Sunday 28 June 2009

Ronaldsway airport, Isle of Man (which is definitely NOT like this)
I'm on my way home from the last three days spent in the idyllic surroundings of Port Erin in the sunshine. Once I'd settled into my hotel room on Friday afternoon, the first priority after getting the wifi working was to get in the sea: the water's edge was just two minutes away.

There was just time for a quick dip before being whisked off with three carloads of people to Swiss Cottage for some really excellent fish in the company of, amongst others, Stephen Coombs and the deeply splendid Stephen Johnson and his wife Kate, neither of whom I've seen for years. This was a very good way to spend an evening when I should really have been playing a gig, and it was all going very well until I got back to my room and completely failed to get to sleep. At all. Usually I can sleep through most disturbances, but a combination of the noise outside (till about 3.30am) and the stifling heat in the room even with the windows open (which made the noise worse) defeated me completely.

So all my plans for useful work to be done on Saturday were shot to bits, as I was incapable of much other than lying around. But I did manage a walk to Bradda Head, where I climbed the tower and saw the rust-red streak of a linnet sweeping over the gorse. With some sea air in my lungs I finally dropped off for a nap at about 4.30pm.

The kind receptionist at the hotel lent me her office fan, which made my room instantly more habitable, and gave me a night's sleep: second time lucky. 

So this morning, after real Manx kippers for breakfast, I had a free run to get lots of practice done in time for a 3pm concert, and I even managed a pre-concert paddle in the sea, and a post-concert swim with intrepid BBC sound engineer Tom Parnell. In the end, I was too tired in the concert to successfully negotiate the Rameau Gavotte, but there were other bits that as Wallace would say, went as well as could be expected. It'll be on Radio 3 some weekend in September.

Not having done a live solo recital for broadcast before, it's rather unnerving, when concentrating on the audience in the room, to suddenly remember that there will also be a listening audience at a later date, who might not be breathing sunny sea air, or might be less forgiving of the odd bum note. Still, apart from the lack of sleep, it's been a great few days.

Les Pratt's dog Gus sheltering from the sun behind the BBC truck

name in lights, almost

the Erin Arts Centre artists' toilet has this 'seat of music' on the wall

I've got the same fellow passengers on the plane as on the way here, a stereotypically pissed bunch of Glaswegians who've been taking part in the Tin Bath championship at Castletown. They're very good-humoured but bloody noisy - they all sing the Dambusters theme as we take off ...