I enter the cottage tentatively calling out a hello – I feel like Goldilocks. ![]() Early evening, the road ends at a farmhouse overlooking a valley, our home for the week. High hedged lanes that I’m convinced are not much wider than my car take me round blind corners, deeper into tree lined tracks by waterfalls. Four hours later I tentatively climb up a mountain into the great green nowhere. The traffic is busy and I have to concentrate before I bust out the other side of the M25, avoiding the M4 closure which the radio is saying is causing havoc in Chiswick. I haven’t packed as much as I would have liked and spend the morning rushing about my flat packing bits of kit, making split decisions about whether to bring a certain guitar, spare strings, effects pedals and the like.īy 1pm I am on the road. ![]() I awake to a raspy throat, my chest a ball of catarrh which sits at the top of my lungs – this is the one thing I don’t need, of all days and weeks.
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