Seth Lakeman, Judy Collins, Richard Hawley, Joan Armatrading, Eric Bibb

And so the 44th Cambridge Folk Festival winds to a close. The attendees take down their tents, the curry van rumbles into the distance, Martin Carthy is carefully dusted down and gently placed into storage to be taken out for next year.

Seth Lakeman, on stage yesterday afternoon, impressed me with his dashing performance two years ago, and he gave us a good show this year too, particularly with his stomping Riflemen of War.

But he couldn't come close to the amazing Judy Collins. She may look every one of her 69 years, but she retains the voice of an angel. Following an already stunning set, she came on for an encore that really transcended anything else this year: in fact, one of the most hauntingly beautiful experiences I can remember. She led the audience in a rendition of "Amazing Grace," and when you hear a thousand voices singing low: "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...", together with the gentle pitter-patter of the rain falling on the tent roof, it becomes something almost spiritual.

Richard Hawley was a surprise replacement for John Hiatt. I was a fan of the Longpigs back as a kid, so I was intrigued to discover a few years ago that guitarist Hawley was back as a singer-songwriter, drawing from his Sheffield roots. Still, I wasn't sure how his sudden appearance would go down with the Cambridge crowd - indeed, Hawley confessed, "I thought you were going to hate us", but he was a huge hit, playing his lush rock and roll and apparently gunning for Elvis Costello's throne.



Taking the coveted Sunday 8:45pm slot this year was Brummie Joan Armatrading, not only a great singer but a mean guitarist too. She couldn't overtake Judy Collins for best act of the evening, but gave a great show for the roaring crowd.


Finally, I caught Eric Bibb once again on Stage 2, leading the crowd in a singalong of his sweet song "Needed Time". It occurred to me how you could accurately describe the music at Cambridge: "folk" can hardly sum up the Celtic music, the English music, the blues and jazz and African tunes and pop and rock and ballads and dance songs and fiddles and mandolas and ngonis and dhols. "Non-mainstream" occurred to me, but then that suggests that Cambridge is just acts not big enough to play at the "proper" festivals. And then I realised: would I really want to go to Glastonbury to see Jay-Z and James Blunt and tight-jeans-emo-band du jour and stand a mile from the stage having paid £150 for the priviledge, or would I prefer Cambridge, standing ten feet from someone I've never heard of before with an instrument I've never seen before playing something absolutely incredible and fantastically different?

Back at the Coldham Common campsite, the official last acts of the entire 44th Festival are amateur musicians who play in the marquee until one in the morning, watched by a few dozen tired but happy festival-goers with paper cups of tea who file in as they return from the festival site (where festivities are still continuing). The quality may vary, but the audience is willing to indulge them in the hopes that we may get something truly special (a truly stunning teenage fingerpicking guitarist two years ago, for example). It is a very Cambridge thing, something you wouldn't get anywhere else. As a member of the very last act, a lively folk band, said: "You know what I love about this place? Everything."