You thought festival season was over? Think again. We are at Hartlepool Folk Festival to see what is on offer.

October 3rd to 5th, 2025 @ Hartlepool Headland

O TO BE IN ENGLAND, NOW OCTOBER’s HERE!

Ever been to Hartlepool is a question not always answered by yes, and I certainly hadn’t, knowing not quite what to expect. I had read of a historic headland, awash with military history, sitting in the wide open mouth of the Tees, as it spills out into the North Sea. Sounds lovely, right? But factor in Storm Amy and it becomes a slightly different proposition, the wind gusting much the joy out of an urban folk festival, at least on Friday, the first day. Add in the fact that the Headland Borough Hall, the hub of the festival, had been deemed unsafe by the powers that be, this only shortly ahead the final arrangements for the weekend were being finalised, and the odds seemed well stacked against success. But, that’s the thing about odds and gambling, they have a way of catching people out.

Yes, it was windy and any outdoor events missed the first two days, and it was a pain in the arse to catch buses, laid on by the festival team, to shuttle back and forth between the Headland and Hartlepool Town Hall, in the centre of the town some distance away. But none of that stopped this festival, in it’s 10th iteration, being a belter, and definitely one you’d want to come back to.

FRIDAY

HARPS, PIPES AND HURDY GURDIES

Amy began her manifestions early, making for a late arrival. Thus, by the time I checked into my digs and had my wristband tightened on, at the Borough Hall, that part of the building and some of the other rooms, still safe, it was clear the shuttle was not going to get across time in time for the opening act, The Goblin Band.

Indeed I missed all but the last tune by the next up act, Jali Bakary Konteh & Sarah Deere-Jones. A shame, as they sounded superb, the latest in an expanding line of kora and harp duos. That they were playing their version of Brubeck’s Take Five showed perhaps a slightly broader approach than the Catrin Finch/Seckou Keita template, that first exposition of what a magical pairing of intruments it can be. Sadly that was all I got, but was assured, as I quizzed my neighbours, that it had all been fairly transcendental.

Each set of concerts tended to run in threes, usaully with one set in the afternoon and another in the evening. It was the Malin Lewis Trio that closed day 1’s afternoon. Their album, Halocline, having been a favourite of last year, and having caught them at Shrewsbury, back in August, this was one of many Scottish reasons I was here. Again with Sally Simpson on fiddle and Jenn Butterworth on guitar, Lewis showed swiftly quite why the future of Trad is safe in their hands. Not jazz, daddio, the diminutive seems now the accepted all-encompassing term of choice for this sort of music, grounded in the Scottish folk traditions, often with any number of myriad twists and turns.

Lewis is a gifted fiddle player and piper, notably on the Lindsay system small pipes, which have double the range of any pre-existing design. Lewis crafted this set of pipes, personally, out of ebony and antler, and a beautiful bit of kit they are too.

Starting off on fiddle, the sound of paired fiddles and guitar, expecially with the added stomp of Butterworth’s amplified left foot, is a potent magic, and the spell was instantly cast on this audience, entranced by the ebullient frontperson. A set similar to Shrewsbury meant again the evocation of a Fest-Noz somewhere near Quimper, as the two fiddles ducked and dived in a Balfolk frenzy, coming in, near the start. A switch, then, to the signature pipes, for Hiraeth and Trans, two self-penned tunes, one old, one newer, that fit well together, giving also the opportunity for Lewis to lay out their manifesto, around acceptance.

A Small Isles set then saw a further swap, to Highland bagpipes. These had only made one appearance at Shrewsbury, but now were to get a much bigger slice of attention. The howl of approval that always greets this instrument is quite something, and was again this day. Some more fiddle tunes, some more small pipes tunes, and the hour allotted seemed to shoot by. Last act on means the option for an encore is there for the having, and, submitting to punter demand, a clearly delighted Lewis introduced the final salvo of, again, Breton tunes, concluding with a little something cooked up from the Asturias, in Spain. That the chosen instrument was again the Highland pipes, showed the versatility of the player and the crack team alongside.

Racing to a tight schedule, it was then back on the bus and the short but, in the force 9, challenging walk to St Hilda’s Church to catch The Goblin Band for real, if just the last few songs. They were down to a trio today, of fiddle, boxes and hurdy gurdy. Dying to see them live for ages, believe me, the hype around them is deserved, despite eschewing anything much remotely modern or fashionable, for a purity of play that begs a rapt attention. Sonny Brazil’s vocals are strong and carried well over the playing of Alice Beadle (fiddle) and Rowan Gatherer (hurdy gurdy.) His own concertina and melodeon play showed him no slouch, either.

