It is said that Matt George Lovett goes not where he'd wanted, but where he's needed. Tottering cheerfully from place to place with a Devonian ale in one hand and an out-of-tune guitar named Snakeeyes in the other. On long summer nights, just as the sun dips below the horizon, word has it you can see him skipping merrily across the hills like a diminutive Tom Bombadil, whistling whatever devilish earworm has gotten stuck in his head.