WOMAD 2011 - by Theo

Yet another year of WOMAD being blessed by perfect weather - warm, but not baking, sunny skies with clouds to offer relief - by Sunday we'd stopped bothering to carry the emergency umbrella and left all our waterproofs in the car. Yet the weather was just the beginning of our good luck....
This was Rosie's third WOMAD, and she did an excellent job of selecting acts for us from the program. We arrived at 4 on the Friday and she guided us straight into a stomping set by the wonderful Taraf de Haidouks, whom we had last seen in Madrid pre-Rosie. The quality music kept going from then on, though in keeping with our daughter's wishes (to just chill out with the paper, rather than wear her ear defenders) we never got too close to the front.Thanks to Jo, my sister's sister-in-law (with me there?), who works for Real World, we not only got discounted tickets, but also a pass for the crew parking, which was right next to the BBC Radio 3 stage. This was particularly handy for us as we were driving in each day from my parents' house in Cirencester, so it saved us quite a lot of walking. Sadly we didn't managed to catch up with Jo on site to thank her, but we did met her other brother (the one my sister isn't married to) plus, of course, my sister and her husband and my parents, my dad making his WOMAD debut with a rather stylish hat.
With extra people to obligingly entertain her, be they family or complete strangers, Rosie was on top form and generally very happy throughout the festival, only getting really grumpy when it was time to leave on Saturday. We don't think she actually noticed there was live music going on; indeed her ability to nap right through a very loud and bass-heavy set from Khaira Arby seems to suggest she barely noticed the musicians at all.Not to worry, Kate and I enjoyed the performances on her behalf. Personal favourites included Vieux Farka Toure's screamingly clean blues guitar, and Hari Sirvanesan's hypnotic and chilled collaboration with violinist Omar Puente. Meanwhile Kate was particularly taken with Susheela Raman's return to form in the arboretum and 9Bach's doom folk in the Siam tent. As usual though, we didn't hear a duff act all festival. Another wonderful WOMAD.

WOMAD UK - with baby By Kate

OK, we cheated a bit. For the first time in the history of our attendance at WOMAD we didn't camp. But when you've got a six month-old baby and a handy guest room at parents/in-laws fifteen minutes drive away, it was a no-brainer. Plus I'm not a huge fan of camping in any case. It's kind of fun up to a point, but when you're a light sleeper who invariably needs to get up for a pee (or three) in the night, you can basically rule out much in the way of useful snoozery. Not that I get huge amounts of that at the moment anyway, but why make it worse?Accordingly we rolled up in Delilah the Delica early on Friday afternoon armed with sling, baby ear defenders, a picnic rug and a hopeful weather outlook. It was clear from the outset that Rosie was intrigued - no, make that fascinated - by the sights and sounds of the festival. As we walked onto the site her head bobbed from side to side, eyes bright with interest as she took it all in from her comfy position tied to Daddy's chest. Theo, meanwhile was doing his best impression of a pack horse, also wearing a backpack with various items (rug, changing mat, umbrella) hanging off it. I carried my flower pattern backpack and felt a teeny bit guilty about it. But only a teeny bit.
Duly wristbanded and clutching a festival programme, we headed for the Big Red Tent, Ipercussonici and the first potential obstacle to everyone's enjoyment. Would Rosie consent to wear her ear defenders so we could enjoy the raised decibel levels without having to clamp hands over our offspring's shell-likes to prevent possible hearing damage? The answer, thankfully and slightly surprisingly, was a resounding Yes. In fact, so successful were the defenders, that Rosie proceeded to feed then sleep quite happily while wearing them during the loud desert grooves provided by Toumast at the Open Air Stage. She napped in the first of several improvised nests we made for her on our rug (with the help of a colourful, highly sequinned parasol we'd purchased from one of the festival stalls) while we indulged in a half of lager and a bit of hip gyrating to Toumast. When Rosie woke up, she charmed everyone around us with huge grins as we danced with her (still in the ear-defenders) and generally Got Down. One woman even came and took our photograph, so enchanted was she by our beaming baby daughter. It was the best possible start to the weekend.The rest of the day was punctuated by more shows (most notable of which was that provided by the French lounge-core outfit Nouvelle Vague and their inspired renditions of various punk and New Wave classics) and a meet-up with Theo's sis, Hermione and spouse Richard and our mates Stu and Sam. In the end we stayed until almost nine o'clock (*thrills*), so comfortable did Rosie appear to be with her role as Official Festival Babe. We caught a bit of Chumbawamba, but were too far from the stage to really hear much, so took our leave.On Saturday we arrived at the festival slightly better prepared than the previous day - we bought a few cans of lager and cider. We also found a superb spot at the edge of the Open Air Stage which gave us line-of-sight and sound with both that stage and the neighbouring Siam Tent. As the two alternated their shows, it meant we could remain comfortably in position and simply re-angle ourselves to take in one or the other. Probably the highlight of the day performance-wise was a German outfit called LaBrassBanda - yes, a brass band. They were fantastic. Rosie's favourite (if her smiles were anything to go by) was Angelique Kidjo and Orchestre National de Barbes, seen by us in Madrid last year, were as endearingly entertaining as we remembered them. It was also good to see locals Phantom Limb in action with Yolanda in fine voice as they ran through their country-tinged set. We caught Imogen Heap's first couple of numbers, but Rosie wasn't especially grabbed and was clearly getting tired by that point, so we made a graceful exit.