The acoustics of the church were excellent, as such buildings usually offer, but I felt sorry for the sound guy, placed directly (and dangerously) beneath the leaking roof. Apart from the song, about love, drowning and Willies, their description, the capital added for anxious readers, Tuppeny Nudgers/Puddle of Newts showed off well the instrumental prowess available. I really must try harder and capture a full set next time. (By the way, it would be churlish not to mention that their full length debut, A Loaf Of Wax, live from the Moth club, London, drops next month.)

MACABRE MILLINERY, GEY SINGIN’ AND FISHY ACAPELLA

A rushed al desko pizza was the only available food, as the still ongoing storm battered the headland, with all the planned caterers warned off by the meteorological. For desk read car, hoping the roof of the Cosmopolitan Hotel would not blow off, and make the car my bed for the night as well. But that pizza, or half of it, gave sufficient vim for the further trip into town.

This was to be a bounty night of music, starting, as it did, with the Rheingans Sisters. Eagerly anticipated, and their 2024 album still a favourite here, they brought their Witch’s tour of European traditions to Hartlepool, with a brio that left the auditorium gasping. Opening with only the faintest glow of lightning, this was to offset their macabre millinery and matching gowns ‘n’ trews. Anna was bowing and then bashing some sort of giant dulcimer, with sister, Rowan pizzicating her fiddle. This was the Devil, opener from Start Close In, they revealing all the music tonight would come, hooray, from this record. And so it prove, as they juggled instruments and shared the singing. The banjo and electric guitar of Old Neptune was especially effective, as was when they plied us with dual fiddles and loops, for Purcell.

It was explained that the giant dulcimer was, in fact, a tambourin à cordes, an instrument of, principally, percussion, from the Pyrenees. Irrespective, it makes for a mighty mighty sound. A suitably apocalyptic rendition of Drink Up fitted perfectly the elemental storm raging, before Shade Chaser, with its exhortation, in translation, not to get married, then gave a flavour of how country and western would sound, if begat in medieval Europe. Their vocals were, and are, a bizarre cross between the McGarrigles and the Bulgarian State Television Female Vocal Choir, of Voix Bulgars fame. Glorious! Returning to fiddles, they closed with some magic whereby their fiddles continued to play, as they danced a bonkers ritual together. A fabulous set, they, as my notes remind me, have changed a fair old bit from the demure sisters seen at a long distant Toweresy, nearly a decade ago.

The contrast couldn’t have been greater, as we then got the stark, figuratively, Presbyterianism of Iona Fyfe. Not a dig at religion, but if the Rheingans’ evoke a pagan ceremony, Fyfe brings an almost declamatory pulpit style to her delivery, dour, rich and pure, like a gaunt Aberdeenshire church. That may make it sound a dry as dust experience but it wasn’t, really it wasn’t. Starting off at the piano, and accompanied by Rory Carter on octave mandolin, it was with Richard Thompson’s Poor Ditching Boy she opened. it was a grand version with, I fully suspect, a fair few dialectical shifts. Fyfe is a champion of the Scots language, now recently officially recognised as the 3rd Scottish language, alongside English and Gaelic. She enjoys translating songs, otherwise in English, into her chosen tongue, and this prove to be a recurring feature tonight.

She then took to the front of the stage for an unaccompanied Lady Finella, a broadsheet murder ballad about the assassination of King Kenneth. Except she wrote it herself, based on the factual story. She has a scimitar sharp precision to her voice which, at my first hearing of her, had me instantly hooked, not least as she then moved to the Nick Cave songbook, and Ship Song. Once more this was a Doric version, Doric being the distinctly Aberdonian version of Scots.

With her engaging introductions near as entertaining as her songs, it is easy to see why she was voted in as Rector of Aberdeen Uni, for 3 years from last November, surely one of the youngest incumbents and probably the most fun. For one, did you know the Grateful Dead’s Pretty Peggy was first written in 1411. The version then sang was a mix of her own and that of Sam Kelly. If I hadn’t kept my eye on her before, I will certainly be now.

