Wickham Festival is a decade and a half old, so you get the sense it ought to be better known. At the same time, you kinda hope it stays as intimate as currently is. Set on the southwesterly tip of the South Downs, it’s a real gem of a festival – a gorgeous location, an easy size to get around, a not-too-big-but-definitely-not-small audience, three well-sized stages… and performers that make you wonder just how the organisers can afford it all. Ours not to reason why, though. Ours but to get stuck in.
Not a folk song in the traditional sense, I must admit, but something that fits in with the 60s and 70s style perhaps – the point at which the folk and singer-songwriter genres crossed over. I wrote this the morning after Donald Trump’s victory. For various reasons, I’d taken myself off to a little hut in the middle of Norfolk nowhere and, feeling an unpleasant sense of the inevitable having taken place, this tune found its way out.
Not enough wassailing is done in this day and age, in my opinion. It’s a lost talent, overdue a comeback, and this year I intend to get right back into it. There’s no time to lose, either – wassailing is best enjoyed over the festive season, and come late January, wassailing is rarely found for neither love nor money.