Stories accrue around the village of Cropredy during the festival, constantly adapting and adding to the impressions and the myths and the folklore of the old place, as the seasons of this heart of England turn, visibly so behind the natural amphitheatre of the main field. And so across the world there is a great and affectionate longing for this bucolic event, as there has been ever since Mrs Crossman's first hosting of it on the lawn of her Cropredy mansion, for just a few hundred wellwishers, over thirty years ago. It was never supposed to happen again.

These days it's possible to enjoy the festival on a purely musical level, to rave for a year about the stupendous Bellowhead and all their epic folk songs, or the Quo-like Quo, or Fairport's late-in-the-day and sudden discovery of very loud power chords.

But there are so many different ways of experiencing Cropredy. For some it is a glorified folk-tinged real ale festival with accompanying long shadows. For others it is a shared and beautiful evocation of village life and the relationships that really matter, all set to an occasionally mournful mainly fiddle-based soundtrack, and all washed down on the steps of the ancient church with generous quantities of water buffalo ice cream and Old Hooky.

Either way there is always breakfast the next day in the Cropredy Canoe Club, where the waters that were once the site of one of this island's bloodiest civil war battles, lap gently beside the sausages and the beans and the lone singer under the bridge.

It's a gloriously fractured festival experience, then, full of impression, insight and memory; a festival in honour of a band beset by much tragedy, who only ever had one hit single, many decades ago, a novelty cover, in French, of a Dylan song. But this brilliant ensemble of musicians, who run the festival themselves from their own nearby cottages, host more than 20,000 people every summer in their village of 600 permanent residents.

I first attended Cropredy twenty years ago. I was one of the youngest. I'm still one of the youngest. I still backpack my way there. It's always something of a pilgrimage to that field through the beautiful Oxfordshire countryside. These days most folk arrive with trailers of garden furniture and tents bigger than my front room to act as wind-breakers near the stage. The only ripe curses I encountered during the weekend were aimed at those, like me, who dared to stand up and dance to the old dance tunes.

Fairport Convention

did not start life in this hedgerowed idyll, and though they are now identified with a quintessentially English and romantic rural melancholia, they were actually initially formed in the middle-class Muswell Hill of the sixties, owing much of their early success, as do so many, to being championed by one John Peel.

There was nothing cosy, back then, nothing that made their hosting of 'Britain's friendliest festival' inevitable from the start. Their approach to their career involved a constant hiring and firing, experimenting, inventing genres, being humble to a fault and seemingly ignorant of the fact that they had the world's foremost guitarist and two of the world's most impressive songwriters within their ranks. They became household names for a while in central and eastern Europe at a time when no other band even dared to go there, though they scarcely raised their eyebrows at their achievements.

Little by little, more by accident than design, they became rooted in North Oxfordshire, turning cottages into recording studios and fields into festivals. Their ever-evolving legacy can now be best appreciated in Cropredy, for this phenomenal band, or force of nature, has become a key part of the local community, and, importantly, its history. Over the years, and it has been decades now since they began to immerse themselves in this green corner, they have been writing and covering songs concerned with this place and their new roots, songs such as 'Close to the Wind', 'Red and Gold', 'The Festival Bell' and (more tangentially) 'The Hiring Fair'. These accomplished musicians chronicle their own lives in the seasons of this local earth, for the world to listen to at this wonderful annual knees-up. Fairport Convention mine where they are, representing not a time, but a place.

It must be mentioned here, on behalf of the Cropredy faithful, that Mr Nicol's rich vocals have not sung 'The Hiring Fair', a resignedly romantic masterpiece by Ralph McTell, for a full two years now. The ambience of those frost hollows under that harvest moon, demands a rendition. Please rectify this next year, sir. In its place, Chris Leslie's jaunty 'The Festival Bell' celebrates the fact that the new church bell in Cropredy, named after the band and its festival, will ring out over these fields, in quite a beautiful accolade, for perhaps the next millennia. This is oddly rock and roll.

The festival benefits the village school, the cricket club, the village hall and the canoe club (amongst others), all of whom serve important levels of breakfast. The festival is relied upon by the one village shop. There are two pubs, The Brasenose (naturally enough connected to the Oxford College), and the even more ancient 'Red Lion'. And these two hostelries provide the alternative stages, the festival fringe. There's a smallness about the community that is flexed for the welcome invasion because the festival has contributed generously over the years to its hosts, respecting its being, supporting its facilities and groups, helping to fund the new cricket pavilion which is actually a whole extra stage on the Sunday after every festival when Fairport take on the village, occasionally, as last year, leading to world class musicians picking up nasty injuries.

