I’m deeply aware that not every child has that foundation. My heart goes out to those who didn’t. It’s important to acknowledge the world’s failings, but equally vital to honour when things simply go right.
It’s now four years since my Mum passed, and three since my Dad. Yes, I miss them every single day. But I refuse to let that overshadow the lovely people they were—both as individuals and together as parents.
Life was never perfect. And I never got to fulfill those later-life plans I dreamed up for them. Time is a bugger like that—the one resource we so often take for granted, yet always runs out too soon.
If life is a film:
Don’t pause it.
Don’t rewind it.
Live it.
Embrace every frame as if it’s the last before the credits roll.
And remember—you don’t get to write those credits.
After all, what is a festival or concert without its audience, but an empty field or room? The communal celebration as a gathering of people engrossed in the celebration of music has no equal. Attempts at explanation fall short, words expressing themselves as self-indulgent jibberish, yet we know that sense of connection is real. A short period when I become us. The moment of realisation that a single purchase sitting amongst a collection, the downloaded file occupying your hard-drive, or a streaming code reassembling itself on your mobile is connected to a community. It’s the discovery of a new sound, the uncertainty and doubtful expressions shared with a stranger. The connection and consciousness that we share much more in common than what divides us.
A collection of West Holts audience photographs taken during the 2017 festival.
By 1963, Duane Eddy had already etched his name into music history, having sold over 12 million records—an astonishing feat that marked him as one of the true pioneers of rock ‘n’ roll guitar. What makes the West Holts Stage so uniquely special is its ability to bridge generations through music. It’s a place where the legends who may have slipped quietly past the radar of younger audiences can still shine brightly, and where emerging artists step forward to pay homage to those who shaped their own musical journeys.
On Sunday, 26th June 2011, this beautiful tradition unfolded in a memorable moment when Richard Hawley, a modern torchbearer of guitar-driven storytelling, joined Duane Eddy on the West Holts Stage. Together, they created a magical celebration—a meeting of past and present, respect and inspiration, showing how timeless influence can be when true artists come together.
The heat of June settles over the fields as the crowds begin to gather for the beloved West Holts ritual: a crisp cider in hand, catching up with old friends, and hunting down something delicious to eat. These photographs, taken on a Thursday in 2010, capture a moment just before the magic unfolds. The stage is 99% ready for the opening band the next day, and the air hums with a quiet anticipation. As the sun dips lower, a gentle chill rolls in, coaxing everyone to shed the weight of their everyday lives and ease into the festival spirit.
There’s a special moment here that the crew hold dear — the Sound Propagation Test. Usually happening early Thursday evening, once the PA rig is set up, it’s when the system is fired up with some recorded music for a short while. To the crowd, the first notes crackling through the speakers ignite a cheer — for some, it’s like a medieval horn, a beckoning call to gather and celebrate. It’s the unofficial signal that West Holts is coming alive.
The transition from Jazz World to the West Holts Stage happened in 2010 — a year that, digging through old hard drives, clearly lives up to its memory as a scorchingly hot summer. The photos from that time reveal a festival crowd not just ready to soak up the music but also inventively deploying every creative means to find—or fashion—their own patch of shade. We’ll dive into those sun-smart snapshots soon enough, but for now, let’s start here.
That year marked a turning point behind the scenes, with a series of technical upgrades introduced to support our ever-growing audience. The stage itself saw fresh new dressings that added a fresh visual flair, though the much-anticipated side screens were still absent. The evolution was underway, setting the stage for what West Holts would soon become.
The last time we spoke, beneath a moon swallowed whole by night—a black orb hung heavy in the sky. Cold whispered beneath our feet, pebbles shifting softly as we walked toward the water’s waiting edge. Darkness wrapped us, a cloak sewn from all the miles we’d traveled, each step a silent testament to the journey that brought us here. Around us, breath and tide held sway—the gentle sigh of waves kissing shore, the murmured dance of rigging ropes, swaying in time with restless waters.
And then—
in the stillness between heartbeats,
our thoughts, like fragile boats,
paused on the horizon.
“These moments don’t last forever,
and nor should they,” you whispered—
and with that,
our last words floated out
to mingle with the night.
I don’t remember much from that day—just fragments, impressions—but it must have been summer 1971. I was about ten years old, and Scarborough was the kind of holiday spot that working-class families from the North-East could afford. The battleships of Peasmole Park, the thrill of getting drenched by the high tide, and my stubborn refusal to ride the infamous cable car—these were the threads of so many joyful childhood memories.
But what I vividly recall is my dad calling me over with that quiet authority he always had. He handed me his small Kodak camera and gave a careful demonstration. “I want you to take a photo of me and your mum, son,” he said. “When I say, don’t just press the button—make sure you can see both of us in the picture.”
I stood ready, heart pounding with importance. My parents arranged themselves—Dad leaning casually against the wall, Mum standing beside him, looking like tin rabbits waiting to be shot in one of those penny arcades we used to visit in the evenings.
“Not yet, son,” came Dad’s voice, patient but firm.
He took Mum’s hand and gently pulled her in front of him. She leaned back slightly as he wrapped his arms around her. “Now,” he said.
I pressed the button.
That simple moment—captured in a frame—holds a world of love, care, and quiet tenderness. It’s a picture of two people who built a life together, who gave me roots and wings. And every time I think of that day, I feel grateful for that brief lesson in how to see, how to hold on, and how to love.
Irregular Frequencies 