Well, it’s done. My first ever “gig-a-holiday” is over.
So what is a gig-a-holiday? Instead of two weeks on a beach topping up my entirely fictional Ibiza tan (those who’ve seen my pale face will appreciate the joke), I took time off the day job and travelled around playing wherever I could—paid gigs where possible, and the occasional “for nowt” slot at local folk clubs in between.
I knew I’d make a loss. That was never really the point. Not everyone gets the chance to indulge what they love, and I’m very aware it’s a privilege to do so. Besides, if you take a holiday, you’re allowed to spend it however you like.
This all started just over a year ago, when an opportunity came up to play at Rosslyn Court in Margate, along with a future date at Teespot in Middleton-in-Teesdale (now rescheduled to June). Morag, who runs Rosslyn, suggested I build a short tour around it and kindly shared some venue contacts.
I jumped at Rosslyn immediately—it’s one of those rare places with a reputation that stretches well beyond its postcode, part of that small circuit of intimate, up-close venues I’ve always loved as a listener. The idea of a mini tour, though? That took longer to warm to. What if no one came? What if ticket sales were poor? What if I quietly torched my reputation before it had even got going?
In the end, I ignored the doubting voice and listened to the other one—the one that simply said, “go on then… what have you got to lose?”
I didn’t land as many paid gigs as I’d hoped. Two have moved to later this year, and one is now in 2027—which, depending on your outlook, is either mildly disappointing or impressively forward planning. I chose to see it as the latter. I took the two weeks anyway and filled the gaps by dropping into folk clubs wherever I happened to be.
In part, this was an experiment: what does “being a professional musician” actually feel like? The answer, I suspect, is that the term itself is a bit misleading. Plenty of brilliant musicians sustain their music alongside other work—it says a lot about the industry that some of the finest artists I know also make an exceptional flat white (you know who you are—I’ve seen your Instagram).
For me, there was also a physical question. I have a medical condition that isn’t painful, but can be uncomfortable, and I genuinely didn’t know if I had the stamina for back-to-back travel and performance. There’s only one way to answer that sort of question—you try.
What I came away with, more than anything, is a renewed respect for how hard those musicians work. I knew it already, in theory. Even the odd gig each month teaches you that. But add the constant travel, the loading and unloading, the mental shift from one place to the next—and it hits differently. There’s nothing like briefly stepping into someone else’s working life to understand it properly.
And yes—the glamour. All that glamour. And the irony too.
In my 20s and 30s I had a job that involved a lot of travel, and some of the places I ended up staying in back then came flooding back—those slightly questionable B&Bs just off an A-road or tucked behind an industrial estate. A valuable lesson from this trip: if it’s a holiday, treat it like one. It doesn’t have to stay a time capsule from 1979, complete with framed photos of the owners alongside Russ Abbott and Dollar.
Most places I stayed were lovely. There was one… less so. Let’s just say there was a moment I would have happily swapped it for a bland but reliable Travelodge.
The campervan, meanwhile, was both useful and impractical. Once loaded with instruments, my modest VW Transporter wasn’t really viable as a place to sleep. I could, of course, have taken fewer guitars (and yes, Shirl, I know), but when you don’t play out that often, it’s hard to leave toys at home.
That said, it did make me think about travelling lighter. As a solo musician, I should be able to carry everything into my accommodation. Leaving instruments in a van—even briefly—feels like tempting fate, especially when you see how often musicians lose their gear to theft. It’s hard enough making music without someone taking the tools you rely on.
Security became a quiet background worry. Blacked-out windows and safe parking helped, but there was always that small moment of relief each morning when everything was still intact. If I were to properly sleep in the van in future, I’d need something bigger—and ideally something that doesn’t involve a 4 am walk across a cold campsite just to find a toilet.
One of the best parts of the trip was staying with my brother for the first few nights—good company, good food, and the simple comfort of being somewhere familiar. It also made me realise I probably underused my network. Next time, I might be a bit braver about asking friends for a sofa or spare room. A friendly face beats a questionable breakfast every time.
So—would I do it again?
Yes. Without hesitation.
I loved the gigs, but I also loved the in-between moments: turning up at a folk club, playing a couple of songs with the regulars, no pressure beyond not completely messing it up. I loved seeing new places, meeting new people—folk and folkies alike—and getting outside my usual patch.
So, plans are already forming for Gig-a-Holiday 2027. This time I’m thinking late September into early October—an autumn tour as well than a spring one. It gives venues more time to book, especially for smaller folk clubs that meet only once a month and plan well in advance. The aim is to lock in that 2027 date and build something around it.
And yes—if you fancy having me play in your area, let me know.
(And if you’ve got a spare bed… even better.)
There’s always the question of how long this sort of thing is possible. Age, health—they have their say eventually. But that’s also the reason to do it now, while I can. One day, I hope I’ll sit back with a glass of whisky, a dog at my feet, and a guitar on my knee, looking back on it all.
It seems worth giving myself something to remember.