The fringe is the festival's one concession to the idea of other stages. Local blues and folk bands, along with a couple of high profile acts, serenade those who have taken the traditional stroll through the village away from the hectic concentration and (this year) soddenness of the main field. Along with hundreds of others, who had long made it part of their festival plans, I caught Ashley Hutchings's current band, The Rainbow Chasers, at the Brasenose.

Ashley Hutchings

Hutchings, more than anyone else, networked and linked the original line-up of Fairport Convention together, including himself on bass. Having pretty much invented folk rock and facilitated the whole Fairport phenomenon, he then went on to oversee the births of Steeleye Span and The Albion Band.

The Rainbow Chasers

A marvellous summery acoustic band, which Hutchings clearly mentors, looking on approvingly from the wings even as he plays his new songs in his sleep. The rain, though, played havoc with such summery aspiration. And the banter between songs, in which we were constantly reminded of the Guv'nor's other lives and bands, were not really necessary. Still, sometimes the undemanding is beautiful, and The Rainbow Chasers have solid roots. A 'Best Of' has just been released by Talking Elephant, and is highly recommended.

A couple of hours before his performance at the Brasenose, strangely his only appearance of the weekend, Hutchings was hanging out in a record store set up as part of one of the small village markets, where he was enjoying listening to a fairly widely-known Fairport album that he confessed to never having heard before. There is just so much industry around these prolific musicians who, for the most part, have stepped outside the music industry. Cropredy is a pointer, a filter, its one stage and its sometimes eccentric programming being a useful tool for the new fan.

The new fan and the old fan here are both invariably involved in some form of journey. Every year they home in on this centre of England, to meet old friends, and to hear old songs. Reserve is reserved for the new songs, which inevitably take a while to become a part of the tradition. This time of the year is harvest time in Oxfordshire. There are matters to celebrate and to sing about. and usually everything in the world is rosy. This year it rained. Most festivals would have entered a period of depression and derision. At Cropredy it's the form to keep smiling. As usual there was next to no trouble. In a village of one shop, a couple of streets, a canal, and thousands of temporary residents this alone is remarkable.

To some of the main acts, then, and after many years, during which it was rumoured that they were deemed 'not family friendly enough for Cropredy', Banbury's Leatherat felt all their dreams coming true, as they played the big stage at their favourite festival. The description of them as a kind-of turbocharged Levellers is not an unfair one, though their constant ironic commentary on themselves and their performance is thoroughly enjoyable. Some mighty fiddling from Jono Watts led the way through the drizzle. Thea Gilmore, meanwhile, found the field just too big for her elegant lyrics and subtle songs. Like Nick Harper a few years ago, the same set delivered in a small club would have been rousing and unforgettable. Here, however, there was too much swirling going on. Martyn Joseph showed how to do the singer-songwriter thing at Cropredy - basically, by being overawed and by going with it. Hugely underrated anyway, it helps that no two Martyn Joseph gigs are the same. Here - thousands of drenched people and a whole lot of love. The patter between the songs made sense (making a promise to a guitar when he bought it many years ago in Belfast that one day it would play Cropredy). Joseph played the difficult solo slot just before Fairport. And just as Fairport were starting up Martyn Joseph was selling a heap of CDs. Status Quo delivered a Status Quo gig. Whatever you want. The rain stopped for them. Little Johnny England provided the most appropriate music, perhaps the only act of the weekend who could not have even existed without that Fairport template. Their fiddle-based stomp was funky, earthy and folky, and therefore incredibly popular. The twin pipes approach of young Scottish trad group Breabach, meanwhile, was evocative through the grey damp fields, and the crowds did rush for copies of their serious new album 'The Desperate Battle of the Birds'. Their was, though, an equal rush to the same tent for shelter.

The high point of Fairport's headlining spot was when Dave Swarbrick invaded the stage, nicked Ric Sanders's fiddle, and impishly demanded that the band perform an unrehearsed 'Sir Patrick Spens' with him.

For a number of years now, Fairport Convention themselves have dealt with the inevitable problems of advancing years, an expectant and loving audience, and a very long-time slot, through a number of ruses: they've started later, they've upped the number of guest; and more recently they've opted for the show-within-a-show. Yusuf (the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens) came by to steal the limelight for half an hour last year. This year some of folk rock's most powerful guitars and voices came on to help the group through an absurdly enjoyable hour of the Breton-Arthurian-Metal-Musical extravaganza that is 'Excalibur'. Lots of noise, lots of shapes, and nothing too serious. The Tull and Breton rock gods were amongst us, and any sense of poignancy and subtlety was rocked aside for a while. That came later.

