Grassroots folk: Scotland's oldest 'trad' music festival and is proud of its down-to-earth ethos

But this weekend the cobbles and courtyards are echoing with the joyous sounds of banjos, bodhrans, kazoos, didgeridoos and even, for the first time, vuvuzelas.

Scotland's longest running traditional music festival is in full swing.

While the organisers of the 41-year-old shindig like to trumpet its longevity they are prouder of its reputation as the friendliest, and most laid-back, folk fest.

Flying in the face of their battle-scarred roots the 21st century citizens of Newcastleton are so relaxed and amiable they make the denizens of San Francisco's Haight Ashbury district seem like playground-padlocking sabbatarians.

So much so, that most of them shun the village's fuddy-duddy official moniker and refer to it by its less stuffy nickname of Copshaw Holm, or Copshie, instead.

The festival's most bohemian attendees are to be found at the impromptu campsite, on the banks of Liddel Water.

There is a tinkle of wind chimes as Dave Smith's genial face emerges from his van. His hirsute features, gentle Northumberland tones and incongruous grey top hat lend him the appearance of a Hairy Biker en route to a wedding.

He and wife Susie crossed the Cheviots every year, without fail, for 30 years and are still full of enthusiasm for the gathering. "The atmosphere is just magical," he grins. "At night I can sit outside and start playing my mouth organ and within minutes I'll be joined by around 20 other guys playing along with guitars and mandolins or whatever."

The festival veteran prides himself on being the event's only jew's harp maestro. "It makes a great sound, but you've got to know what you're doing with it. If you play at a certain frequency you can end up shattering your teeth."

He then demonstrates the technique and emits a series of boings and poings that sound like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout after a can of Red Bull.

The musical alchemists' camper van is a converted mini-bus, once used to ferry disabled youngsters around London. "It's got nice karma," he explains.

A few yards away fiddler Lara Norris and sons Sebastian, 13, and Patrick, seven, are enjoying a mini-session inside their own van, adorned with more rainbows than the set of Andrew Lloyd-Webber's latest TV show. Lara's partner Dave Gighe accompanies them on a djembe drum. The lilting Afro-Celtic fusion is so impressive that their dog Logan gives up sniffing at packets of custard creams and soya milk to give his full attention.

"It's our first time at the festival, but we arrived two days early so we could make up for lost time," beams the Jedburgh-based violinist. "The whole place has a great feeling about it."

There's not a hint of tie-dye or incense, however, at the village post office. In the queue one festival-goer, a home counties chap wearing a sensible bodywarmer, socks and sandals, is, however, in agreement about the special ambience at Copshaw, "One has got to support this type of thing," he states quietly but firmly.

"Too many things are becoming Americanised and artificial, but this is a breath of fresh air."

During the three-day fest the population of the model weaving community, with its grid-plan streets and showpiece cottages, near quadruples to more than 3,500.

Anne Mitchell, a life-long resident and owner of the Trap bar, is in no doubt about its importance. "The festival means so much to us. Without this weekend I don't think the licensed premises in the village would be able to survive."

One customer raring to go is 69-year-old Mancunian, "Accordion" Woody. His shaved head, "love" and "hate" knuckle tattoos and gold-earring mean he could be mistaken for Buster Bloodvessel's trim uncle, but there's a puppy playfulness and a warm heart beneath the bulldog exterior.

"I'm not the greatest musician in the world, but I get a hell of a lot better after a few beers," he laughs before a sup of lager. "One of the reasons I come back up here year-after-year is the friendliness of the people and the great characters you meet like Jimmy Rabbit the banjo player and Monologue Joe."

Woody then disappears from the bar and returns with a grin and the afore-mentioned Joe in his wake - resplendent in sunglasses, shorts and a white-sunhat with a jaunty upturned brim. "He's as Wigan as meat pies and mint balls and completely off his rocker," bellows ?Woody. "You'll like him."

The newcomer launches into cheeky chappy mode. "I used to work in the steel business," he twinkles. "I would sell steel by day and steal laughs by night."

Barely stopping to catch breath he throws himself into a trademark rambling recitation. His chosen poem is Albert, the Lion and the Booze, a traditional morality tale made his own by references to ale-supping lotharios, flatulent animals and hatchet-faced lasses with complexions like "boiled 'am".

The yarn concludes with Albert doing something quite unpleasant to the eponymous beast with a stick with an 'orses' 'ead 'andle. The SSPCA would not approve, but the amused Trap regulars did.

There are walking sticks aplenty, without equine adornment, for sale at Isabel's Shop on the Corner, next to a box containing Jigtime With Jimmy Shand, the soundtrack to Dr Zhivago and a copy of Jane Birkin's 1969 single Je t'aime.

Customer Kathy Hobkirk fell in love with the Copshie Festival back in 1980. She recalled: "I took part in the novice singing contest, won first place and an old fellow came up to me and said 'you've got a good voice lass' It wasn't until afterwards that somebody told me that the old guy was actually Hamish Henderson."

Following her brush with folk royalty Kathy was well and truly hooked and now, 30 years later, she chairs the Friendly Festival's committee. She believes it's the event's grassroots' ethos and gently anarchic vibe that makes it unique.

There are no stellar bills and in most cases they operate a spontaneous open-stage policy. Corporate sponsorship is eschewed and weekend tickets cost just 13. "People tell us we are like festivals used to be," Kathy enthuses. "We are not in it for money or glory, we do it because we're all a bit daft and we love it."

Outside the Grapes Hotel a loud cheer goes up as Dylan's It Ain't Me Babe is followed by a spirited singalong of Bonnie Dundee. The festival chairwoman looks on with evident pride and states:

"Every year for one weekend Copshaw is sealed off in its own little bubble and there is no place in the world I'd rather be. Imagine three nights of Hogmanay with music and you are almost there.

"It's like Brigadoon but better."

In the centre of the village punters stifle sniggers as they try to explain the concept of the Copshaw Common Riding, an annual event coinciding with the festival.

"It's em... an affectionate homage.. to the other Common Riding events that take place in other Borders towns and villages," suggests one local unconvincingly. His pal jumps in: "No it isnae. The whole thing is a pisstake from start to finish."

A parody of pageants held in Hawick, Selkirk, Langholm and Lauder with formally dressed riders ?at Copshie riders proceed on bikes rather than horses, villagers give four cheers rather than three, toast with tequila rather than whisky and while the prestigious proceedings are led elsewhere by an elected chief horseman or Cornet - Newcastleton has a Tub, ably assisted by a Flake.

Good-natured, instinctively egalitarian and down-to-earth, the people of Copshaw Holm love nothing more than pricking pomposity. "We don't take ourselves too seriously," laughs Kathy, whose father-in-law was acclaimed fiddler Bob Hobkirk.

At the festival office guest vocalist Gordeanna McCulloch is greeted by a burst of music when she removes her jacket to try her new festival T-shirt for size.

Wood-panelled walls echo with laughter as the committee join in humming The Stripper, complete with mock-bawdy whistles and claps. The mirth continues when somebody mentions Andy Murray.

"Ach, what do you want with Wimbledon?," pipes up one voice. "They've only got strawberries and cream and Nadal, while we've got folkies, home-made cider and a van selling spicy sausages,"

Back at the Trap, Monologue Joe winces and rolls his eyes in mock despair as glasses of amber ale pile up beside him.

"If I don't survive the weekend, make sure my children are brought up as good Catholics," he chortles.

Beside him Accordion Woody adopts an altogether more serious tone. "You can stuff your Glastonbury," he says, raising his arms for emphasis. "This is the best festival there is. Bar none."

As the music plays on not a single voice is raised in opposition.