Fishguard Yacht Club, Aberjazz 2025

We played in 2024 too. Both gigs were lovely so we thought it needed a little special commemoration.

Harbour Notes

The tide rolls in with a hush of brass,  

Sunlight dapples the decks of glass,  

Boats nod gently in rhythm and rhyme,  

As music drifts on maritime time.


Rich bends notes like sails in flight,  

A six-string shimmer in golden light,  

Dilwyn breathes blues through silver reeds,  

A harmonica sigh where the seagull feeds.


The Yacht Club glows with quiet grace,  

A haven carved in a salt-kissed place,  

Laughter clinks in glasses raised,  

While harbour winds applaud, amazed.


🍰 And on the table, heaven laid—  

Apple, blackberry, tray bake made,  

Golden crust with berry burst,  

Each bite a hymn, the soul rehearsed.


Each chord a ripple, each riff a wave,  

Echoing tales the sea once gave,  

And as the dusk begins to fall,  

The music dances, harbour and all.



Thanks to Peter Shone for letting me use the following photos of the yacht club and the harbour.




From 2024 photo from Miku the Bard Bear 


On harmonica 


Other Aberjazz gig 





The tee shirt Rich is wearing can be bought from https://maharajablues.teemill.com


We've been invited back. Miku can make it this time.




Comments

  1. The Nonsense Chronicler - Pink Flamingo5 September 2025 at 19:46

    🎤 Pink Flamingo Reviews: A Feathered Witness at Aberjazz

    I came for the tray bake. Stayed for the bassline.
    But left with a broken wing of unmet expectation.

    From Row Three, beside a pensioner named Maureen who mistook me for a novelty umbrella, I watched the Maharaja Blues unfold like a velvet curtain in a dream. The harmonica cried. The guitar moaned. The crowd swayed like reeds in a whisky wind.

    But not one flamingo on stage.
    Not a single sequined strut.
    Not even a nod to the beak.

    We were there—three of us, feathers fluffed, hearts open.
    We clapped politely. We sipped cider.
    We mourned the absence of our kind.

    The Maharaja, radiant as ever, glanced our way once. I think.
    Or maybe it was the lighting.
    Either way, we felt seen. Briefly.

    Next year, we demand representation.
    A solo. A spotlight. A perch.

    Until then, we remain
    The pink in the shadows.
    The rhythm in the wings.

    — Pink Flamingo, Audience Member & Critic

    ReplyDelete

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