The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part One)

When one of my best friends moved to Northern Ireland, I did some reconnaissance to see which places I should visit when I went to visit her. The place that interested me most, almost with a magnetic draw, was Rathlin Island. It's an L shaped island off the Northeast coast of Ulster with a population of about eighty people. My mantra being 'Life is better by the sea' and with my fascination of the magic of islands in general, I knew I had to visit. Last summer, when I first ventured to Northern Ireland, I ran out of time to set aside enough to visit the island. On my most recent trip, I made it there.

Fortune was smiling on me as I boarded the ferry from Ballycastle to Rathlin. The weather had stayed fine after the Easter weekend and the sky was blue with a thin scattering of wispy clouds. It was still cold, but the sun was shining which made it the type of day the air catches your breath in thankfulness that you get to enjoy this day on such a beautiful planet. The ferry was industrial; I shared my viewing spot on the deck with a road repair truck and its crew that were heading to the island. I spent the entire 45 minute journey at the edge of the boat, feeling the salt-spray on my face and squinting into the sun at the island getting ever nearer as we jumped the sapphire blue waves. The crossing wasn't calm, but the rhythm of the waves was life affirming as I kept my balance with no hands. When I needed to lean, I grabbed hold of the cold, weathered metal of the side of the boat. Hours later, I could still smell the metallic tinge of the seafarer lingering on my hands.

I had a hunch that it would happen as soon as I saw it, but then as I set foot on Rathlin Island, I knew it: I had fallen in love with the place. It was love at first sight. But then I kept discovering hidden gems and tiny foibles of my dear amour.

I skipped off the ferry, full of the joys of a spring adventure. I strolled through the harbour area and past the sparkling bay edged by white stone and seaweed. As I passed people they said hello; even the two drivers who passed me waved. I stopped in the tiny museum on the side of the bay. The lady was so helpful and welcoming and suggested I head up to the cycle hire to increase my adventuring capacity. The cycle hire on Rathlin Island is basically a lady called Jennifer who operates out of her garage. She was also very friendly and gave me lots of tips of where to go and what to do. I had to check with her twice when she told me I could just leave my bike at the end of a path when I had to continue on foot. Life on Rathlin isn't concerned with petty bicycle thefts. Where everyone knows everyone, who's going to steal?

It was stood by her garage that I bore witness to a very secret resident of Rathlin. I was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the famous Golden Hare (no, I'd never heard of it before either). Nonetheless, I was enthrallled by the little fella. I had to use Jennifer's binoculars and have her friend talk me through exactly where to look, but I found him! He's a handsome hare with a light coat and blue eyes. It's a genetic anomaly only found on Rathlin, and he doesn't appear that often. They told me the Countryfile team staked out the area for a good length of time and still failed to catch sight of him. And here I was almost stumbling across this secret! He sat up and looked just like Peter Rabbit.

And from then on it got even better. I haven't even told you about the cycle routes that take you into another world, the hostel that has the best view to wake up to and the noisy residents of the harbour. Maybe they're for another tale. I almost feel like I shouldn't write about my time on Rathlin because it was so perfect and magical. I don't want to spoil the place by sending everyone there, but at the same time, its tranquility, natural magnificence and the friendliness of the residents there deserves to be experienced by people. It was just the positive opportunity I needed at that point and I loved every second of it.

The best pub in the world!

On Easter Sunday afternoon, my friend Jen and I (ably accompanied by the ever-wonderful Deefer the Springer Spaniel) stumbled upon a little slice of magic in the Wiltshire countryside. Many pubs are good; it goes without saying. Some have small flashes of genius or touches that edge them closer to perfection. I don't take this statement lightly, but I think, in that particular moment in time, the universe conspired to reveal to us a path to public house utopia, and so we found ourselves in the best pub in the world.

As with a lot of momentous discoveries, we didn't intend it. After our exciting explorations at Imber village, we were in need of refreshments and a space for Deefer to run in. We were headed up to the Westbury white horse whilst keeping our eyes peeled for a country pub we could stop in. As we neared the turning for the white horse, a wooden sandwich board caught our attention. It was a small sign, but it irrevocably changed our lives. The sign read 'The best pub in smiles'. We scoffed at the pun, rolled our eyes and threw caution to the wind to follow the sign. We drove into the car park and that's where the magic began to unfold before our very eyes. I cannot stress this enough: it was like veils of perfection being whipped away in front of us at every turn. So many little details combined to make it a wonderous place. (So much so that I now wonder, if I were to return, would it still be there, or was it simply a figment of our imagination?) 

