It had been raining all day. On the top of our Devon hill we could feel the full force of climate change, it seemed; the wind was blowing a gale, and trying to throw the entire Atlantic onto the grand marquee and the field around it, where around fifty of us had just enjoyed the wettest barbecue of our lives. There was no escape; the constant rain through the week had made a bog of the field and our poncy town cars (not many Chelsea tractors here) and city driving skills were quite unequal to sailing through the mud.
Into this maelstrom strode the Fallen Apples, matadors in their white shirts and black jackets, with only their muddy boots giving them away. From their first note the party took off, they were louder than the flapping tent, the creaking guys, the wild wind and the rain. We danced as they must have danced while Rome burned, with wild abandon loosely chained to the soaring harmonica and pounding double bass, the mandolin and washboard and guitar. And the singing! Highlight for me was a resounding version of Jericho which had everyone singing along. Wonderful music brilliantly performed and with great humour.
Global warming? Bring it on, if we can see ourselves out with a party band this good. Fallen Apples were lifebelts for drowning men and women in a field in Devon last Saturday night.
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