Alice's Wanderland - Sunday

The next morning proves to be another day of unreliable weather; it is bitterly cold when I eventually crawl out of my dripping tent, and the festival site is thick with a layer of mud, much slippier than it looks on first impression. In typical Cambridge fashion, people are dotted around listening to the Archers as it is played over the large speakers (yet another highlight unlikely to be found at Reading or indeed Bloodfest), and first up today are Hauggard and Hoirupp; the moment of united opinion over Toots last night is gone, and once again the fans of very traditional folk music can be seen nodding in approval while other hung-over audience members’ heads loll forward to the conventional but extremely tight European guitar/fiddle duo.

Martin Simpson, on the other hand, is a more attention-grabbing affair altogether. His incredibly intricate guitar style seems jaws hitting the deck around the audience, and it is hard to draw your eyes away from his fingers as he creates sounds with his guitar that few could conceive possible without seeing it. He has already played a set or two over this weekend, and now on the last day he has gained a small army of followers along the way and he becomes the talk of the festival both backstage and amongst the audience.

The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain are a welcome humorous break, perfect for an exhausted Sunday afternoon. Arguably they are a ‘novelty’ band, but in the same vein as the likes of Hayseed Dixie or maybe even a Bill Bailey stand-up; incredibly talented musicians with a perfected stage show drawing on some very dark humour and ironic covers, which has the entire audience doubled up in laughter. Meanwhile, I find myself in a busy Stage 2 tent with Last Orders before me, playing their lively up-beat take on folk music and grinning broadly at the audience who nod along appreciatively.

Elsewhere, something surreal is happening backstage. The Flintstones are running around manically, and an enormous hedge on wheels is reversing slowly down a path. This transpires to be a sort of mini-truck fancy dress competition between the crew, judged by Miss Kate Rusby herself, and people have gone to surprising efforts to please her. One group of entrants have covered their vehicle in bouquets and ribbons with an enormous ‘Kiss Me Kate’ sign, complete with a suitably attired man who proposes to her. In the end she chooses a beach-themed float as the winner, much to the disgust of Wilma Flinstone.

Stage 2 meanwhile is continuing an afternoon of impressive talent. Ruthie Foster is back for a second set, this time she has also done a Martin Simpson and gathered a collection of fans over the weekend who squeeze into the smaller tent to go wild for what is undeniably one of the festival highlights. This is followed by Newton Faulkner, who fulfils the ‘mainstream’ spot of the weekend (in past festivals this has sported KT Tunstall and Idlewild); the front row is full of teenagers excited to see the only name on the line-up that they are familiar with. However, Newton Faulkner proves to be anything but mainstream. His guitar playing is elegant and snappy, easily comparable to John Butler but with a more chilled out feel reminiscent of Jack Johnson’s summery sound. I find myself distracted by the music as I am photographing him; his song-writing is impossible to dislike and I realise that his place in the charts is fully deserved. If only more artists of his talent received that level of public appreciation.

My evening is exhausting; I catch Nanci Griffith’s penultimate set, who is (like every artist on Cambridge’s program) an impressive talent but I find her slightly self-righteous and cringe to see somebody flying a Confederate flag in the audience. It is all too American for me, but the whole night is lifted when Shooglenifty prove to be the ultimate highlight of the weekend as the final band of the weekend. They open with a flashing rave light show which almost reminds me of the last time I saw the Chemical Brothers perform, and bizarrely have plastic trouts stuck to their hats for some unfathomable reason. The photographers grumble as the lightshow proves to be impossible to photograph under; but the show is in itself very impressive. They build up a driving rhythm; fundamentally folk but almost pounding dance music in its presentation. Almost as impressive as the band itself is the reaction of the audience. Despite the rain, a sea of dancing bodies spreads right back to the beer tent, which is effectively the refuelling station for this sea of dancers. This is probably the closest you will ever get to a ‘folk rave’ and despite being a somewhat more middle-class affair, complete with muddy Crocs and plastic Pimms glasses slippery with rain, the atmosphere is as electric as you would find at any actual rave.

This brings me to the end of my sixth consecutive Cambridge Folk Festival and one just as packed full of memorable performances as any of the others. My personal highlight of the weekend was the electricity emitted by the energetic audience for both Toots and Shooglenifty; every year I look forward to the customary nights of dancing and cider tents at Cambridge, and although this year I was more of a spectator to that with my camera (this being the first year that I didn’t have an entourage of friends and family with me for the weekend), I am still taking away the energy and atmosphere that only Cambridge Folk Festival manages to conjure.

See you next year!