Uncertain around the reliability of the shuttle back to the Headland, I elected to miss Iarla Ó Lionáird. mainly as I had learnt Tim Edey, his featured accompanist, had not made it to the North East coast, and whose guitar and melodeon play had been much the attraction. (What I didn’t then realise was that Jenn Butterworth had been drafted in, as his 11th hour replacement, so that was a big mistake on my behalf.)

I felt I needed to hit the nightly late night songs sessions, held at the Fisherman’s Arms and hosted by the Wilsons, patrons of Hartlepool FF, local lads from not that far away, in Billingham. Which, as expected, was a rare treat. Anyone familiar with, say, the Volunteer, at Sidmouth, will know the drill, as the attendees, rammed into the heaving public bar, are called on to give song. With several of the faces and voices recognisable from the South Coast festival, these are the guardians, often on the older side, of a tradition that would otherwise be dead. Some youngsters too, mind, such as the members of Culverake, who had been popping up all day, away from the mainstage, and would again be tomorrow. Best choice of beer in Hartlepool, too!

SATURDAY

Did I sleep well? By ‘eck, what with all the bracing sea breezes and bonnie local pints, that was never in doubt. If the fabled ghost of the Cosmopolitan showed up, well, I missed them. A damn fine cooked breakfast made up also for the lack of decent provision the night before, and would again today.

CIDER, POLITICS AND SPICE, WITH A DERBYSHIRE NECK

Tainted by the lure of education offered in Iona Fyfe’s show, I decided to start the day with a history of wassailing and cider. Hartlepool is good at this sort of thing, and there were a number of similar audio-visual treats over the 3 days. Hosted by Whimple bred Jim Causley, the Devonian home of the long gone Whiteways cyder, with a y, he gave a wittily informative run-through the history of toasting apples and shooting into trees.

With Eleanor Janega, of Going Medieval podcast fame, as his straight man, this was a fabulous way in which to shake off any post imbibatory cobwebs, culminating with some short restored films, dating back to the 1930’s and the 1960’s as well as the more recent Here’s To Thee. This short film, commissioned for and featuring Causley, showed how the Halstow Wassail of today takes place. Causley also got to sing a bit, which is always worth hearing. Plus, despite it being only 11 a.m., because this too had been postponed from the night before, courtesy Amy, the audience were offered cider, bread and cheese, to better absorb all the information.

The afternoon meant, for me, back to Town Hall. First up was Robb Johnson, someone I was also new to the hearing of. I was familiar with his reputation, as a spikily unreconstructed advocate for the sort of socialism that this government are seemingly unfamiliar with. Guitar and voice are his medium, and the modern world the axe he grinds. Most of the songs were staunchly political, as were his between song, is diatribes too strong a word? I took to him and his quitly resigned pessimisms. It was also lovely, as having been raised in Sussex myself, to hear his unmistakeably estuary burr, where the estuary is more Ouse than Thames.

Hearing him sing a song about the late Wizz Jones, playing a gig in Portslade, as well as Burgess Hill getting a mention in another lyric, gave a proustan rush of memories. If you can imagine a cross between a southern Jake Thackray, a clean shaven Jeremy Corbyn and Billy Bragg’s dad, that would hit farly close his mark, with his wry and witty wordplay driving home many of the inequalities of our age. We need singers like him, but he is also one you’d want to see.

I was a wee bit nervous, it’s true, for RE:VULVA, both for myself and them. Tending toward late night hooleys, I have seen this all female quartet twice before, each time after midnight. How would they fare with an early afternoon crowd, or, rather, this early afternoon crowd? I won’t lie, the Hartlepool FF demographic errs towards the senior end of the market, and the more traditionally inclined senior end of the market at that. Four bouncy women, with a backdrop of synthesiser and electronic drums, may prove a bit too much for the older and frailer present. Indeed, as an old(er), straight, white male, I have previously worried a little about my own ability to fully appreciate their jib.

That said, and a small exodus ensuing after their first song, on this performace I finally and fully got them. The opener, Just A Woman, with a Spice Girls go folktronica vibe, worked a treat, deserving the spontaneous swell of applause that met it, from the majority remaining. The balance between Amy Thatcher’s synth and magic wand digital drums, together with the fiddle and mandolin of Cathy Geldard and Janice Burns was spot-on and balanced the knife-edge, as did the combined vocal onslaught, within which Burns’ pristine tone was foremost. Anchoring any divide between the contrasting styles, Holly Clarke lay down emphatic acoustic guitar rhythm parts. Surprised by the reception given by this atypical audience, this bolstered their panache, and this was confirmed as I chatted with them afterwards.