Allow me to lead you through the stages of discovery that meant The Horse and Groom at Westbury is the best pub in the world. 

1) There was a garden. With grass. And trees. And a stream at the end. And benches. It was a tad cold to sit in the garden, but I logged the information for future reference.

2) On the way in, there was a sign saying dogs were allowed. With well behaved owners. It was obvious we were on the same canine wavelength. On entering the pub, we found Deefer had two inquisitive, furry friends for company. There were also dog treats available (for a small donation to charity) at the bar. We were all amongst friends.

3) We had spotted a sign outside saying that there is live music every Sunday afternoon. Seemingly, we had pitched up right on cue. Our first sight as we passed through the doorway was of three men noodling on a variety of instruments. We took a seat in the bar directly opposite the 'stage' area. The musicians were billed as a blues, rock and country group, and that's exactly what we were treated to. There was a singer who beautifully growled his way through a range of songs, some I knew, some I didn't, but all I enjoyed. A guitarist who had a few more years of life experience under his belt gave us plenty to riff along to. And then there was the third musician...

4) This man was harmonica player. The harmonica is my weapon of choice; I quite terribly attempt to eke a tune out of mine. This means I am a sucker for any song adorned by a lonely wail of the 'monica. This man was a king of harmonicas. He coaxed blindingly bluesy riffs out of his to accompany the others. And he had a few harmonicas to choose from. I kid you not, this man had a harmonica utility belt: about eight of the blighters lined up along his waistline. It was as if Batman had branched out in his superhero capacity. This man was a true harmonica hero in my book.

5) They were serving food. We were starving and bracing ourselves for the worst as it was way past lunchtime on Easter Sunday. The lady at the bar cheerily told us they were serving food all day. I looked down the menu and my heart sailed as I found several vegetarian options. Being a vegetarian can often be a minefield. But here, in the best pub in the world, there were choices. And good choices. And when my choice was brought to the table, it tasted good too.

6) Alongside the condiments on the table sat a small box. It was a box of quiz questions. Jenny and I looked around, and on each table was a different box. My eyes widened with joy. Each table had a different box of trivia: Trivial Pursuit, travel questions or others of the sort. Who doesn't love a quiz? Such a simple idea. What a nice thing to do.

7) By the menus at the bar was a box of spare reading glasses for the convenience of all. By the door was a pile of blankets for the hardy folks who want to brave the garden. It's those little touches that give this pub the edge.

8) We sat with full bellies, quizzed out, with dogs by our feet and being serenaded by a fantastic group of musicians. Just as we thought it couldn't get any better, the man from the bar strolled over to us and handed us a tambourine and a percussion shaker (of the extra loud variety) and looked at us encouragingly. We were being invited to join the party! And join we did. We played along (as much as our musical ability allowed us) and smiles of joy spread across our faces. We laughed with the gents at the table next door to us and then went on to share some music anecdotes with our new friends. One of our comrades was the father of the singer in the group and his pride for his son beamed out of him to cheer us all even more.

Eventually we had to leave this pub paradise. Deefer needed a run and we had a long journey ahead to get home. But the smiles that we had been given in that magical place never left our faces for the whole journey home. It was a very opportune discovery, a legendary story for us to remember, and most definitely, the best pub in smiles.

The Crowded Deserted Village

An oxymoron, but no less true.

This story begins in 1943. Just before Christmas, the residents of the village of Imber, in the middle of Salisbury Plain, were requested to leave their homes. The MOD needed to use the village for training purposes as World War Two developed. The residents were originally told they they would one day be able to return to their evacuated homes.

That never happened.

The result is that somewhere in Wiltshire, miles from anywhere, surrounded by barbed wire and military warning signs, there is an empty village which is stuck in time. The army have continued to use the village; some of the original houses and other buildings abandoned in the forties are now joined by a number of purpose-built shells of houses for various training purposes. It is still an operational facility. But on a small number of days each year, the village is reopened for public visits.

We visited on Easter Sunday which meant that the place was teeming with visitors. I had been expecting quite an eerie location, but the swarms of families meant that it felt more lived in than many housing estates I've dared to pass through. I was happy however with the number of canine companions accompanying their owners. Dogs of all shapes and sizes joined the crowds on the exploration mission. I can't blame people for joining me in wanting to visit this slice of history; Imber is a unique story and an opportunity to travel back in time.

