It's 5.00 am and I am standing with John in a big outdoor bar in Llanes, northern Spain. It is a balmy 20 degrees and sitting beside me on a black plastic crate is an Asturian piper, bravely keeping up a stream of tunes as four people charmingly attempt a local folk dance. The floor is littered with the corks of cider bottles, while outside, the square in front of the 14th century church is ankle deep in white plastic bags, empty bottles of rum and other fiesta detritus. They know how to drink in this country, and it seems a fitting place for the for the last drink of the tour.

And what a tour it was, a month of acoustic shows around England and Wales, incongruously followed by this wonderful one off festival in Asturias. Most of the shows have been in theatres and arts centres, the kind of sit down venues we used to find so hard but which we now like and are well suited to the acoustic show. People could hear the lyrics more easily and they seemed to listen harder. I am reminded that these smaller venues are only kept alive by the incredible enthusiasm of the local public and by the zeal of the local promoters, most of whom are fanatical music lovers themselves. It is you that keep the live scene going and make it possible for groups like ours to exist.

In Sweden we have the expression 'tradition bearer' which is usually applied to folk musicians. The audiences and promoters of these smaller venues are also part of the process of passing on the tradition of organizing and listening to live music locally and deserve the title as much as the players do.

So thanks to everybody, thanks for all the standing ovations and all the expressions of gratitude we received, it was a really good tour.

By now we are standing on the church steps, as I drain the last glass. We attempt the song of the same name but get no further than the second line. The hotel beckons, and so does the future, we have a lot of plans for the winter and for next year. See you all in December.

Chopper a.k.a. Ray Cooper.

(Incidentally, my last drink was an impossibly large shot of whiskey, the kind of measure you only get at this time of night in a Spanish bar where the barman is so tired that he would happily pour you half a pint of the stuff in the hope that he won't have to serve you for a while and he can get on with clearing up.)