Chordial relations

One of the joys of my stay in Thailand is having the chance to sing a few Bulgarian songs, one or two with my cousin Clare from a mountain top or two, and a few old favourites with the choir she has started here, Global Harmonies. I first meet them the week I arrive, at singer Jean-Pascale's house on the outskirts of Chiang Mai. It's a large, cool, shady Thai-style house with all the living space on the upper floor, bedrooms in the two wings and the kitchen/living room as the centrepiece, a lovely setting in which to hear them sing for the first time.

The choir is made up of ex-pats, among them French, American, Norwegian, Syrian and Brits. They're rehearsing for a performance at a small music festival in a couple of weeks. The festival, Harvesting Melodies, is being organised by Laurent, another of the singers, on his farm north of Chiang Mai.

It's hotter than hot when the day of the festival arrives. Laurent and his volunteers (his farm is entirely organic and the organisation works with local communities educating them in the ways of responsible farming) have taken great trouble to set the scene, from creative sign-making...

... to inventive bartending. There are cocktails – the Farmito (their take on the Mojito) – and giant jars of fresh Roselle and Sun Hemp tea.

The performances take place in a "sala" or open but covered barn with hay bales for audience seating. The day's programme begins with a brilliant Brazilian guitarist, followed by a colourful collection of acts drawn from northern Thailand, from a Karen tribal band, to Hmong dancers, to a couple of guys with swords whose moves remind me of my niece Sula's Highland dancing. Global Harmonies, below singing sweet Georgian song Chela, go down very well and will be singing long into the night, on the stage and off it.

  

I join in on the Bulgarian numbers, hovering at the back. Just when I think she's forgotten Clare calls me to the front to sing a duet of Ogreyala y Mesechinka, shakes, hiccups and all.

In the late afternoon we're all asked to move down by the rice fields where a children's orphanage puts on a Chinese New Year show and introduces a shy little boy, who does a few Tai Chi moves then sits on a hay bale and sings a solo, tentatively at first, finally shouting out the lines at the top of his voice.

The house provides welcome shelter from the heat until the sun goes down, when the singing moves to a candlelit spot by the paddy fields.

And still the performers continue on stage. A troupe of young dancers in vibrant costumes have us spellbound, and a local band complete the festival set by torchlight.

One of Laurent's Thai neighbours, a little old lady who looks as if she'd keel over in a light breeze, holds court in the house, giving massages. I manage to manoeuvre myself into position in front of her and am treated to a grip so firm my knees go weak. It's worthy of Mr Spock. I'm still spaced out on the drive home. Clare plans to go back and book a session, not to mention a cuddle with the farm's pet cat...