Arrival at Heathrow (Wednesday, May 2nd):  
How redeeming it was just to waltz past customs. You see, the last time I tried to enter England was in 1984 at the port of Dover. I had spent the summer busking in various cities in Europe and my plan was to stay with family in London while I played on the streets to make enough money for my return to the states. At customs the officer asked me what I did for a living. When I told him I was a musician he asked me how much money I had with me. When I replied, "$20", he asked me to step aside. I was soon deported (an ugly stamp in the passport) and sent packing back to Holland where I spent a couple of weeks destitute in Amsterdam, indignant that my plans fell through. This time, seventeen years later, when I was asked what I did for a living and said, "a musician", the customs officer replied, "what kind of music?" and then told me to enjoy my stay. How immensely satisfying.

With two hours of sleep and jetlag ensuing I met by my booking agent Vivienne and her husband John. After a brief stop in Wolverton to meet Steafan (chief instigator of my presence here), I was whisked north to the town of Rugby to play for the Rugby Folk Club. All I remember on the way to Rugby was looking out the windows of the car with the understanding that I was indeed in an unfamiliar place. The United States, even in it's vastness, has a predictability about it no matter where you go. We can thank a homogenous, consumer culture for that, I guess. But on the other side of the pond, things shifted into an alternate reality. Or at least it seemed so in my sleep deprived state. Very little was familiar.

Most folk venues in Britain are organized by a "Folk Club" and held in the function room of a Pub. This night about 25 people assembled in the dimly lit room around tables with pints of bitter, Guinness, and cigarettes. The typical format is for the night to begin with songs from "floor singers". Anyone with a song to share can get up and do one or two. After twenty minutes or so of this the "visiting artist" does their first concert set. After an intermission, more floor singers, and a raffle, it's back to the visiting artist for the final set. I think I made it through that first night on adrenaline. I just tuned in, turned on, and made it through the night pretty well. My thanks to Simon Nichols for organizing this new club. A wonderful voice he's got if ever you've a chance to hear him sing.

The next night my gig was at the Herschel Arms in Slough, an old Tavern in west London. It was named after Sir William Herschel who discovered the planet Uranus in 1781 with a telescope he invented just down the road from where I sang. The Herschel Arms is also famous for it's Irish sessions on Monday nights. This place oozed character and was one of those rooms I looked out the windows and thought, "I wonder what the streets looked like back when..." Actually, when I mentioned this to a local in York the following week at the Black Swan Inn built in pre-Columbus 1417 he replied, "Quite grotty I imagine, what with people throwing shite out the windows and all…"

Saturday night brought me to the Cellar Upstairs at The Golden Lion Pub in Camden. Sheila Miller, who has been keeping the North London folk scene healthy for a good many years, runs this small, affable club. My favorite floor singer of the tour I heard that night. Gail Williams sang both acapella and with her banjo. I remember her versions of "House Carpenter" and " Willie Moore". Her voice has a plaintive and unadorned quality that the best Appalachian singers have. She mostly sings with her husband, though he was not there that night. I'll look forward to a recording from them.

Camden itself is worth mentioning. Before the gig in the late afternoon glow I took a walk to the canal locks and discovered an incredible city scene. I can best describe it as a gothic Coney Island on steroids. Bizarre people everywhere. Decorating rooftops and storefronts were incredible sculptures mostly representing what was for sale at street level. There were giant blue jeans, massive fish, skeletons, faces, breasts (?!) and cannabis leaves. I wish I had my camera at the time, so I could be sure I'm not making any of this up. At the locks, youths lazed with cans of beer, water and sunshine. Children and dogs played along the sunken walkway while music from boom boxes, car stereos, and street musicians wafted down into the languid scene. A good moment it was.

This first week I rented, or as they say, hired a car, and got my first taste of driving on the other side of the road. LEFT, LEFT, LEFT went my brain for the first three days until it became natural. English drivers are manic it seems. For even if I was going 75 or 80+ on the M-1(a rare pleasure with little fear of a ticket) I was always passed by someone going 90+. It was not helpful staying in the slow lane because that's where all the lorries were, and they (in contrast to American truckers) drove respectively and kept their speeds down. By the second week I came to admire the roundabouts, which first were a source of great confusion, yet later I realized how efficient they are in directing traffic around this small country. Not withstanding the $5.00 a gallon petrol prices, by the end of my stay I came to enjoy my relative mastery of the UK roads.

Every waking moment of this trip was spent absorbing the subtleties of my surroundings. The air and light, the voices and the clothes, the streets and dialects of language, the money and the ale, the shapes of cars and the architecture, my senses were always full. There seemed to be a lack of fresh vegetables, yet the incredible Indian Curry, and the fresh fish seemed to balance this out. To my eyes there was an absence of forests, yet the countryside of hills, fields and hedgerows were gorgeous. Along side the roads; brilliant yellow rapeseed fields were in full bloom. The oldness of it all felt familiar yet shifted by several degrees from what I know in the States.

Most of this tour I based myself out of the home of Steafan Hannigan and Saskia Tomkins, both incredible musicians who I'll tell more of in part two. Steafan plays the Uillean Pipes, Low Whistle and Bodhran (pronounced. Bore-on, an Irish frame drum). Saskia plays Fiddle, Viola, and Cello. After a connection made by my wonderful "mother-outlaw" Betty, It was Steafan's reputation, connections and enthusiasm that made this trip possible. Add to the mix, my agent Vivienne's talent for organization, detail, and following things through, this tour became a success.

Click here for details about week two of the tour. From Sunday night in Leicester to nearly sleeping on the street in Edinburgh. From York, Hadrian's Wall, and Northumberland to a family reunion in London prior to flying home. Meanwhile, thanks for reading. Keep in touch. I always appreciate your comments.

Peace and Love - Dana