A week in Hogwirtz

Roger Jackson records these memories of Sore Fingers Summer School at Kingham Hill, Oxfordshire, England, at Easter 2010:

Fly with me, as on a hippogriff, over Oxfordshire and patchwork Cotswold fields. We espy a park set around with stone houses. They are the Victorian houses of Kingham Hill School, properly deserving of the epithet 'idyllic', especially on this sunny spring afternoon. As we descend we hear the strains of music, emanating from every corner within and without.

For this is Sore Fingers Summer School of bluegrass and old-time music, conjured annually by British Bluegrass Music Association chairman John Wirtz, his patient spouse Moira, and the bewitching SFW team.

Hogwirtz, as it is affectionately known, plays host every Easter to a happy band of string-band aspirants of all standards, and places them under the tutelage of a galaxy of bluegrass stars specially flown from Grassville USA.

Arriving by train (for the full experience), I was transported from the village station by elves to the isolated bubble of the school where my meagre talents for the mandolin would be hothoused over the next few days. I had booked a dormitory bed (Kingham Hill is a residential secondary school) but was to see precious little of it due to the demands of both timetable and taxing social scene; in stark contrast to my own alma mater, this school boasts an excellent bar, which every evening is filled with ad hoc jam sessions.

I was impressed by the easy-going nature of the whole enterprise. Administration is kept to a minimum, there is no need for forced 'getting to know you' or ice-breaking sessions, and at dinner on the first night the cafeteria was soon noisy with enthusiastic chat about past experiences and expectations for the week.

Monday morning 8.15 and a hearty breakfast, the Full English option very much to the fore despite the transatlantic nature of the enterprise. Yoghurt and fruit were also on offer for those not intent on a week of bulking up. Then - willingly - to school.

Our tutor was Mike Compton, mandolin player of choice for the post-O brother, where art thou? concert 'Down from the mountain', as well as the soundtrack of Cold Mountain, etc., etc. His next job is touring with Elvis Costello. This is a man not unacquainted with the genus Allium.

For three sessions - four and a half hours - every day, he would show us the style, licks, and tricks of Bill Monroe, mandolinist and self-styled father of bluegrass.

Others split off to classes with equally luminous instructors in fiddle (and old-time fiddle), banjo (and old-time banjo), guitar, autoharp, bass, and singing. There were also classes for beginners.

Students are encouraged to assimilate themselves into 'scratch bands' and after lunch (the food just keeps coming) they convene to put newly learned skills into practice in preparation for an end-of-week students' concert that for many will prove to be both a source of terror and eventually, an undreamed-of and cathartic peak of personal achievement

The confined isolation of the venue, the communal eating (and drinking!) the common endeavour (and very likely the bodily fatigue that builds throughout the week) all conspire to create a unique atmosphere, a bond or camaraderie if you will, among all present, not least the staggeringly talented and good-humoured tutors.

Nightly mini-concerts from the visiting American instructors further upped the value-for-money quotient. Acts that you would have travelled miles to see were assembled in one place and performed every evening, culminating in a 'Last Waltz'-style extravaganza on the Friday night.

It may be true that many of the participants have only distant memories of turning forty, but a cadre of highly talented youngsters is also growing. Indeed several SFSS graduates are already making a significant mark in UK traditional music, and to nurture this youthful talent and hopefully keep the average age in double figures, scholarships are now available to impecunious juniors.

Amidst a veritable mountain range of musical peaks, still some stand out in the admittedly fatigued and possibly over-refreshed mind of your correspondent: Adam Hurt, more than ably abetted by the toothsome Stephanie Coleman, raised the old-time bar by a considerable margin with his sublime banjo playing; ever be-dungareed mandolinist Mike Compton, at the final concert, soloed a perfect rootsy version of 'Dear honey', quashing the doubts of one cheeky heckler; the garrulous John Reischman also stunned all present with his fluid and melodic mandolinning. Brian Wicklund turned heads with the sheer elegance of his playing in a myriad of styles; Eric Thorin consistently explored the mysteries of the deep with bass parts that defied analysis, while songwriter Chris Stuart's moving 'Road to Jerusalem' and hilarious 'Twenty naked Pentecostals in a Pontiac' charted the emotional extremes of the week.

So it was with a thousand pentatonic tunes in my head, the warmth of new friendships in my heart, and yes, sore fingers, that I betook myself back to the station for the train to another world where hippogriffs and bluegrass are still not commonplace.