Ian Evans

I’ve been on holiday to a country that doesn’t officially exist. It has its own border, passport, flag, currency and army but no one recognises it – not even its main sponsor, Vladimir Putin. Transnistria is sandwiched between its proper motherland Moldova – which is itself really Romania – and Ukraine, which Putin thinks is part of his motherland. Confused? It doesn’t get any easier.  In 1992 there was a short war between the newly created state of Moldova and separatist, ethnic Russians which resulted in nearly 1,000 deaths and the breakaway ‘country’ (via a peace accord) policed by Russian ‘peacekeepers’.

Employing a marksman to shoot pigeons inside our wedding barn on the morning of a ceremony was not something included in the venue-owner’s manual. For the animal-loving bride, blood-splattered dead birds were preferable to her guests being splattered later that day – an understandable moral sacrifice on her behalf. The birds had sneaked in via an open owl hole window in the roof, something we hadn’t spotted until the unwelcome visitors caused a flap. It was one of the many challenges we faced owning and running a rural wedding venue, a high-pressure business where expectations are enormous and responsibilities seemingly endless.

If you fancy watching a live performance of Fleetwood Mac's hits, there’s plenty of choice in tribute band land: Fleetwood Shack or Fleetwood Bac, McFleetwood or Rumours of Fleetwood Mac – or perhaps Tusk, Tell Me Lies, Fleetwood Macrame or Gypsy Dreams. Or you could wait to see if the real Fleetwood Mac tour again, minus keyboard player Christine McVie who died two years ago and guitarist Lindsey Buckingham who is currently ostracised from the band in true Fleetwood Mac falling-out tradition. Ultimately… you can go your own way.  But are tribute acts – no matter how good or authentic – ‘real’ music, or are they cheating? Are they a harmless piece of nostalgia, or clogging up small- to medium-sized venues and preventing the new acts of tomorrow from performing today?

Across vineyards in England and Wales, secateurs are being sharpened and buckets are at the ready as owners prepare for harvest. October is usually the month commercial vines give up their fruit before being whisked away to the winemaker–cum–alchemist who turns the juice into wine. As a former vineyard owner (I sold up in January) harvest was always a nervy time of year, enough to drive you to drink. It represents nine months of pruning, de-leafing, weeding, replacing vines, and chemical spraying (yes, pesticides), all assisted by the right amount of rain and sun at the right times. By October, the grapes have, hopefully, the optimum balance of acid and sugar to allow the winemaker to make a balanced, palatable wine with good body.

Up and down they go, criss-crossing the country, cars packed full of stuff. Duvets, pillows, vapes, cuddly toys, packs of cheap pasta and rice, Aldi-brand vodka, clothes horses and apprehension. There are around 1.7 million undergraduates and a third of them, the freshers, are most probably leaving home for the first time.  Some are already at university, including my youngest, who I dropped off at the University of York last week after playing ‘spot the student car’ on the A1. She’ll be studying to become an educational psychologist over the next three years, getting an education herself and a high degree of debt – plus expertise in Pot Noodles.