It might be a rather cliched image of summer, but at least it contains some colour. Bright wellies and neon bootlaces were some consolation for wading through Somerset mud at our annual visit to the Blackdown Hills and the wonderful Tribe of Doris.

Doris is a summer camp rather than a festival and works you hard if you let it. I chose beginner's African dance this year and the songs of the Orishas. The dance was a fantastic daily workout to prepare me for winter. The singing reminded me, as it always does, that the soul needs sound too.


I have written virtually nothing this summer other than brief notes in my travel journal. I'm still on the post-Commandments plateau and my confidence in the poetry returning is being tested now that I'm back at home. On the cliff path, in the marquee, around the Doris fires and standing in the back line of the samba reggae dance class, it didn't seem to matter. Now it's a test of faith.