I walked outside to warn our neighbours of the noise, albeit pleasant, that would soon reverberate from our wood-panelled living room. Passing two curious strangers, drawn to our address from a tweet from the band, I invited them to join. I felt like Mr. Tumnus, holding the keys to some kind of winter-less Narnia. As I re-entered, I heard a deep baritone voice, rich and textured like honey or stained glass in the sunset. Was there no microphone making such a rich, swelling hum? No auto-tune manufacturing such dulcet harmonies? Not to mention the ticket surcharge or VIP passes that must certainly be necessary to be here?

I attempt to bring you into the intimate moment that we shared with The Wooden Sky. A night of echoing fairy dust; shuddering within our hyperbaric chamber of joy-sodden friends.

Their newest songs were played with soulful gusto, the band tapping stylish leather boots against the stained-pine floor. The old songs were played like savoury cupcakes, the cross-legged audience providing the icing of backup vocals: “Oh my God, it still means a lot to me…” And then came the wonderful question, posed to the residents, “can we play some acoustic songs on the front lawn?” Emphatic yes.

The night air warmly whistled along. Ambulant passers-by took triple takes. The strongest stars shone through the barricade of light and atmospheric pollution, giving the sense that we were in fact being transported to some mystical land of Narniaric proportions. They were our wardrobe; our magic rings; our “Lumos!”

They are on tour now, and goodness knows we wish we could staple ourselves to their van. Because then it was over. And oh my God, it still means a lot to me.