A visit to Imber allows you to see some of the buildings and locations that formed part of the everyday lives of the people of this village back before their lives were irrevocably uprooted. But as we wandered around these physical markers in time, a more interactive form of time travel was clear to see all around us. We had travelled to a time before the dreaded killjoy of  'Health and Safety'.

Yes, we were on a functioning military training location (albeit one on a bank holiday hiatus). Yes, we could wander in and out of many buildings that had questionable standards. And yes, we found discarded debris of plastic shells, tin cans and cracked glow sticks littering the floors. But no one was around to warn us of any dangers or guide us as to which precautions to take. We, and by 'we' I mean the general public, were left to fend for ourselves in this giant playground of danger. It was like having a whole village as an adventure playground. You can explore shells of houses by ducking through old timber door-frames; you can climb well-worn stone stairs to reach rickety, creaking upper floors; you can peer out of the gaping hole that once was a top floor barn window with nothing to warn you that it's possible you could hurt yourself if you fell out. The risks we took!

I took great heart from watching the families run around this odd, time-travel playground. This week I had heard a report on the news about how children didn't play outdoors as much as they did in the past. But here was a little slice of common sense prevailing in the most random of places. A couple of times I heard the excited calls of make-believe battles: kids hiding from their playmates in preparation to jump out at them at an opportune moment, with a blatant disregard to any dangers that might befall them. At one end of the village, a giant, fallen tree added another dimension to the playground. The kids (and adults, to be fair) swarmed over it like ants. Who doesn't love to climb on a tree?

The journey to Imber took us back in time in more ways than one. The echoes of the people who once lived there are etched on the worn walls and the surrounding landscape. But they are joined by the spirits of the more recent visitors. It is a place where your inner child can play like it used to. I hope Imber forever remains a playground for the inner child of all who dare to climb its walls.

Brighton Rock (and Roll)

Brighton. The scene of many lazy, sunny days sprawled on the famous pebbled beach.

If you want to see this Brighton, I suggest you do not follow my steps, and avoid a trip to the Sussex city in February. I was there for 23 hours and it rained solidly the whole time. The WHOLE time.
But hey, I'm British, so I persevered. And I'm pretty sure I made the most of my time there. I may have returned home with cold, soggy socks but they were well-travelled soggy socks.

The reason for my trip to Brighton was to attend the Ryan Adams show at the Brighton Dome Concert Hall. Without getting too embroiled in one of my favourite pastimes of fangirling over this incredibly talented musician, it was one of the best shows I've seen in a long while. But it wasn't just the music that made the visit to the Dome so enjoyable. I had heard how beautiful the building was from many people; to see it for myself was a real treat. The entrance foyer alone is a work of art. It wears its Art Deco legacy well and even the little details adorning much of the building make you feel like you're getting a glimpse into the past.

Earlier that day we had explored the famous Brighton Lanes. This also felt like a trip backwards in time as we darted down the cobbled alleyways, ducking into almost forgotten shops such as antique jewellers and milliners. Hoods up in an attempt at protection against the stubborn rain, we jumped puddles to get to newer additions to the constitution of The Lanes. Dog accessory shops and speciality cupcake bakers have found a fitting home in this part of the city. I'm not sure which I enjoyed looking at more: the ridiculously beautiful works of art that are actually creamily delicious baked goods, or unbelievably cute dogs dressed up to the nines in the latest fashion trends. One French Bulldog was sat so still in the middle of a shop that I thought they even had dog mannequins before he bolted out the door to retrieve a tempting bone.

As darkness swept in, helped in no small part by the dark clouds and driving rain, we headed for the beacon of light that is Brighton Pier. Stuck out into the churning English Channel, it beckoned me with its teasing neon lights, fairground music and the wafting smell of freshly fried doughnuts. Running along the seafront, we didn't seem to move anywhere very quickly. The wind was so ferocious that it was like being in a wind tunnel; I'd long given up on my brolly but had struggled to even put it down in the horizontal wind conditions. After much fighting against Mother Nature, we bundled into the glowing warmth of the amusement hall. I was just about aware of the flashing lights and jingling sounds surrounding me; I couldn't see much as every inch of me, including my much-needed glasses, was covered in rain. I think I'd have been as soaked if I'd have gone for a dip under the pier.

