So there we were, on the Tour Bus, heading for the North Lakes to do a show at Lazonby Village Hall. The sat nav, which has recently developed an acute sense of humour decided to take us over Hartside Pass, after an interesting tour of Weardale. As we climbed in the evening sun, the distant hills showed that winter is not done yet. Snow piled in white caps reflected skyward the orange glow of dusk. The effect was very picture postcard.
Distant snow. If that’s the worst that happens, it’s not too bad.
So, as we drove home several hours later, into the teeth of the raging blizzard, we climbed Hartside via a rough country track (I swear the sat nav was giggling), we could hardly see through the windscreen.
Still; the last hurrah of winter.
Nothing else could go wrong.
On the way down to Alston, it became apparent that the road had not been gritted, so we did a Torville and Dean, albeit very slowly, all the way down to England’s highest Market Town.
Nothing else bad can happen.
The Fog was utterly impenetrable on the other side of Alston. It was crawl along time, and we had to hope that the world in front of the car was made of road and not constructed entirely of bits of field or lumps of Farmhouse.
At Killhope the road disappeared altogether. The snow had stopped; but it had evidently been this way before, as the only way to get across the moor was to follow the dwindling wheel tracks of a tractor which had slithered down earlier.
Nowt else surely?
As we went slurping past a particularly black lump of countryside just outside Lanchester we both caught, out of the corner of the eye, a strange white construction, glowing in a manner that spoke more of Dennis Wheatley than roadworks. It was quite an unsight, and there was a definitely as strange smell in the car, although I think that was Carol.
The end, yes?
On the final hill up to home, the car suddenly sang the most eerie siren song, all by its little self. This time the smell was attributable to the entire band.
And the gig itself?
Nothing wrong there surely?
While doing the soundcheck, I went plug in my guitar. As I fiddled with the jack lead, it became apparent that, while the hole was present in abundance, the socket itself was rather more noticeable by its absence. I had a hole, but no jack plug pluggy in bit.
Mucho Le Panic.
However, on the road adventures abound, so out with the Swiss Army Knife, and a quick, pre-gig dismantling of the electrics, a judicious amount fiddling with a pair of pliers and we managed to somehow, shove it in.
And the show itself?
Surely nothing could wrong with that?
Correct. It didn’t.
It was a brilliant show, we really enjoyed playing, the sound was good, the hall was nice, the audience really enjoyed it and gave us a great reception, encores, and plenty of CD’s sold.
Worth it or what?
I should Co-Co.
I mean, what could possibly go wrong?
This is the last short form blog, normal service will be resumed next week. The reason is the decorating, which is nearing the end, but still not quite completed. We were offered assistance from a certain well-known bass playing decorator, and we were tempted, but then remembered that the only thing more dangerous than a bass player with a bass is a bass player with a paintbrush.
Until Next Time Acoustic Chums,
 It’s a car, really, but it makes us sound more Rock ‘n Roll.
 I hope this isn’t too technical.
 Who is, as you recall, a French Jazz improvisational pianist.
 Please don’t snigger lie that; it does you no credit.