Tunes, like Girls And Their Toys, were belted out with a passion that displayed both their individual backgrounds across a number of celebrated folk acts, as well as the enthusiam to raise awareness against the sometime unsubtle generic patriarchy of folk music. This was a message instilled with joy and fun, rather than any hectoring. Thatcher usually plays for and with Kathryn Tickell, more often toting accordion, Burns is the Burns in Janice Burns & Jon Doran, Clarke is frontperson for the excellent Holly & the Reivers and Geldard is, with Thatcher, a member of Monster Ceilidh Band, so all class acts. Here, by alternating squalls of electro-trickery with densely rhythmic dancefloor reels, as well as the Spice Girls connect, they offer the sound of a New Order/Shooglenifty mash and I commend it.

John Tams didn’t say what he thought of them, but is such a seasoned performer he could play anywhere, after anyone, and still have the audience eating out of his hand in an instant. Which summed up his show today, the familiar mix of anecdote with well chosen song. It is easy to overlook quite what a varied career he has had, known to many more for his TV and theatre work than the concert stage. Maybe that was who he was appealing today, with nary a song from his time with the Albion Band or his triad of solo albums in the early 2000’s.

Starting off on guitar, he gave us first a song from Warhorse, before switching to accordion for his next. Much play is made for his apparent struggles with gadgetry and a world much changed from his Derbyshire childhood. I am uncertain quite when he morphed into this Dales version of Stanley Holloway, but it is an endearing persona. It helps, of course, if you have a speaking and singing voice as seductively smooth as his, his Derbyshire dialect cushioning against the prospect of a more homogeneous future.

Amelia is a song that had his voice so relaxed as to near disperse into a peak district mizzle. Audience participation figured large throughout, he delighting in drawing the audience into song. “Again”, he would say, “again” and often, “again”, as each song stretched into wondrously chaotic extensions. Maybe roused by hearing Iona Fyfe, the night before, a brief diversion had him play a Derby Dales version of Lionel Richie, on ukelele; “Eee oop, is it mi you’re looking for”, sadly all too short, as too was his allotted slot of an hour and a quarter.

He closed with the two songs that most now expect of him, Over The Hills And Far Away, from Sharpe, and Roy Bailey’s Rolling Home. Forewarned the latter would be his encore, and the former his last song, he said he wouldn’t be leaving the stage, but to nonetheless cheer accordingly. We did, o we did, with his eventual leaving the stage leaving a warm sense of content.

Hoping to catch Boff Whalley, the ex-Chumbawamba man, back over at the Headland; this was to be in support of his latest book, But: Life Isn’t Like That, Is It, a mix of reading, stories and, hopefully, song. Frustratingly the transport logistics scuppered this, as did my attendance at the No Folk Cabaret, where he also appeared. Bugger! I instead had a lie-down and finished off last night’s pizza.

MINIMALIST, MACCLEAN AND MAXIMALISTS x 5

The evening needed the stamina duly given, kicking off with a solo Belinda O’Hooley. Like many, I had misconstrued some of her social media; she and Heidi Tidow are still an on-going concern, but, with Tidow returning to education, some solo work is allowed. For reasons I can’t quite understand, I have never fully taken to this popular duo, based, I suspect, on prejudices against primetime telly programmes. So I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this solo show. Largely based around her 2019 album, Inversions, this was her largely instrumental paean to Ireland and her father, each of which she had earlier struggled to accept.

So, many tunes from the Irish tradition, given a minimalist neo-classical sheen, in the style of Olafur Arnalds and Max Richter. Her piano playing, we already know, is superb, but tonight it was exceptional. Swallowtail, the first of these, following the recitation of a poem, was good, but Dilin O’Deamhas was positively inspirational.

We also got a couple of solo and unaccompanied songs, standing at the front of the stage and, for the first, off-mike. This was She Lived Besides The Anner, and mouths were falling open all around me. Other songs included Two Mothers, a song about adoption and the O’H&T perennial, Chimneys, Moors And Me. It isn’t the first time I have had to alter my opinions around a performer, and not even the first this weekend, but, Inversions duly purchased, from the merch desk, I was so glad to have had the opportunity.