On Sunday we had it down to a fine art and managed to catch Sounds of West Africa (did what it said on the tin - very well, too); the Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars (infectious uptempo music, totally belying the misery behind their formation); Mayra Andrade (sultry Samba-style songs - perfect for a sunny Sunday afternoon), Orchestre Poly Rhythmo de Cotonou (good, lively stuff) and the legend that is Rolf Harris.

He was a lot of fun, a consummate performer. Rosie, however, was unimpressed, preferring to sit in the sling firmly clamped to my right breast and doze throughout his set. The rest of us enjoyed it though. The Sarod player Soumik Datta was the last show we watched, hanging out agreeably with Patrick in the Arboretum as the expertly plucked strings sent out their rhythms and melodies from the Radio 3 stage. We ate a healthy festival meal of pie and mash followed by chocolate brownie, then reluctantly took our leave.
We came away two shirts (Theo) and one parasol (me) richer, several pounds poorer, amazingly clean (ah, the bliss of not camping...) and with a baby who, if this was anything to go by, is shaping up as a committed festival enthusiast, just like her parents. As long as it isn't Rolf Harris.

New parents and the First Weekend Away By Kate

It was with a mixture of pleasant anticipation and dread (OK, probably slightly more of the latter) that Theo and I embarked on our expedition to Caceres in Extramadura to take in the sights and sounds of the WOMAD festival. It's been held in the city for the last nineteen years and as well as boasting quaintly picturesque streets and plazas as a perfect way to set off the festival stages, the added attraction is that it is completely free. Theo and I went last year and had a wonderful time watching some fantastic world music being performed in the May sunshine. So we decided to make the journey again this year, but with an obvious alteration to our entourage: we had a baby in tow.

Because of a long-winded problem involving our car insurance which I won't go into now, we elected to take the train from Atocha Station in Madrid to Caceres. Accordingly, we boarded two buses on Friday morning (one at a time) carrying a gigantically stuffed-full rucksack (Theo) a flowery backpack with essentials for the journey (me) and pushing a pram containing our Precious First Born (Theo, mostly).

Stage one went well. We got to Atocha horrendously early and although Rosie remained awake for the journey from our flat, she sustained a cheerful countenance. We killed some time by having a cuppa in a cafe - with a waitress who was so slow fulfilling our modest order (orange juice and a Colacao) we started to fear we might never get our drinks before we had to go.Getting on the train with our baggage was challenging, but we managed it and after Rosie decided she didn't want to stay in the sling (she tends to protest if whoever wearing the sling isn't in constant motion), we put her in her car seat/pram seat where, following a feed, she obligingly fell asleep (with a little help from a muslin providing some strategic tenting). Rosie slept for well over an hour, awoke and enjoyed looking around the train carriage and watching the passing scenery, then after another snack from Mummy, dozed off again in her seat. We felt cheered - this was proving to be an unmitigated doddle!Rosie only woke up again when we alighted at Caceres station, but was quite content to ride in her pram to the hotel where, once ensconced in room 608, with a clean nappy and another feed inside her, she took another nap. Our spirits continued to rise. A well-rested, contented baby was nine-tenths of the battle for winning an enjoyable weekend. Anticipation started to win over dread.

