Exclusive Excerpt From The Long Road To Flin Flon: Festival Interceltique de Lorient

Stevie Connor and Neil Mitchell, Lorient, 2016.

It is a curious thing how the trajectory of a life can pivot on the digital warble of a Skype chime.

Thousands of miles away in Australia, Neil Mitchell was operating on the opposite side of the day, yet through the glow of our computer screens, we had settled into a steady, easy rhythm with Blues & Roots Radio.

Neil called his programme The Scaussie Music Show, a nod to his split roots between Scotland and Australia, and it wasn't long before I found myself dropping in as a guest, trading stories across a void of half a dozen time zones.

Through Neil's sprawling network of friendships, our circle expanded again to include William Hutton, founder of the Australian Celtic rock band Claymore. Before long, late-night screens were filled with the three-way banter of a Scottish expat in Canada, a Scaussie broadcaster down under, and a Scot-Aussie bandleader who knew exactly how to turn a bagpipe riff into an arena anthem.

We were three blokes united by music, impossible time zones, and a shared heritage that refused to fade.

Out of that camaraderie grew an offer that felt less like a casual invitation and more like a summons.

William was leading the Australian cultural delegation to the Festival Interceltique de Lorient in Brittany, the beating heart of the global Celtic diaspora.

"You need to be there," he insisted.

William wasn't simply making conversation. He had the relationships to make it happen.

From the other side of the world, he secured accommodation and artist access for Anne and me in a Breton town that swells by hundreds of thousands of visitors every August.

When the time came, we crossed the Atlantic, flying into Paris before catching our connection to Lorient.

Stepping off the plane, the fatigue of travel disappeared the moment we met Neil and Shaz.

For months we had existed as faces inside computer screens; now we were standing together on French soil with the faint sound of pipes drifting across the harbour. The virtual had finally become real.

Our accommodation was at the local university: a simple student room with two narrow beds, a pair of desks and a shared shower between the four of us. Spartan was the only word for it, but none of us had travelled to Brittany for luxury.

At night, footsteps echoed along the corridors while distant music drifted through the open windows, a constant reminder that the festival carried on long after we had finally collapsed into bed. Outside, the city basked in glorious late-summer sunshine.

Lorient was transformed. The elegant port had become a living celebration of Celtic culture, with music spilling from every corner and streets alive with performers, visitors and musicians from every Celtic nation. The salt air drifted in from the harbour, mingling with the buttery aroma of freshly made crêpes and galettes, while somewhere beyond the rooftops a dozen pipe bands seemed to be warming up at once.

Here we were, an independent online radio station from Canada, covering the largest outdoor Celtic festival in the world.

Each morning began with a ritual.

On our walk to the festival grounds we stopped at a small neighbourhood bakery that quickly became part of our daily routine. Although Breton remained deeply woven into the region's identity, French was the language of everyday conversation. My schoolboy French was buried somewhere beneath decades of neglect, but the staff were wonderfully patient, encouraging me to order entirely in French. Somehow I muddled my way through each exchange, usually earning a smile from the bakers and an amused grin from Anne.

Yet beneath the warmth of those mornings lingered an unmistakable tension.

Only months earlier, the Bastille Day terror attack in Nice had shocked France. Armed police and military patrols were a constant presence throughout Lorient. Security checkpoints stood at festival entrances, and heavily armed officers moved quietly through the crowds.

The atmosphere remained welcoming, but there was no escaping the reality that the country was still grieving.

The four of us made a simple agreement. Whenever we entered the busiest parts of the festival, we identified meeting points and exit routes before disappearing into the crowds.

Once that was done, we immersed ourselves in the work.

Collecting our media accreditation became one of those quietly significant moments that only reveal their importance in hindsight. Wearing those passes, we stood alongside international broadcasters, television crews and seasoned journalists. For Blues & Roots Radio, it felt like crossing an invisible threshold. The little online station we had built from scratch was no longer watching from the sidelines; we had earned our place inside the story.

