the tone nicely. Humour is always a good ice breaker. It was an enjoyable evening, full of songs and stories and despite the strange atmosphere the audience certainly did their best to make themselves heard. There is a stark lack of money in our profession at the moment, not helped by the fact there is no money for the venues either, the coffers are empty for both sides. Ultimately it’s unviable, so the reason we play is for the love, and we certainly felt the love. We’d like to do more but the reality is we’re increasingly forced to turn to the ‘other strings of the bow’ and stop chasing careers that are disappearing. I find myself up a ladder painting windows in the wind, listening to podcasts in my pocket while I wipe blue gloss spots from my face like teardrops. My bandmates all fair differently, from the unemployed to the working more than ever, but what we all share is the thing we cannot share; live music has dried up. Like a river reduced to a trickle. And the drought is set to continue friends. We're in another lockdown and we're all in this together, we've all lost out, made sacrifices, reinvented ourselves, paid a price, listened to the science, tuned in, logged on, signed up. 

It's times like these I really miss the simplicity of Judi's campsite, where we can't plug in, so instead we log-off. We sit back. We listen to the toads.

FRANCE 29