Our first hiccup came when we sallied forth to check out the festival under suspiciously brooding skies. Theo decided we should keep Rosie in the pram, despite my disappointment at not being able to be a proper hippy mum and have her in the sling (plus I was dubious about negotiating narrow, deeply cobbled streets and crowds). But after only ten minutes, it started to chuck it down and our unwaterproof pram and lack of rain cover suddenly seemed like a bad idea for baby transport. In the shelter of a doorway, I hastily donned the sling, popped Rosie inside and stuck up a brolly. After ascertaining that the rain and wind (which was gusting pretty strongly and called for some serious jockeying of our bucking umbrellas) had momentarily postponed the WOMAD entertainment programme, we turned tail and retreated back to the hotel to dump the pram in the dry and make a second attempt at our trek into the historical centre of Caceres.This time we were more successful and actually managed to catch bits and pieces of some of the acts, do a little shopping (purchasing some Indian-style head-wear made by our friend Rosie) and eat some home-baked pizza while Rosie (our offspring, this time) was snugly tied to me in the wrap. Impressively, she proceeded to sleep through an incredibly loud Spanish ska band in Plaza Mayor, only waking to the more modestly-volumed folk ensemble, Spiro in Plaza St Jorge (which also featured a Bristol acquaintance of ours, Jon from The Wraiths).But all good things come to an end. Rosie started to lose patience with her situation after a few hours so we rushed back to the hotel while she wailed loudly at us to hurry up because clearly she was about to starve to death.We constructed a tent over Rosie's babynest in our room and after a feed and change, she was content to go off to sleep with minimum fuss. By now it had stopped raining, but there was a distinct chill in the air and although Theo and I both offered a babysitting service to the other, none of the acts was sufficiently captivating to tempt either of us away from the warmth of the family bosom (which must be mine, I suppose). We did the rock'n'roll thing and had an early night.Saturday dawned dank, overcast and, well, crappy. Rosie gave us an unwelcome alarm call in the form of a spectacular poosplosion, which leaked out of her nappy and went....everywhere. After dealing with the excremental crisis, we took it easy in our room, munching on fruit and croissants while reading and babyminding until afternoon came and we decided to venture out again. This we did, to find almost nothing going on, so after scrutinising the market, downing some food and having our photograph taken while chatting to trilingual Eduardo (Spanish, English and Hindi...oh, and he was also busy learning German) with his strapping 9 month-old daughter, Anouk, we went back to the hotel.

Back out again and this time we took part in a dance workshop led by an exuberant Kenyan band - something that Rosie seemed to enjoy (or at least, tolerate) in the sling with Theo. He was also voxpopped by Spanish TV and made a pretty decent fist of it, in my opinion.After some veggie curry, the rain returned in earnest so we took shelter under a stone archway, gave Rosie a feed and rather glumly surveyed the situation. The downpour, depressingly British in aspect, showed no signs of abating. Although it was only about 7.30pm, we decided we'd had enough. Perhaps without the responsibility of a three month-old baby, we would have shrugged off the inclement weather, downed a few sidras and kept ourselves warm by dancing to some of the more lively bands. But Rosie was showing signs of getting fed up and the charms of the meteorological conditions had long worn thin. Back to the hotel, then.This time Rosie was more cantankerous about bedtime, despite our attempts to mollify her with a relaxing bath (which she enjoyed) and it took much swaddling and un-swaddling plus several attempts at feeding and pacifying before she finally gave in to sleep. Unfortunately, she then woke up wanting a comfort feed every two hours after that, so by morning I was feeling somewhat jaded, to say the least.
We packed up and took a cab to the station, deciding against walking once we had observed the horizonal rain outside. And guess what? We were three quarters of an hour early, so once again we holed up in the station caff with orange juice and Colacao while Rosie gazed in fascination at the screen pumping out Spanish MTV above her head.

The train journey back to Madrid was nowhere near as easy a ride as the one to Caceres. Rosie fussed and cried and having had her routine disrupted for three days now, had obviously decided enough was enough. In desperation, I fed her while standing up in the train corridor, hoping the white noise and motion would help calm her. It did. She finally consented to get some sleep in her chair and we breathed a sigh of relief. It was not to last. Another poosplosion abruptly woke her out of slumber and Theo and I had the joy of changing a baby, whose lower half was liberally coated with her own excrement, on a train seat. Thankfully, teamwork won the day (and Rosie, thankfully, treated the whole thing as a grand escapade put on for her own entertainment) and with the judicious use of babywipes and travel changing mat, we had the situation back under control.

Unfortunately, that was when Rosie's patience, such as it was, ran out and I spent another half hour trying to calm her down (including a second breast-feeding sojourn in the corridor) and persuade her back to sleep. Ironically, it was as we waited in the press of passengers to get off at Atocha that she finally consented to doze off. Impeccable timing.

So, what with one thing and another, it was a relief to make it back home. All things considered, we figured we'd mainly got away with it from Rosie's point of view. She could have been much less tolerant of the venture but as it was, only the minimum of time was spent baby-calming and we were impressed that we'd managed to keep her generally good-natured throughout. No, the main drawback of the whole affair was the miserable, un-Spanishlike weather. But you couldn't blame that on the baby.

WOMAD Caceres

We just had a lovely weekend down in Caceres attending the free WOMAD festival there. I've written a review which is here:
http://www.efestivals.co.uk/festivals/WOMAD/2009caceres/review-overview.shtml
The setting was absolutely spectacular and the bands we saw were amazing, with Toumast, Salif Keita and Paprika Balkanicus being our top choices. We're SO there next year!!

