Sunday, May 6th 
I'm at Steafan and Saskia's home in Wolverton and am told there is a weekly sing-around every Sunday at a Pub in Stoney Strafford just a couple miles up the road. I'm game; there's nothing like singing and drinking on a Sunday afternoon. By 1pm, the small front room at The Bull is jammed full of people, and turns with a song go around in a circle. I wish I could remember names, but now it's all a colorful jumble of faces and tunes. There was some really good accordion playing, fiddling, and singing. I remember hearing the Liverpool Hornpipe, and a hilarious acapella about some gents' cock that always wakes him in the morning.

By the time the sing-around is over I'm glad I mostly had water to drink 'cause I'm off two hours north to play at a club called The Musician in Leicester. I've been pretty organized this tour, but I suppose even preparedness has its limits: seems I departed Wolverton without directions to the club or even a map of the city. I decide that I'm on an adventure and I can just use my musicians' intuition to find where the club is. A month later as I'm writing this and I can still see all the wrong turns I made and streets I went down more than once. Leicester is a lovely old city. I can say that now from experience. It turned out to be a really good gig and I look forward to going back next year…but this time with a map.

Monday, May 7th 
I awoke with the rarified feeling that comes after a good gig and a sunny day in England. Now, ready to enjoy a day of leisure, Saskia recommended a walk on the footpath along the canal. There I discover a whole society of people who in their long and narrow boats travel the canal system of England. These folks seem akin to those in the States who love their RV's, yet these boats seem homier with their herb gardens, pets, woodstoves, clothes lines, and are painted all in bright colors. These canals were built before modern railroad and auto travel was invented and has a timeless, untouched feel about them. To celebrate the fine walk and sunny day I stopped for a Guinness in a Pub's sunny and green back garden on the way home.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (May 8-10) took me to St. Neots (Southern Midlands), Uxbridge (west London), and York (North England) respectively. St. Neots was great because Saskia and a new friend, Dan Plews came along for a night out and to play the floor singing spots. The concert room here was a day care center that transformed into a folk club with the help of partitions, chairs, and tables garnished with glowing pints of bitter. The stage backdrop was covered with posters and black and white publicity photos of performers on the UK folk scene. Again, a reminder of being in a foreign land: not a single face was familiar.

Uxbridge was nice because my cousin Rick and his wife Lynn came to the gig that was held in one of these infinitely historic Pubs. Wandering around The Crown and Treaty upstairs I found myself in a room with walls of priceless paneled oak, where some King of England in the 16 or 17oo's signed an ill-fated treaty. Pardon the missing details, but the volume of history in this country is overwhelming. I didn't take notes on this one.

York was extraordinary. I arrived at the ancient walled city early to have a good long walk around. I discovered the Black Swan Inn, where I'd be playing, to be the oldest Pub in all of York. In the late afternoon I had the upstairs function room to myself. The walls uneven, the ceiling tilted, the stairs leaning, and the frame exposed - the posts and beams were joined in 1417. The place felt holy. And here I was: about to do a show. The night couldn't have turned out better: a full house, my playing felt great, and wonderful people. These awesome, fleeting nights are what make up for all the hard work.

Friday, May 11th - Hadrian's Wall and Edinburgh
I had anticipated this day knowing I would have it free to roam around the north. I departed York and drove into Northumberland, then into Scotland to Edinburgh. In the morning on the way I took a detour to Hadrian's Wall, which is an ancient stone wall that was built to protect the northern boundary of Roman Britain against hostile tribes from the north. Emperor Hadrian of Rome ordered its construction around AD122, and it extends from Newcastle to Carlisle - 73 miles from coast to coast. A series of heavily garrisoned forts were built along its length, and it was one of these ruins that I visited. While it does not officially represent the border, everything in its essence seems to imply it. Everything south is steeped with the Roman influence (England), while everything north was largely untouched by the Romans (Scotland). I thought this quite profound in understanding the differences between the two countries.