For a fleeting moment, I thought of the man who had arrived in Canada years earlier with no network, no platform, and no idea where the road might lead. Standing there with our accreditation in hand, the distance between those two lives suddenly felt immeasurable.. Standing there in Lorient, accredited as international media at the world's largest Celtic festival, I realized just how extraordinary that journey had become. None of it had been planned. All of it had been earned one conversation, one friendship and one opportunity at a time.

Our days quickly settled into a rhythm of press conferences, interviews and performances.

Delegation leaders and featured artists met the world's media each morning before dispersing across the city for another day of music.

William's standing within the festival opened another unexpected door. He arranged an introduction to the festival's artistic director, Lisardo Lombardia, and we brought along a specially commissioned Blues & Roots Radio jacket as a small token of appreciation.

Our conversation quickly turned to the international reach of Celtic music and the communities it continued to connect around the world. Before we left, we presented the jacket to him. He accepted it with a broad, genuine smile, unzipping it to inspect the detailed craftsmanship and running his hands across the embroidered logo.

"To travel across the Atlantic just to share our stories..." he said softly, looking up from the embroidery with visible appreciation, "...this is what the spirit of Interceltique is all about."

Photographers quietly captured the exchange as he offered a warm handshake and thanked us for making the journey from Canada and Australia. It was a brief, simple exchange, but one that spoke volumes about the welcoming spirit that defined the festival. Looking back, that single photograph says more than any description ever could. It marked the point where our passion project no longer felt like an outsider looking in. We had become part of the festival itself.

For all the interviews and deadlines, it was often the quieter moments that stayed with me longest.

One morning, William, Neil, Shaz, Anne, David Harris, a fellow member of the festival media contingent, and I sat outside a café enjoying a rare pause between appointments. Across from us, a woman quietly painted the scene in delicate watercolours, capturing the changing light and the easy rhythm of the street.

As we prepared to leave, Anne wandered over to compliment her work. They chatted for a few moments before the artist quietly signed the painting, smiled, and handed it to Anne.

No fuss.

No expectation.

Just one artist recognizing another creative spirit.

Here I am, years later, and one lasting reminder of that time remains with us. It is that small painting by a local Breton artist depicting a quiet tea room in Lorient. It travelled home with us across the Atlantic and now hangs in our living room, a daily reminder of a remarkable week in Brittany. Along the side of the painting, the artist inscribed these words in French before signing it:

« Un petit salon de thé où je me suis arrêtée pour attendre l'ouverture de Keltia sur les quais de Lorient, août 2016. »

Translated, they read:

"A small tea room where I stopped to wait for the opening of Keltia on the quays of Lorient, August 2016."

I have always loved the simplicity of that inscription. It captures an ordinary pause in an ordinary day, yet it also preserves a fleeting moment in Lorient's story. In many ways, that is what memoir tries to do. We rarely recognize the significance of life's quiet moments while we're living them, but years later they become the memories we hold closest. Every time I look at that painting, I find myself back on the quays of Lorient, reminded that some places stay with us long after we've left them.

The festival also introduced us to remarkable musicians from around the world. We spent time with Australian group Saoirse, sharing plenty of laughs with Anthony and Bernadette O'Neill. What began as festival conversation became a friendship that has comfortably outlasted the event itself.

Then came a meeting that resonated on an entirely different level.

Through William and Neil, I was introduced to Eric Bogle.

Born in Peebles, my family's hometown before emigrating to Australia, Eric was one of the great storytellers of modern folk music. Songs such as No Man's Land, The Green Fields of France and And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda had accompanied me for years.

Soon we found ourselves standing together with pints in hand, talking about Peebles,

Scotland and the roads that had eventually carried us both across the world. Anne captured the moment in a photograph that remains one of my favourites.

People often say never meet your heroes.

Eric proved them wrong.

He was warm, generous, humble and every bit the storyteller I had hoped he would be.

Sharing an hour with someone whose songs had shaped so much of my own musical landscape became one of the defining memories of an already extraordinary week.

With Eric Bogle, Lorient, 2016.

Yet of all the stories that emerged from Lorient, one still makes me laugh the hardest.

Every evening the festival closed with a spectacular fireworks display over the harbour.