Two Weddings and a Festival

Forgive us the hiatus. We've just spent the best part of a month back home in the UK and have been too busy catching up with friends and family, partying or plain lethargic to update the travel blog. And to be fair, we haven't been on our travels as such, unless you count Cornwall, Bristol and Gloucestershire.

To summarise: we stayed with the fabulous Joe and S (the things that woman can do with a fresh, plump zucchini...) for a few days in Bristol before joining in the celebrations for our friends, Dan and Helen (aka The Rargs) as they joined the swelling ranks of The Marrieds. It was a lovely do, with a tear-jerkingly ecstatic eulogy to the bride by the extravagantly moustachioed groom and possibly the least inappropriate live wedding music ever. Needless to say, we loved it and joined in the chorus of Men Diamler's "Life Is Such A Terrible Thing" with great gusto.

We were just about to fall into bed after the Rargs' nuptials when Joe and S tumbled home from my ex's wedding, which had taken place nearby, along with my sister and brother-in-law and pals, Emma and Pete and Liz and Al. We watched a glorious sunrise before we finally passed out.

The next few days was spent in Cirencester at Berry mansions as we were royally pampered by Theo's parents while Sheena had her innards removed, cleaned up and replaced at a nearby garage. Late night Champagne and chocolates (plus occasionally truculent games of Scrabble, Bananagrams and Rummikub) kept us entertained, along with trips into Cirencester and visits to Grandma.

Then, along came WOMAD. The weather forecast predicted lots of heavy showers, but thankfully, the Met Office had messed up and we had a hot and sunny festival weekend at Charlton Park, full of great music and colour, with plenty of time to hang out with our respective sisters and friends. Nortech Collective, Shantel and the Bocovino Club Orkester, Babylon Circus and Bassoukou Kouyate were our highlights. We all came away somewhat tanned as well, most gratifying.

We stayed in Bristol for another few days - this time with Liz and Al - before setting off for Cornwall. Our arrival in Friday coincided with my Dad's birthday so we spent the evening with him, my brother and his girlfriend in the Star And Garter (after calling on Matt and Sarah for a cuppa at their place). The next day we had lunch with Wigs at The Chain Locker, then met Neil and Vicki (the latter very damp from a stint of gig racing) for evening drinks in The Oddfellows.

Next, it was down to my sister and the Rainbow Tribe in St Hilary where I spent part of the week helping sort out Bex's bathroom; odd-sock sack; clean washing mountain and old shoe pile, while battling a severe streptococcus sore throat. Ouch.

On the Friday we all trooped over to Black Torrington in Devon, home of the Page/Presswell collective, ready for Ann-Marie and Alex's wedding. The rain was virtually unrelenting all day, but with the help of various tents and the village hall, most of the planned activities went ahead, spirits remained high and everything, including the barn dance and Am's moving rendition of "Amazed", went smoothly, if not a little damply.

Next morning we set off for London, via a farewell lunch with the Berry clan in Bristol, eventually arriving at Ayesha's house in Dulwich. We had enjoyed a bit of friendship-renewal over pink wine, (we met Ayesha at the Rocket Festival in Spain) before settling down for our last night's kip in the UK for - well, we don't really know when we'll be back again.

As I write, we are in the queue for the P&O ferry at Dover, somewhat relieved at having narrowly escaped disaster after realising Theo had accidentally booked us on the Calais-Dover crossing, rather than the other way round.
"Do you want me to transfer the ticket?" asked the man at the P&O desk, "The next sailing from Dover is at 12.40 and it'll cost you...five pounds."

I hope any other problems we encounter on the next leg of the trip will solved as swiftly, cheaply and easily as that one. Shame the cash machine on Dover High Street ate my bank card just before we set off for the ferry. You would not believe the saga we've experienced trying to open an account with The Nationwide. I won't go into the details, it's not very interesting. Suffice to say, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Hey ho, next stop Calais, then on to Bruges.

INTERMISSION

We're on a break.

Yes, we've returned from our European adventures for a short (4 week) English intermission before we plunge back into the continental backwoods.

We came back for two weddings - The Rargs (which was ace!) and Kate's sister Anne-Marie this coming weekend, before getting the Dover to Calais on Auguist 11th. Meanwhile we've been to Bristol to see all our friends (well, not all, sadly), Gloucestershire to see Theo's folks and Cornwall to see Kate's. We took in WOMAD which was hot, fun and entertaining, and Sheena has a new, sparkling radiator and carpet.

Bulletins begin in Belgium. Tune in then.

Love,

Kate and Theo x