The Star's critic MARIA DUARTE reviews Sebastian, Four Mothers, Restless, and The Most Precious of Cargoes
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Far flung
JAMES WALSH happily maroons himself at possibly the most-difficult-to-get-to festival in Britain
howling fling
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Howlin’ Fling festival
The Isle of Eigg
FROM the ferry, Eigg comes into focus slowly, gradually. It’s a shimmering thing, dominated by the rocky outcrop An Sgurr. It barely looks real, but it is a basalt bastion of optimism: a community-owned Scottish island, the last landlord bought out by the people 26 years ago.
One of the hundred or so living on the island today is Johnny Lynch, or (as his wheelie bins proclaim) Pictish Trail.
Johnny runs Lost Map records, purveyors of a dizzying roster of folk, electronica, and genre-bending experimentation; a miraculously sunny weekend in August marks their Howlin’ Fling, the best, and possibly the most-difficult-to-get-to festival in Britain.
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