I CAN’T pretend to be a folk music aficionado. The absence of instrumental skills and a ‘nil point’ singing voice cast me in a support role.

On the other hand, well-stocked bars at both Fairport’s annual Cropredy Convention and Towersey Festival have over the years softened any disappointment at personal shortcomings.

Sunday saw me in the city for the tail end of Oxford’s second Folk Weekend. I thoroughly enjoyed the day and the events, from the harp, flute and uillean pipes of the Tunesmiths trio belting out their music in the hallowed atrium of the Ashmolean Museum to the last of the 50 morris dancing teams who had stuck around for the full three days.

One troupe came as something of a surprise to the uninitiated. They were the Barefoot Belly Dancers from the Thame-Aylesbury area, the majority of their female dancers in the middle to late-middle age bracket. I didn’t like to ask if there was an element of tongue-in-cheek about the performance. My words, no matter how well chosen, might have caused offence and on a sunny afternoon no one wants to do that.

WHAT a pity my old chum Philip – he is never known as Phil – didn’t share my concern for others’ feelings. He hits low.

The weather being splendid, I decided to dress ‘summery’ in smart cream trousers, expensive jacket, red shirt and well-polished shoes.

“Trust you to try to make everyone feel uncomfortable,” he remarked when our paths crossed in the café of the Old Fire Station, adding with a sizeable heap of sarcasm: “And you’re not wearing a tie. Trying to be trendy are you?”

Philip, who is usually ‘careful’ with his appearance as expected from a former clerk in a solicitors’ practice, looked as if he’d spent the previous night in a charity clothing bin.

Low-crutch jeans somehow didn’t look right on a chap who qualified for the old age pension four years ago.

As for the faded denim shirt and moth-eaten trilby...

THE bus to Pear Tree park-and-ride carried several festival survivors starting their journey home. Everyone seemed delighted with the event.

Who or what had I liked most, asked Kevin, an Irish folk singer from South London?

Steering clear of naming names I said the craft market in Gloucester Green was fascinating. There was such a wide display of talents.

“Did you buy anything?” he asked. “Yes, a packet of specialist tea,” I truthfully replied. There was a silence.

Now it was Kevin’s turn to choose his words. “You come to a folk festival and you buy tea?” he said, his forehead furrowed in amazement. “Couldn’t you have done that at Tesco?”