I've been to three gigs this week- one in a massive arena, one in a squat in east London and tonight, Mumford and Sons at the Shepherd's Bush Empire, a refreshingly homely feel for such a large space.

Everyone must know by now that the banjo has it roots in west Africa; its forbears are the ngoni and ekontine of Mali and Senegal, the latter furiously and brilliantly played by Juldeh Camara last night at Passing Clouds in east London with the rock guitarist Justin Adams.

Mumford and Sons do the banjo (post trans-Atlantic slave trade version) in a big way. M&S are from west London, formed only a couple of years ago and put out their debut album last year. They've gone from being a local indie 4-piece to being one of the most celebrated music acts in Britain at the moment, at a rocket speed that no one, least of all them, can quite fathom. It's attention they both deserve and are humbled to receive.

"18 months ago we were playing in a barn at a friend's wedding," said the lead singer, pointing out their friend who was in the audience. "It's kind of fucking with our heads that now we're here."

Homely, honky-tonk banjo and guitar-led stomp mixed with brilliant musicianship, wicked rock energy and surreal lyrical themes. Having seen an average band play a packed arena earlier in the week, tens of thousands of people happy to watch OK musicians loving themselves up with no offer of blistering guitar solos, it was massively moving to see musicians acknowledge that we, their public, are capable of understanding musical excellence. They were rehearsed, intuitive and deeply pleased to be playing.

It is such freakishly cold weather in England at the moment; no one can remember a winter that has gone on this long before, though my parents recount that when we lived on the farm, when I was growing up, it was like this all the time.

I don't mind the cold so much as the after-effects; I find scratches and sores on my arms where my dried skin must have scraped on a lamp-post when I was locking up my bike somewhere, and the tips of my fingers are constantly cracked. I sometimes eat dinner twice, as my body consumes everything I just put inside it, and I am tired a lot more than usual.

When I went to visit Now in Casamance, we divided the day's work between the three of us: his friend opened the market in the morning while Now and I had coffee on the front porch, then Now went to relieve him while I got water from the well and washed up the plates and pots from last night. Around midday, Now came back from market with fish, rice and oil and together we cooked the main meal of the day.

The housework involved in keeping a very simple two-roomed house clean and in order in Africa is incredible, because there are no cupboards, tables, or space for storing things. The washing up is done on the porch, the water drying from the concrete ground almost as soon as it touches it, and small goats come and eat whatever they can get their thin lips on, upsetting the bowls that have been stacked strategically to dry. Water must be carried in large yellow bidons, two at a time, across the hot dry landscape and all the men at the shop, who sit in the shade and listen to pop radio, watch as the white girl (who they assume can do nothing for herself) struggles with the canisters.

"Look," they say, "there's a white girl struggling with the water cans. How amazing."

The boys gather round when food arrives. One sits to the side and studies a Koran, while the others dig in with their hands and compliment the chef on the food ("How amazing that a white girl can cook rice.")

When the floor has been swept of fish bones and sandy grains of rice, Now would bring his thin mattress out on to the porch and tell me to lie down, which with great pleasure I would do. The boys would slowly disappear and we would be left to snooze in the unbelievable dry heat and wind that sweeps across the landscape in the afternoons, feeling the heaviness of the heat melt our bodies to the ground as sleep slowly, lazily catches us.

I'm not sure if this is a true story, but I hope it is. When my mum was pregnant with me, 31 years and some months ago, she was too busy to go to the hospital for a scan. Living on a sheep farm, we had scanning equipment so the first glimpse of foetus-me was through a sheep-scanner, my mum (in my imagination) laid out flat in the lambing shed.

Maybe it's not true, but anyway, today is my birthday and I am thinking, as I always do this time of year, about all the things which have happened in the last year, and also of where I came from. I started life on a farm and I hope that soon I can go back to that, in a small way. The last year feels like it has been 'my year', in a way, when all the agonising I did in my twenties suddenly faded and I was left feeling: life is short, let's get on with it.