From there I took an inland road and caught my first glimpse of the highlands. Even before one crosses any official border things change. I've seen this a lot in the States, where state boundaries belie the true energy of the land. The views became barren and sweeping. It was quite romantic really, and I spent most of the afternoon in a reverie. This feeling was heightened by driving the roads that were built at the mercy of the lay of the land. There were short climbs over blind hills, steep drops and fast curves. Roads like this don't exist in the States where everything is cut and leveled. God, what roads for a sports car!

I drove into Edinburgh without a map, using my senses of where things would logically be. Upon finding the center of the city and a lot to park in, I found a Pub for a late lunch. After a meal and a couple of pints I departed and noticed that the light had changed, and as I walked I found a fog creeping into town. When I rounded a corner at the end of the block I beheld an incredible sight: the old walled city stood several hundred yards away. Slate gray stone as if raised from the earth became the most medieval looking thing I'd ever seen. Tentacles of fog crept down streets and alleys, and turned around rooftops and church spires. I made a beeline past the rail station and up Cockburn Lane into the heart of old Edinburgh. There I found the High Street, which is also the Royal Mile that leads up to Edinburgh Castle. The next couple of hours I spent going from one Pub to another, slowly walking the stone streets. After finding a bunk in a hostel for the night I set out to the White Oak Pub where I heard there'd be an Irish session. At 1am after some amazing music and glasses of Bushmills I departed and surfaced to the streets to make my way back to the Hostel. When I arrived the door was locked, and after peering in the mail slot I read a notice that the desk clerk didn't tell me about: the place shuts down and locks up at 11pm! For the next 15 minutes I knocked hard on the door and considered a fate of sleeping on the streets. Finally, to my relief, a disheveled man opened the door, and with curses let me in.

Saturday May 12th 
It's another day of gorgeous weather. Hot, in fact for England in May. For as the temps were in the low 80's and I thought it glorious, many Brit's were mopping their brows in dismay of the intense heat. Today was my last gig of the tour: The Davy Lamp Folk Club in the Newcastle suburb of Washington. The Davy Lamp was named the Folk Club of the year by the BBC radio for 2001, and from my experience they lived up to it. It's as if in their 30-year history they've managed to distill the essence of the British folk club. First a jam session of regulars prior to the concert served as an appetizer. Next came a host of floor singers, which became an ample first course. I then, had to live up to my role as main course, which in an environment such as this would have been difficult not to. An essential ingredient to this mix was our MC, Eric, who has been with the Davy Lamp since it's inception. His irreverent and fearless humor had everybody in stitches. What a high note to go out on. Lovely time.

Sunday May 13th 
With all of 4 hours sleep; my mission for the day was to drive the six hours from Washington to South West London for a family gathering. My relations are many cousins with their spouses and children, and it had been the first time since I had seen many of them since 1977 when I lived in London during my sophomore year of high school. It was a wonderful reunion, and after everyone had departed I took a long walk along the Thames and the Mosley streets with a content yet melancholy feeling that this tour was just about over.

Though Monday May 14th was filled with the details of departure, the highlight again was music. Steafan took me to my cousin Paddy's house near Heathrow, but on the way we attended the Monday night Irish session at The Herschel Arms. Dan Plews was in attendance there; the sole guitar player in a sea of pipes and fiddles. His renditions of Vincent Black Lightning and Canadee-i-o were intensely poignant to me. Steafan's piping was superlative, and Tom, the proprietor - ever generous with the Guinness, held court in fine form.

Tuesday May 15th flowed as if rolling slowly downhill: the morning ride to Heathrow, the stopover in Reykjavik, landing at Kennedy (nothing to declare), the shuttle to long-term parking (the van right where I left it), and driving on the right side of the road out of New York City as the sun set in the west. Home in the States, I thought of my gig the very next night. On it goes…

That's it for May. Thanks to all you who actually managed to read through two of my longest NFTR's yet. I hope you enjoyed it. See you next month!

Dana