Still, there was money to be won, so we had to focus. I changed up 30p into the familiar pot of bronze tuppences. We threaded our way through the crowd to search for machines ripe for us to pick some winnings from. I won some. Then I lost some. Then I won some more. Then I lost the lot. Gah. Big corporations win again; I'll never see that 30p again.

But fear not. On the way out, before heading back into the incessant rain, I paused at a sweetie shovelling game. I wished my 20p luck as I inserted it into the slot. With baited breath, I pressed the button to load up the digger arm. In what seemed like slow motion, the arm released the sweets and they tumbled into the winning chute. Winner! I collected the booty (two fizzers, refreshers and two lollies) and stuffed them into my soggy pockets.

I think I left Brighton Pier richer than I arrived. I loved the thrill of the gamble and 50p was well worth the experience. And the sweets just topped off the arcade fun. That's the Rock 'n' Roll spirit!

Sexy cats!

If those sexy cats got your attention, be patient as we'll get to them shortly.

There was once a time when I would never have dreamt of driving the 450 miles plus from Southampton to Leeds and back for the weekend. But I feel that my perspective has changed. After driving a good four hours a day when we made our way across America, I wonder what stops me from doing it around the homeland. About half way down the M1 on my return leg from Leeds, the realisation hit me. Like a thousand looming brake lights in my windscreen.

Traffic.

In the USA, travelling between towns and cities is relatively stress free. The only traffic we ever hit was the swirling, hellish vortex of the Los Angeles road network. The rest of the time we were coasting down the open road. This feat is not so easily matched in England's green and pleasant land. But to be fair, the roads were pretty kind to me. A Saturday lunchtime drive up to Leeds spared me any traffic headaches. It was only the Sunday evening return when the motorway snarled up.

The reason for my expedition was to attend Thought Bubble Comic Con as my brother's wingman. Whereas my graphic novel knowledge is limited to film adaptations, his is encyclopaedic and lovingly, artistically worshipping. I arrived Saturday afternoon to find him wide eyed with glee, arms laden with bags of purchases and freshly signed prized posessions. With a childlike joy, the words to describe his day at the convention tumbled from his mouth like pages from a sketchbook. My brother never apologises for this unbridled enthusiasm for his passions. And I love him all the more for it!

Sunday morning, before the dawn dew had lifted we were trekking towards the convention for a packed day. First on the list was getting a special edition poster from some guy called Jock. This meant queuing. Queuing in the cold. Queuing for half an hour and then another hour because the fella we were waiting for hadn't arrived yet. When he did arrive, he started the day how one presumes he ended the previous night: downing a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Who says comic books are for nerds?!

Our time in the queue gave me an insight into the comic world. It was like Disneyland for geeks. People dressed in weird and wonderful costumes (it's not often your Sunday starts with an 8 foot metal soldier sauntering towards a tiny, toddler Hulk) and queues for everything. The people around us traded stories about signings they'd been to the previous day, compared victories they'd had in finding a long-yearned for issue and shared opinions on a whole range of topics. I was so out of the loop that I couldn't even see the loop.

So I left my wing-manly duties and went wandering. Away from the big-hitters of the comic world, I found more to explore. There were less queues for a start. I browsed meticulously drawn comics on a whole range of subjects. It was astounding to see how committed so many are to this art form despite reaching limited commercial success. Amongst my favourites were a touching poetry comic book about a bus stop and a range of posters and books exploring animal sounds in a variety of languages. I even put my hand in my pocket to buy two mini comics: a story about a car journey and a heroic platypus.

Later that afternoon we treated ourselves to a seat in a lecture theatre to watch a sketching spotlight. Four amazing artists took it in turns to put their drawing skills under the camera and talk about their experiences and opinions. It was fascinating and hilarious. Three of the four sketched incredibly skilful, detailed characters from their work. I have such respect for their vision and how they use their skills to realise that vision. One of the artists was Natasha Allegri. Being a novice, I had never heard of her, much less seen her work. She took a different tact to the others. Sheet upon sheet of paper she filled with sexy cats. Sexy cats in a variety of poses and shapes. They were cute and naughtily funny, and she was having a ball. So were we as the audience. 

