I loved those first tours. Bouncing off a sweaty stage in an Edinburgh catacomb we then had to get to a gig in Camden by lunch the next day.
We couldn't fit all four of us and Ted's double-bass into the VW Polo. I think it was Ben who drew the short straw and had to follow by train with his keyboard.
I remember blitzing it down the M6 through the night, the lads asleep beside me.
We made it but my voice sadly didn't, completely shot by exhaustion, I had to mime my harmonies. Being in Mumford & Sons was exhilarating.
Every gig was its own adventure. Every gig its own story.
Be it odysseys through the Scottish Islands, or soapbox shows in Soho. Where would we sleep that night?
I loved those first tours. Bouncing off a sweaty stage in an Edinburgh catacomb we then had to get to a gig in Camden by lunch the next day, writes Mumford & Son's' WINSTON MARSHALL
Hostels in Fort William, pub floors in Ipswich, even the Travelodge in Carlisle maintains a sort of charm in my mind. We saw the country and then, as things miraculously grew, the world.
All the while doing what we loved. Music. And not just any music. These songs meant something.
They felt important to me. Songs with the message of hope and love. I was surrounded by three supremely talented song-writers and Marcus, our singer with a one-in-a-million voice.
A voice that can compel in both a field of 80,000 and the intimacy of a front room.
Fast-forward ten years and we were playing those same songs every night in arenas, flying first-class, staying in luxury hotels and being paid handsomely to do so.
I was a lucky boy.
On stage, to my left Ted, a roaring bear, with his double-bass flying high above him.
To my right Ben, pounding at the keys. And Marcus leading us with the might of a hurricane or the tenderness of a breeze, depending on the song.
What a blessing it was to be so close to such talent. It will be with immense pride that I look back on my time with Mumford & Sons.
A legacy of songs that I believe will stand the test of ages. What we've achieved has exceeded the wildest fantasies of this S********r from Mortlake.
Who in their right mind would willingly walk away from this? It turns out I would. And it's been no easy decision.
At the beginning of March, I tweeted to American journalist Andy Ngo, author of the New York Times bestseller, Unmasked.
'Congratulations @MrAndyNgo. Finally had the time to read your important book. You're a brave man.'
Posting about books had been a theme of my social media throughout the pandemic.
I believed this tweet to be as innocuous as the others. How wrong I turned out to be.
Over 24 hours it was trending with tens of thousands of angry retweets and comments.
I