Having seen Dougie Maclean at Shrewsbury so recently, I confess that, were I not constrained by the faff of transport, I would have given him a miss. But, if I were to be back for the bill-toppers, stay here I must. This isn’t on account of any dislike of the man; he is a consummate performer and one I greatly enjoy. I just didn’t think there was much he could add, from a month back. Wrongity wrong, for, as I have said about him in the past, he is a performer with that rare knack of being able to shrink a festival field into the intimacy of a small club gig.

Now, I have only ever seen him play at festivals, with this small to medium theatre perhaps the very sort of venue he has you imagine, when he’s out of doors. Which is my bad, as, in this setting, you feel he is playing in your kitchen, possibly to you alone.

It is true, much the set and most the patter was carbon copy the same, but such is his easy rapport I didn’t care about the recycled punchlines. Talking with My Father, with which he opened, is one of those songs that sticks hard and fast, and is fast becoming (another) one of his classics. Wasting little time in inviting some singing, it came as some shock to discover I wasn’t alone in the room, opening my eyes as others started to sing. I am not a natural singer, but, y’know, when in Rome. Shadow Of The Mountain and Rocket to The Moon had even some harmonies grifting in, as he switched between maudlin malancholia and more jocular japery. I love banjo, and was looking eagerly to when he switched to this much maligned instrument, he becoming now quite the doyen.

Good humouredly, he affected disappointment by the lack of applause for his middle eight solo, which was actually only a reason to play it again and then get that applause. Rather than dispatching it midset, as at Shrewsbury, here he was much wiser, in keeping Caledonia to last, a song, a standard, that clearly still fills him with delight. Nobody present could have felt any different.

Who could top that? Funny you should ask, as this was a further all-female group, the final performance of the Kinnaris Quintet. This was Laura Wilkie’s final show, the band henceforth to be known as Kinnaris Q. Intriguingly, I am sure it was RE:VULVA who opened for them, when I last caught them, late night at Sidmouth, last summer. Laura-Beth Salter had then been poorly, making this performance all the more enticing. To say they were bubbling would be an understatement, copping a near manic Aileen Reid, setting up the merch, ahead the show. As the lights went down, up went the audience and the five-piece were instantly alight.

Opening with Saltspring, this lively melody brought knowing smiles between the five musicians, such is the rapport. The interweaving of their three fiddles with mandolin is remarkable. The cement that holds this altogether is the deft cohesive rhythm provided by Jenn Butterworth’s guitar and stomping left heel. All grinning wider than the mouth of the Tees, the joy of playing was there to all to see, as Leaval took the journey into ever more complex interdigitations. As the ever more excitable Reed tried to explain the meaning behind Period Drama, the telling became to much for her. Suffice to say, it seems unlikely that Sunday night costume boxsets (like Gentleman Jim, alluded to earlier), are probably not the inspiration for a tune written by five female touring musicians, on a tour bus….

Moving on, with occasional words between, from Fiona MacAskill and Salter, often around who wrote what, noticeably quiet was Wilkie, although some tell tale wetness about her eyes displayed the emotions running through her. In a band with three fiddles, it is tempting to assume all three play in unison. In fact, seldom is there much evidence of that, as Reed, Wilkie and MacAskill wend and weave around each other, somehow still maintaining a constancy of melody. Bonobos is one such, as is This Too, both by Reed and both on their 2nd album, the latter being the title track. A closing medley, and then salutations to and hugs for Wilkie, ahead leaving the stage, to return for a final and triumphant paired set.

It still being ahead the witching hour, convention and completeness decreed a further visit to the Fisherman’s Arms, the available team of singers now replenished by an influx of Irish performers, ahead of Sunday’s concentration on the singers of that land. This acknowledges the longstanding links between Hartlepool and Belfast’s own folk festival, and prove to be such a good advert, that my programme for the following day became altered instantly and accordingly.

SUNDAY

No chance of a lie-in, with more talks and presentations to attend. Which was as well, given the beautiful bright clear day that was waiting for me. Clear skies and an absence of windchill meant I even got to set foot on the tiny beach.