For now, the lightning lanced around the audience, the word went out from Simon Nicol for the poles to come down, and the beguiling and brilliant Jacqui Mcshee explained all when she arrived onstage to sing the part of Morgana. "I'm responsible for all this bad weather," she announced. "For I am a sorceress."

Through all the deluge it has to be said that tragedy is never far away at Cropredy, but the very best humoured approach to dealing with such tragedy is even closer to hand.

The Welsh trad group Mabon, who were due to properly launch their new live album at Cropredy, had a minor tragedy of their own to contend with, as their transport blew up somewhere in the borders. While two of the band hired one of the luckier taxi drivers of the year to take them to Cropredy, the affable and brilliant Martin Taylor gallantly agreed to exchange set times. The new young two-piece Mabon were clearly somewhat distressed, but the rest of the band did roar up to the backstage entrance just in time for two last rousing numbers. Excuses were in order.

A more profound tragedy befell Little Feat, as their founder, drummer Richie Hayward, who last played with his band just a month ago, died the night before their headlining slot. A respectfully atmospheric and mournful set ensued.

Bellowhead

"We're called Bellowhead," announced Jon Boden, in an entirely different mood, which was essential in the circumstances. "And we're here to play you some folk songs!"

And so they did. The energy of Bellowhead was a thing to behold, excelling themselves in terms of energy and musicianship. At times the whole stage seemed to be a writhing mass of akimbo limbs, many of which, miraculously, were also playing quite brilliant music. This is not some brass shtick novelty but a real vital exciting exploration of British traditional music. The whole Bellowhead project is as close to Balkan brass as the folk music of these islands is ever likely to get. Cropredy has surely never witnessed anything so exciting, and the new songs, intriguingly produced for album release in October by the legendary John Leckie, sounded twisted and raucous and moving - which is Bellowhead all over. One can only imagine that this big supernatural band quaffed numerous bottles of the rather tasty Bellowhead 'Hedonism' ale that has been making its debut at festivals this summer. And I didn't see anyone leave.

Fairport Convention

have also always espoused such good times. Though disaster has often pursued them, a certain stoicism coupled with celebratory headlong plunges into creativity, has always seen them through. Their best work has nearly always followed some of their darkest moments. From terrible van accidents, through lorry crashes, fatal falls, the loss of some of their most creative members and colleagues, here they are today, utterly at one with their surroundings, just a few hedges away from Prescote Manor, where they said goodbye, forever, over 30 years ago.

Since then they have won gold discs and lifetime achievement awards, while 'Liege and Lief' has been named

'Best Folk Album Ever'. A new album is eagerly awaited later this year.
In his brilliant new study of folk music on these islands through the twentieth century, 'Electric Eden', which was released just before this year's Cropredy, Rob Young talks of "the tangled story of Britain's folk music and Arcadian dreams". Well, no more tangled than the Cropredy family tree. And no more Arcadian than Cropredy.

But how much more time will time allow this festival? Fairport has previously been described as being akin to a football team, or a knife with constantly changing handles and blades. I think Rob Young, though, has found the most appropriate analogy, and it's an analogy all about history, whilst also being full of hope for the band's future:

"Think of Fairport Convention as an old country mansion, its entrance and exit doors permanently open to successive tenants who have passed through, stayed, abandoned it and returned. Some have lived there for most of their lives, some are new, some come knocking on the door again after a turn of travelling out in the world. Each new set of inhabitants may refurbish the rooms; the exterior might become a little shabby sometimes; but it's never quite allowed to tumble in ruins. And the house has now been standing so long that a whole community has sprung up around it."

That community, artists and public alike forced into comradeship at the one, albeit huge, festival bar, once again had to acknowledge this 'best ever Cropredy'.

'Meet on the Ledge' sung with definitive authority now by Simon Nicol, always closes Cropredy. After all the swagger and bombast of Excalibur, this powerful secular hymn of grieving from the pen of a young Richard Thompson, actually provides a really healing opportunity and a unique conclusion to a music festival.

The band this year, as they performed this final rite, were thinking of, amongst others, Richie Hayward and Beryl Marriott, who passed away just a few days before.

Beryl Marriott it was who, many years ago, nudged a young Dave Swarbrick away from the guitar and towards the fiddle.

The best ever.