The pumpkin cranberry pecan muffin really hit the spot. The parade of airports from the day before were now a distant memory, and the quiet town of LA Veta CO, with the Dpanish Peaks tall on the horizon, was slowly seeping into my pores.
I was there to play guitar, teach guitar, and perform at the Spanish Peaks International Celtic Festival, to give it it’s official title.
My official duties for the weekend was to host irish guitar workshops, singer songwriter nights, and generally participate in the merriment at one of the finest Celtic Music Festivals -emphasis on quality over quantity and good music over beer sales- in the mountain state.
My unofficial duties ( as dictated by me) were to kick back and soak up as much of these little-town vibes as I could. The Paradise Cafe was my first port of call after a long nights sleep. A sleep that was brought on by a constant whispering wind, sometimes carrying a coyote call and the soft foot fall of a deer in the garden.
The coffee was deep, rich and welcoming, and a steady influx of locals and visitors made it plain that I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
After whiling away an hour or so on the big comfy sofa, I wandered across the street to what became the central venue, both for music and generally hanging out, for the whole festival : La Veta Mercantile– where gift ideas, home furnishings, beer, wine and coffee were all.available, as well as a mighty fine music venue and art gallery for all curious travelers to check out at their leisure. The hostess with the mostess, Emily , with her dog Woody , greeted everyone with an easy smile, and I found myself sliding up to that bar and enjoying a cold one on more occasions then I should admit.
Through chatting with locals while I sat there, and from reading a few sidewalk plaques, I learned a thing or two about La Veta – some old native American legends still held their grip on today with tales of the devil rising from below, only to be cast out by giants.
More recently, it had been a prominent coal mining town where fortunes were made. And, presumably, lost. Many books of local history have been written, and I’ve promised myself I’d dive in some day.
For this weekend, however it was a buzzing hotbed of Celtic music and the musicians that make it happen. I did my part to make it the best we all could, and man it was good.
My guitar students were great – curious, quick to learn, and a real treat to be around, and the stages I played on were bursting with old-world character and charm- some from the room itself, some from the music being made.
After each night’s performance, the road back to HQ rolled out under a blanket of a deep blue night sky, strewn with stars, as we headed for a late night rendezvous (the afore – mentioned Merantile) to play a few tunes around the table and have a chat over a beer.
If only every festival experience could be like this one….I hope we meet again, La Veta. You’re all right.
