Fairport Convention were always my dad’s band.

A bunch of legendary troubadours that managed to cast a special spell over him in the 60s and 70s that still hasn’t worn off.

Richard Thompson, Dave Pegg, Sandy Denny, Dave Swarbrick — mythical men and women that I heard about growing up but never really knew.

They released three of the greatest albums you’ll ever hear in 1969 and essentially invented British folk rock at the same time.

They sang songs like Who Knows Where the Time Goes?, Rising for the Moon and Matty Groves; silver stories piped across our kitchen table from a time before my time, about love and death, growing up and staying young.

Over the years, the band became something more than just its members.

Sandy Denny died tragically young. Dave Swarbrick died in 2016. Richard Thompson left (though he always seems to come back).

It never mattered to their fans — beyond the heartbreak.

In 1980 they held their first reunion at Cropredy: an idyllic annual gathering that would grow into a music festival in the quintessentially English village of Cropredy in Oxfordshire — a Woodstock for folkies, turning an ending into something enduringly powerful.

A magical solstice-style gathering; a ritual that has helped keep memories, friendships and folk music alive ever since.

My parents have been going for years.

Once we got old enough to join them, my brother and I did.

And suddenly we understood.

Fairport are more than a band — they feel like keepers of a flame; a family.

And like any family that comes together once a year, each gathering contributes a memory or two.

Like dragging yourself out of a sweaty camper van to eat fried Scotty cakes in the August drizzle.

Clambering over a stone bridge to beg a shower in the local cricket club.

Falling asleep after too much cider and suffering minor sunstroke (some memories are nicer than others).

Meet on the Ledge is perhaps the band’s most iconic tune.

They close the convention with it every year and have performers from across the weekend back up on stage to sing it with them.

It’s the sort of golden, otherworldly moment you only ever dream about being a part of.

‘The ledge’ was inspired by a place where guitarist Richard Thompson used to meet his childhood friends, up in the branches of an ancient tree.

In the song it becomes a symbolic meeting place: somewhere lost friends might eventually find one another again.

Meet on the ledge
We’re gonna meet on the ledge
If you really mean it
It all comes round again

I remember one Cropredy festival my brother and I had to leave early.

We made up for our disappointment by blasting it, windows down, all the way up the M6.

Back in October 2025, I received an unexpected phone call.

‘Hi Rob… Dave Pegg here from Fairport. Listen, your dad has been emailing me about the band…’

(I wasn’t sure at this point whether I was about to be informed of a pending cease and desist order. My dad is an enthusiastic man.)

‘Look — I think you lot sound great. I love the music, and we’ve just had an act drop out on the Saturday at Cropredy. Do you fancy it?’

I thought about explaining that I’d probably give at least one of my kidneys to do it, but played it a little cooler instead.

‘Hi mate — absolutely. We’d love to. Thank you so much.’

A quick exchange later and I was booked to play the main stage in front of British folk rock's most sacred field.

It’s funny how life works sometimes.

The festival itself was this Saturday and it was an absolute dream.

I mean — also a nightmare.

Trying to coordinate eight musicians through rehearsals, a warm-up gig and getting them to a festival on time is the sort of thing that gives me a cold sweat.

Especially since my band is full of phenomenally talented but terrifyingly laid-back jazz players.

Having stipulated an arrival time of 10:30am (well in advance of the actual, and already conservative, official time of 11:30), I was pacing around the backstage area on one of the hottest Saturday mornings in living memory at almost midday, still missing a bass player and a saxophonist.

But then, before we knew it, we were on stage and getting our intro.

And from that first chord, as I looked out across a rippling sea of people and heard the organ and drums smash into Rising with the Sun, I had this overwhelming feeling that life couldn’t possibly get more perfect.

We ended our set to a standing ovation.

I spent the rest of the afternoon signing records, drinking cider and listening to music with my parents, family and friends.

There was no way the day was going to get better.

Until about 11pm, when I suddenly decided that it might.

‘Shall we go up for Meet on the Ledge?’

My brother stopped.

Extinguished his cigarette.

‘What?’

‘Shall we just go up for it?’

He looked a little unnerved before draining his pint.

‘… go on then.’

We shuffled, like nervous schoolboys, back through the gates of the artist-only section as Fairport kicked into Matty Groves.

We knew from experience that there was only one tune they ever followed that with.

We quickly saw a group of musicians and friends of the band milling near the iron steps that ran up to the stage, waiting for the grand finale.

We mingled, assuming the sort of air of confidence that only alcohol or an actual invitation could ever account for.

As the final chord struck out, as Matty Groves and Lady Arnold were buried, we headed for the stage.

And there we were.

Fairport were playing Meet on the Ledge, just as we’d always heard them play it, on the same stage where we’d come to love it so much.

Except this time, we weren’t watching from the field.

We'd come to meet them there.

The sort of golden, otherworldly moment you only ever dream about being a part of.

I might play hundreds of other music festivals, or maybe I’ll never play one again.

I’m not sure I mind too much either way at the moment.

Nothing lasts forever in life, but every now and then, a moment comes along that feels like it might.

Keep dreaming.

Rob