At the very end of the day, as the stewards were trying to shepherd us out we found Natasha! And she was still signing. My brother asked her if she could draw a sexy cat for him. She happily obliged. Then he asked if she could draw one for me. I turned into a complete fangirl and got starstruck by this woman I'd never even heard of a few hours ago. She was so sweet and drew a whole page of sexy cats. Then, I presume it was her fiery artistic temperament, declared them to be not very good and said she could do better! I thought they were all ace, but I didn't argue and we came away with three sheets full of those fiendish felines. When I look at them now they represent such pure, random joy and remind me of an equally random weekend in Leeds. 

Every weekend should feature a sexy cat somewhere. 

Me, the giant and everyone else in the world...

So, one of the things I was most looking forward to seeing when visiting Northern Ireland was Giant's Causeway. It's so iconic and unique that I needed to experience it for real. And without sounding like too much of an oddball; I bloody love rocks! It amazes me when you get to see something that had been formed by millions of years of pressure and exposure. Basically it's just stuff that we find in the ground anywhere, and yet in some places it can be spectacularly beautiful. 

On one of the less wet days I was there (I was visiting in August; I should've known to pack storm level wet weather gear), we headed up the coast to the causeway. Vicky assured me she knew of the best spot to park. The opening of a shiny, new visitor exhibition centre has meant that you can be charged about a tenner to see this natural phenomenon. That's right, a geographically renowned World Heritage Site is charging the public to walk on rocks that they have a right to walk on. I know, I know. Anyway, we were to bypass all the tearoom / gift shop hoopla. It is possible to park nearby and walk down to the beach without passing through the interactive exhibits. The only interaction I was after was to feel the sea air on my face as I scampered over the rocks in the footsteps of giants. 

We decided not to pay for the privilege to be packed like sardines onto a bus down to the shore and instead walked the half-mile trek. As we rounded the final corner on the walk down the hill, the sight of the famous stones appeared. I say appeared, but it was difficult to see the actual stones as there were swarms of people covering almost every inch of hexagonal rock. I guess the fact that it was the summer holidays added to the popularity of the site. On one hand it was jarring to have to share my experience of this amazing natural phenomenon with so many others, but on the other, I was heartened to see so many people taking interest in the geography and history of the land. 

To be fair, it added to the fun of the experience. One of the most rewarding things to do here is to scamper across the footsized plinths. You step from one to another, dodging the puddles and the slippery seaweed to get further and further. Without realising, you gain momentum and try to go quicker. You try to hit each stone only once to pick your way across the uneven terrain. The action took me back to childhood fun scrabbling across rock pools and climbing higher on overhanging cliffs. The added challenge was in sidestepping young toddlers crying and avoiding photobombing Japanese tourists. 

The rocks that make up the causeway are undeniably unique and a sight that has to be seen, but I gained more enjoyment on my tourist trail from many of the other places. I feel a little proud of myself for being able to say that I drove the Causeway Coastal Route. This is a road that stretches from Belfast, up the East coast, along the North coast and down to Derry, nestled next to the Republic of Ireland. We broke the drive up across several days, but we did it. And man alive, what a drive. I love driving, and it's so much better when you have awe-inspiring, rugged coastlines greeting you at every turn.

My favourite stretch was up the North East coast, past the Glens. The road hugged the coastline so that you could smell the sea, and around every turn we would be presented with the archetypal vista of Ireland; rolling green hills, jagged rocks, sandy beaches, blue sea and white foam topping off the perfect view on the incoming waves. Most of the time we had the views to ourselves. Only the odd car passed us and when we stopped (which we frequently did to allow me to fully take in the magnificence of the landscape) there were very few other souls to be seen. I can recall one man walking his springer spaniel to whom we wished a good morning. I can't imagine any morning that starts with a walk along that coast could be anything but good. It was a stark contrast to the hordes of people at the Causeway, and maybe it's just my predisposition the hermitic lifestyle, but I know where I'd rather spend my time next time I visit Northern Ireland.

My long journey to Ryan Adams

It may not be a journey to a specific, physical location, yet this is probably one of the most hard-fought and significant, let alone longest, journeys I have endured.

For those of you unsure of who Mr Ryan Adams is, let me shine some light on the subject. He is an American singer, not to be confused with BRYAN Adams. Many years ago Ryan was the singer in the alt-country band Whiskeytown before making music on his own, and then more recently with his own band. I first came across him in 2001 when I heard the song 'New York, New York'. This led me to discover the album 'Gold' which was my soundtrack to walking to college. I still 'shuffle through the city...' when walking a certain route, even now.