Head thus cleared, the first business of the day was a showing of the 1977 film about Kemp’s Jig, as in the one man show, performed by Chris Harris. Kemp was a famous actor of Elizabethan days, a contemporary of Shakespeare, who, in umbrage of the acclaim offered the playwright, thinking it was more rightly his due, took a hissy fit and morris danced, over 9 days, to Norwich, with much attendant publicity. Playing the character of Kemp, Morris gave a splendid recreation of the moods of the day and it was all quite jolly, if, unsurprisingly, very now dated in the style of humour evoked. Instead of the advert break, a member of Hexham Morris danced Princess Royal for us, accompanied by one of their musicians.

QUEEN JENN AND THE IRISH

Afternoon already, it was back to St Hilda’s, for a solo set by, if not anyway the hardest working woman in Scottish tradfolk, certainly the hardest working this weekend, Jenn Butterworth. “Aren’t you all sick of the sight of me?” This, her 4th gig of the weekend, was possibly the most important, being to promote her solo album, Her By Design. So busy is she with Kinnaris Q, with Bella Hardy and with Will Pound, let alone numerous other involvements and collaborations, she seldom gets the opportunity to strum her own guitar. Given she is the support booked and confirmed for Fairport Convention’s Spring tour, she’s going to need the practice.

Should she worry? Well on this performance, no, not a jot, as confident and competent a display as any across the whole weekend. Having the acoustic of the church showed her voice off to perfection, which, together with her intricate fretwork, had me seriously wonder why she had bothered to have all her chums along on the album. Stripped back, these songs, a mix of traditional, some of her own and some folk adjacent covers sounded exquisite, with no need for the extra embellishment. As with the album, she started off with her rendition of Sandy Denny’s All Our Days, and had all present wondering where, give or take a very occasional song, she has been hiding her voice all these years.

Most of the album songs got an outing, all that more resplendent, with the attention forced solely on the artist. This also gave the opportunity for her to spell out the message and theme across the album. This is around a greater emancipation for women, one that Hartlepool seems to have taken to heart, given the number of strong women across the running order. The Housewife’s Lament then underlined the perhaps still existing reality, the fate of being “buried in dirt“, both in life and after. The positive now needing accentuating, this came with her own song, describing the time of her ‘Songs Of Separation’ experience, meeting up with 10 likelminded souls on the Isle of Eigg, to fashion the celebrated album of that name.

The slight C&W twang of A Toast became accentuated in this setting, with rich twangs to feast upon, before her thought provoking ode, if that is the right word, to endometriosis, 1 in 10, and, finally, Rosemary Lane to close. How had this hour gone by so quickly? A glance behind me, across the packed pews of this far from modest church, showed quite how many people are fast coming up to speed with this vibrant talent, hidden, in plain sight for so long. I think even she was surprised by the numbers present, but, as bigger venues beckon, there is little doubt this is something she deserves.

With that performance needing time to settle, it was only a short walk to the coastline positioning of The Pot House, standing proud at the butt of the headland. A pub with, as I found, very good Guinness, it seemed exactly the right place to be witnessing the crop of Irish talent, brought over by the festival team. In the form of an informal showcase, a number of turns were each given four or so songs to set out their stall, and was by no means the only such event staged like this, just the only one I managed to factor in.

The burly figure of Macdara Yeates was up first, a big broth of a hurling boy, with a prodigious grasp of the history of Irish history and song. Dipping between doggerel drinking songs and plaintive political laments, he was someone to certainly keep an eye on. Eyes closed and gently rocking, singing either with or without some of his own delicate guitar lines, he reminded me of a young Christy Moore. His version of Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye, reprised from the Fishermans, the night before, was chillingly intense.

Up next were Garbh, the Garvey Sisters, Molly and Anna, whose singing of Grey Funnel Line had so captivated me the night before, again at the Fish. Each can sing like earthy angels, but it is their sibling harmony that really cuts through, a ghostly, spectral sound that tickles the marrow. “Who can sail when the winds won’t blow” may not have been elementally correct, but, jeez, it was stunning. Remember their names and where you heard first of them.

Bill Breathneach, the freshly crowned All-Ireland champion of newly composed songs in Irish, and yes, there is such an award, followed with some of his own compositions, showing himself quite adept also, on the now quite Irish instrument of bouzouki. He also sang the well known Paddy On The Railroad, the only song he knew to actually mention Hartlepool, something I had never quite spotted before. The 16 year old Éinín Duggan followed, with her sweet voice, and it was an entrancing hour or so.