One night, after another long day on our feet, the four of us retreated to our university room. We opened a bottle of wine, left the windows open to the cool evening air and listened to the sounds of the festival drifting across the city.

At one point I disappeared into the bathroom.

While I was in there, the fireworks began.

The explosions echoed between the buildings with astonishing force.

When I stepped back into the room, everyone had vanished.

For a moment I simply stared.

Then I noticed movement beneath the beds.

There they were, Neil, Shaz and Anne, wedged shoulder to shoulder underneath the frames, eyes wide, waiting for whatever they thought was coming next.

"What on earth are you doing?" I asked.

A nervous voice answered from beneath the mattress.

"We think it's a terrorist attack!"

I couldn't help laughing.

"It's only the feckin' fireworks!"

One by one they crawled out, embarrassment quickly giving way to uncontrollable laughter.

It was funny because it was so completely understandable. Weeks after Nice, nerves were stretched tight across the whole country. For a brief moment, fear had overwhelmed reason.

Within seconds it had become one of those stories friends would laugh about for years.

Looking back, I realized the festival hadn't simply welcomed us to Brittany. It had quietly confirmed that the community we had spent years building through music had become something larger than either of us had ever imagined.

When the final notes of the festival faded and the temporary stages began to come down, none of us was quite ready to say goodbye or return to normal life. The momentum of the week was still buzzing through us. Packed bags in hand, we left the harbour of Lorient behind, trading the salt air of Brittany for a northbound flight across the Channel.

Instead of heading straight home, we had decided to extend the journey into Scotland together before returning to our respective corners of the world.

Neil's family roots lay in Dundee. Mine led back to Peebles, where Mum was waiting to greet us. News of our visit travelled ahead of us, and musician friends organized an afternoon gathering at The Neidpath Inn, drawing players from Edinburgh, Glasgow and beyond. Even the local newspaper turned up to record the occasion.

Standing on the threshold of home after a week that had carried us from computer screens to one of the world's great celebrations of Celtic culture, I realized how often life had come full circle.

A Skype call had led to Australia.

Australia had led to Brittany.

Now Brittany was leading me back to the Borders where my own story had begun.

What awaited us at The Neidpath Inn would become one of the most unforgettable homecomings of my life.

It is a curious thing how the trajectory of a life can pivot on the digital warble of a Skype chime. You rarely recognize it in the moment; only years later do you realize you answered far more than a call.

Looking back now, I realize we hadn't simply travelled to Brittany. We had crossed another invisible border between dreaming about a life in music and finally living it.

At The Sound Cafe we don't simply review music. We explore the stories behind the songs, the journeys behind the artists, and the moments that shape their creative lives. Our role is not to tell readers what to think, but to help them understand why the music matters.

About the Writer:

Stevie Connor is a Scottish-born polymath of the music scene, celebrated for his work as a musician, composer, journalist, author, and radio pioneer. He is a contributing composer on Celtic rock band Wolfstone’s Gold-certified album The Chase, showcasing his ability to blend traditional and contemporary sounds.

Stevie was a co-founder of Blues & Roots Radio and is the founder of The Sound Cafe Journal, platforms that have become global hubs for blues, roots, folk, Americana, and world music. Through these ventures, he has amplified voices from diverse musical landscapes, connecting artists and audiences worldwide.

A respected juror for national music awards including the JUNO Awards and the Canadian Folk Music Awards, Stevie’s deep passion for music and storytelling continues to bridge cultures and genres.

Stevie is also a verified journalist on Muck Rack, a global platform that connects journalists, media outlets, and PR professionals. He was the first journalist featured on Muck Rack's 2023 leaderboard. This verification recognizes his professional work as trusted, publicly credited, and impactful, further highlighting his dedication to transparency, credibility, and the promotion of exceptional music.

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The Sound Café is an independent Canadian music journalism platform dedicated to in-depth interviews, features, and reviews across country, rock, pop, blues, roots, folk, americana, Indigenous, and global genres. Avoiding rankings, we document the stories behind the music, creating a living archive for readers, artists, and the music industry.

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