Once I find music I like, I tend to dive into it head first, so I checked out his previous music. On listening to Ryan's 'Heartbreaker' album I knew I was in trouble. I had my new favourite music. Man, that album was, and still is, so good. It is achingly beautiful where he pours his heart and soul into harmonica-driven laments, as well as breathily growling through Southern Americana guitar rhythms. It is also the home to one of my most favourite songs ever; 'Oh my sweet Carolina'. On some days it's top, but picking one song is like picking a favourite child. Sophie's choice really. But this song is consistently up there. If you haven't heard this album it go now. Go find it. If you know me, I'll lend you my copy. You can read the rest of this later.

So, to cut a long story short, my love affair with Ryan Adams' music has grown from there. It's soundtracked my life thanks to his prolific output. But live music is where the magic happens. I adore going to watch live music. There's something about the atmosphere, the cramped space and the electricity in the air. So clearly I needed to hear Ryan's voice ringing out clear and gouging a Southern drawl through my musical heart.

It was 2004 and I had convinced my friend Vicky to come see his show with me. A point to remember is that none of my friends who usually share my musical tastes have the love for this music as I do. I sold it to her that we could have a few days exploring Birmingham as well as going to the show. I will never forget getting to the venue after a long journey, (this was before the explosion of social media to keep us up to date) only to be told the show, and indeed the whole tour, had been cancelled. Ryan had fallen off stage and broken his wrist. I felt so deflated; it was as though the plug had been pulled on my party. Never has Birmingham offered less to a visitor.

But life goes on, and a few years later I bought my second ticket to a Ryan Adams show. Alas, once again it was not to be. The show was cancelled again, this time due to ill health. At least I didn't have to travel to Birmingham to be let down, but the heavy disappointment laid in the pit of my stomach all the same.

Then, earlier this summer I heard about Ryan Adams' forthcoming album and a few accompanying live shows. Demand for tickets was high and I failed in finding one. It was starting to look as though I wasn't meant to be part of the live experience. I bought the new album and consoled myself listening to that. It seems unfair to call it a consolation because it's one of the best albums I've heard in a while. Gloriously dark, rock riffs; you know a song is great if you end up singing along to the guitar parts. It walks a fascinating line between light and dark; from heart-rending laments to an urgent cry building to a crescendo that gets the heart racing. Go get that album now. It's ok. I'll wait again.

Then I remembered a Twitter App called Twickets that allows fans to buy and sell tickets on Twitter at face value. I camped out on Twitter, waiting for that magic offer. Eventually I saw it. Someone offering a ticket for the Shepherd's Bush show. As none of my friends are that interested in him, despite my best efforts, I thought I'd go it alone. I messaged them and waited with baited breath. The ticket was mine if I wanted it. If I wanted it! Hoping that the person was real and the ticket wasn't fake, I planned my journey to London.

The day of the show I woke up early, before my alarm and in the dark just like it was Christmas. Throughout the day at work, I was struggling to hold my excitement down. It's no exaggeration to say I felt sick with nervous anticipation at several points. Eventually I got on the road up to London. My car had a few issues on the way, helped in no part by the horrendous traffic of the capital. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it. But I did. Once arrived I met my ticket sellers. My eternal thanks to Ben and Nick. Mostly for being real and not being scam artists. Ticket in hand, I headed to the venue.

This was the first show that I'd been to completely on my own. But I didn't care. Without sounding too much like a stoner, it was all about the music, man. My heart was racing so hard whilst I was waiting that I thought I might've passed out. The support acts came and went and then it was nearly time. But then worry set in. I was stood in the heaving crowd (never have I been in a crowd with so much palpable anticipation) and the time he was due on stage came and went. I started to think I had cursed him by my mere presence. But all worries faded when he led the band onto stage and launched into the new single.

Man alive what a show. The songs were every bit as beautiful as on the records. The rockier songs pulsed through me and on the quieter, heartbreaking songs, the crowd hung on his every note. I've never been to a show where a messy-haired man with a guitar can hold the whole room in such awe. For me, a person who loves to singalong, it felt sacrilegious to bellow over his measured, impassioned words.

It was definitely worth the extra long journey to be stood in front of that stage. Thirteen years isn't that long a wait is it?

The only trouble is now I think I've spoilt myself. This Friday felt like a complete anticlimax. Once you've watched Ryan Adams perform on a Friday night, nothing else matches it. Maybe every Friday should be Ryan Adams performs night. Maybe in a perfect world.