PIPES AND WHISTLES, MORE PIPES AND WHISTLES, AHEAD ROLLING HOME

One final concert triad, back at the Town Hall, was the last item on the agenda, for this beginning to flag folkie. This was to start with the, I think, English debut of From The Ground. Based around the pairing of Laura-Beth Salter, another Kinnaris Q member hanging on after their show, and Ali Hutton, the piper/whistler/guitarist from Treacherous Orchestra, Old Blind Dogs and much else. Their album had been a treat of 18 months back and they don’t play live that often. Joined by Patsy Reid on fiddle and Owen Sinclair, on guitar, this promised to be one of the highlights it surely then was.

With Hutton alternating between whistle and a lovely big blue hollow body electric, and Salter sticking mainly to mandolin, it was a glorious sound the four of them made, starting with the title track from the album. With songs plucked from other collaborations, notably Sinclair’s rendition of Dick Gaughan’s Workers Song, it was not hard to see why all four are so much in demand as individuals. As Hutton switched to bagpipes, once the cries of glee from the audience settled, he was too able to show his mastery of this instrument. A high point was undoubtedly the instrumental, Aquila, and when Salter led Sinclair and Reid in some toothsome harmonies for Dirk Powell’s Some Sweet Day. Finally, to finish, Hutton returned to the pipes for some excellent jigs to close the set. A show worth all the undoubted hassles of the weekend.

Sticking with pipes, if this time the uillean variety, it was the awkwardly named Johnny Quinn Macs up next. No, me neither, but it soon became clear with Johnny being John McSherry, Quinn being Brendán Quinn and Mac being Francis McIlduff. I knew this, having read the programme and relished the idea of two pipes (and whistles) with guitar. Actually pre-dating the Olllam, McSherry’s post-rock iteration of a similar dual pipes approach, this more acoustic arrangement showed better the exquisite way that two low whistles, or two sets of uillean pipes, can play together, in unison and counter-point. Which is lovely. Quinn adds muscular guitar rhythms, as well as the contrasting textures of some songs. For these he injected a keen sense of americana, with his voice smacking of outlaw country.

I may not be alone in thinking Wild Mountain Thyme too ubiquitous, and too easy a set pleaser, to much enjoy it these days. But then I hadn’t heard it played by any scion of the song’s writer before, for, rather than trad. arr., it was actually written by Francis McPeake, the great-grandfather of McIlduff. Somehow that knowledge made a difference, and the trio’s rendition gave the old chestnut new life. For this, and all the songs, McIlduff took to bodhran, his play always having you to glimpse up, lest a drumkit had been sheakily snuck on stage.

The shuttle bus irregularity causing concern, my plan had been then to leave, but the kind offer of a lift meant I stayed on, for the festival finale, from the Wilsons. The exposure to them in the late night sessions had had me forgetting what a potent force the four brothers are, in a concert setting. I’m unsure they needed their microphones, such the barrage of sound emanating from the four throats. All strong singers in their own right, as was shown as they swapped lead voice between them, it is the Jericho-destructive unison bellow that makes them so compelling. Add in the incessant jostle and banter between them, threatening to delay and derail any song starting succinctly, and it is easy to see why they remain such an enduring draw on the circuit. They may be down now to only 4 brothers, but the sound was as mighty as ever.

Sticking mainly to songs from their peers and the local tradition, it was uplifting to see how the love and joy of communal singing is being kept alive, by this family from just down the road. By the time it came to their “anthem”, Rolling Home, the song Roy Bailey bequeathed them, as John Tams had earlier told us, there were many many more than just the 4 voices from the stage. The roof of the Town Hall here seemed now in as much threat as that of the Borough Hall, which had necessitated all the subsequent toing and froing. A wonderful end to, all things considered, a wonderful festival. And, sadly, the last one here in Hartlepool. From next year the festival moves to Durham, for more reliable environs and the ability to expand, adding ceilidhs.

(P.S. Of course I went back to the Fisherman’s Arms, for a final blast!)

And, sorry, it has to be the Wilsons to go, this being the most recent available video. Let’s just say, six years on, the brothers don’t look much different, including dress sense, even if Mike Wilson’s T shirt was now a Genesis Foxtrot one.

Tickets for next years event, now situated at Durham Folk Festival, are available here.

Hartlepool Folk Festival (now Durham Folk Festival): Website / Facebook

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