The world does not want for music festivals, and for that we should be grateful. But while the famous and financially-blessed examples of the genre garner most of the headlines and headliners, it is often the smaller ones, those that dwell in market towns or remote rustic retreats, that can most surprise and delight.

It is these - invariably founded by the incumbent artistic-director, and so an extension of their own tastes and enthusiasms, and often drawing on performance partnerships forged over years of collaborative music making – that can most charm and most engage. They often last a week, if that, and so have an air of great expectancy and occasion, and often bring world-class concerts to areas which, while maybe a happy stop-off point for occasional tours, would usually have to look elsewhere – down a motorway or railway line – for cultural excellence on a night-by-night basis. Britain is rich in festivals such as these, and for this we should be grateful too. Audiences are certainly grateful for the music, and the musicians grateful to the audiences - loyal, enthusiastic, and willing travellers on some often surprisingly bold journeys of repertoire. The atmosphere is always warm, the sense of cultural sharing palpable.

Last weekend I was up at one such festival, the Ulverston International Music Festival, held in a market town nestling between the sands of Morecambe Bay and the shadow of the Lake District. I was due to conduct a pre-concert interview with the artistic director, pianist Anthony Hewitt, but the delayed arrival of the viola player and the necessity of squeezing in a last-minute rehearsal meant a hasty rethink - so I instead ended up telling the assembled of my experiences at Gramophone. Recalling some of the many musicians I've sat down and discussed music with in my eight years here – and trying to capture the essence of legends that are no longer with us such as Rostropovich – brought home to me what an extraordinary privilege my job can be.

But while I hope I entertained somewhat, I was of course the mere side-show. And so, after still managing to fit in a short interview, we all headed downstairs to the auditorium of the Coronation Hall, its resplendent frieze of Britannia surrounded by her entourage bearing the names of the Empire nations, cherubs gazing down on audience and artist from all around. Here Hewitt and hand-picked colleagues drew the week's festivities to a close with a chamber music programme beginning with an energetically propulsive performance of Bartók's Contrasts for clarinet, violin and piano, and ending with a thrillingly collegiate rendition of Schumann's Piano Quintet. Then it was into cars to head into the hills through the eerie half-night which lingers so late in the North at this time of year, to cottages hidden several miles into the National Park, where the artists – which over the past week had included cellists Natalie Clein and Thomas Carroll to choose just one instrument – eat, sleep and socialise, in an atmosphere buoyant with the informal spirit of a family gathering.

The hurried hubbub of the city-centre concert, where a country-hopping soloist briefly graces stage and indeed country before boarding another plane, the dash through the foyer for last orders and the final train home - all this seemed a long way away the following morning, as I awoke to the cleansing sound of rain falling from cloud-covered peaks far above us, while sheep, oblivious to man and meteorology alike, grazed in the lush-green fields beneath and beyond.