The trendy festival scene started with Glastonbury. But now there are so many festivals, it's hard to go anywhere in June, July or August without passing marquees being set up in muddy fields and signs featuring the names of bands you have never heard of in big red letters.
So a few years ago, in order to cross it off our " things to do before we die," list, my family ( us and my brother and sister and their families ) decided it was time. So we bought tickets for the Greenman festival in Wales. We chose the Greenman partly because we had actually heard of some of the bands, partly because it's very family friendly, but mostly because it's very close to where my brother lives so if the weather was too bad and the toilets too disgusting, we had an escape route.
The Greenman Festival takes place in the grounds of a beautiful house, nestled in the foothills of gentle mountains. On the rare occassions that the Welsh sun shines, it is breathtakingly beautiful. We We arrived on Friday night as the first twang of live music vibrated through the peaceful Summer evening. The hardier festival- goers had already been there for days, colourful tents and painted camper vans crowded together, like a holiday refugee camp.
We inspected the compostible toilets, which on Friday evening, still weren't too bad and leaving our van in the hope that we would be able to find it again, we wandered through the happy crowds to try and find the rest of our family. Children with painted faces, wearing nothing but flowery wellies, weaved in and out of tents while their (mostly) long haired parents, also wearing flowery wellies, hammered in pegs, laid out bedding and set up chairs and tables. Teenagers in cut off jeans tried to catch the eye of other teenagers in cut-off jeans and smells of barbecue and curries and compost drifted over from the stages where the bands were already playing. And the evening was warm, the food we ate together at " base camp," delicious, the cousins delighted to see each other and the first multi-talented band we heard that night: Bellowhead, were amazing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZjnxFMQACk
The main stage was built at the foot of a hill, creating a concert basin with slopes to lounge on and the perfect backdrop of mountains and sunset. We danced and wandered around listening to music, poetry, stand up comedy and watching the enormous bubbles from the " bubble shop," drifting by with the beautiful relaxed festival-induced sense of peaceful aimlessness.
And that's how the whole weekend was.
Full of good music, delicious food, bubbles and so much " love and peace," that it was hard to believe that bad things could ever happen in the world.
The kids loved it.
It was small enough for them to roam freely wherever they wanted without getting lost but big enough to feel like an adventure.
We grown-ups based ourselves at the Chai Wallahs tent with a constant stream of beer, chai and amazing, as yet unknown, musicians from all over the world.
By the time we had to leave on Sunday evening we were so chilled it was impossible to believe that anything could ever stress us out again. The kids, faces painted, flowers in their hair and huge bubble wands in their hands, all declared it had been the best weekend of their lives.
And we thought so too and as soon as we got back home we booked our tickets for next year.
The whole of the next year was spent in anticipation of the " time of our life," we would re-experience the next Summer. We looked up the bands who would be playing so that Ninesh and I could listen to them beforehand and pretend we had always liked them. We planned our food, our wanderings, our Chi Wallah nights.
And the weekend arrived.
And it rained and rained.
The mud changed from squelchy and earth coloured to compacted and unpleasant runny brown.
Walking was like a game where, if you made it to the other side of the path without losing a welly in the mud, you felt that you should win a prize. The toilets were brown streams and by Sunday, if you didn't keep walking, you sank!
The music was still amazing and we heard Linton Kwesi Johnson, which in itself made the weekend worthwhile. The kids still loved the freedom of roaming unwatched, the mountains, when you could see them through the rain and clouds, were still beautiful and the food just as delicious, even the ice creams!
But somehow, the magic was gone.
Perhaps the novelty that comes with "first-time,' experiences was missing.
Perhaps you should never do the same thing twice.
But mostly, it was the mud. Cloying and ( by the end ) stinking, we are still finding it in our clothes and van and wellies and tent a year later.
The truth is, that us " oldies," are fair-weather festival goers. Deep down inside, I know that mud and dirt and blocked toilets are an integral part of the true festival experience but I have always preferred green grass and cleanliness and toilets that flush.
And I can't help feeling relieved that I can now tick the " go to a festival," box on my life plan.
I am glad it has moved from my: " to do," to my: " have done," list.
And when our kids are ready to festival on their own, I will willingly help them pack their bags with wellies and flowers and toilet paper, while I dream quietly of weekends away in sweet smelling hotels with crisp white sheets and unmuddied bathwater.
We inspected the compostible toilets, which on Friday evening, still weren't too bad and leaving our van in the hope that we would be able to find it again, we wandered through the happy crowds to try and find the rest of our family. Children with painted faces, wearing nothing but flowery wellies, weaved in and out of tents while their (mostly) long haired parents, also wearing flowery wellies, hammered in pegs, laid out bedding and set up chairs and tables. Teenagers in cut off jeans tried to catch the eye of other teenagers in cut-off jeans and smells of barbecue and curries and compost drifted over from the stages where the bands were already playing. And the evening was warm, the food we ate together at " base camp," delicious, the cousins delighted to see each other and the first multi-talented band we heard that night: Bellowhead, were amazing.
The main stage was built at the foot of a hill, creating a concert basin with slopes to lounge on and the perfect backdrop of mountains and sunset. We danced and wandered around listening to music, poetry, stand up comedy and watching the enormous bubbles from the " bubble shop," drifting by with the beautiful relaxed festival-induced sense of peaceful aimlessness.
And that's how the whole weekend was.
Full of good music, delicious food, bubbles and so much " love and peace," that it was hard to believe that bad things could ever happen in the world.
The kids loved it.
It was small enough for them to roam freely wherever they wanted without getting lost but big enough to feel like an adventure.
We grown-ups based ourselves at the Chai Wallahs tent with a constant stream of beer, chai and amazing, as yet unknown, musicians from all over the world.
By the time we had to leave on Sunday evening we were so chilled it was impossible to believe that anything could ever stress us out again. The kids, faces painted, flowers in their hair and huge bubble wands in their hands, all declared it had been the best weekend of their lives.
And we thought so too and as soon as we got back home we booked our tickets for next year.
The whole of the next year was spent in anticipation of the " time of our life," we would re-experience the next Summer. We looked up the bands who would be playing so that Ninesh and I could listen to them beforehand and pretend we had always liked them. We planned our food, our wanderings, our Chi Wallah nights.
And the weekend arrived.
And it rained and rained.
The mud changed from squelchy and earth coloured to compacted and unpleasant runny brown.
Walking was like a game where, if you made it to the other side of the path without losing a welly in the mud, you felt that you should win a prize. The toilets were brown streams and by Sunday, if you didn't keep walking, you sank!
The music was still amazing and we heard Linton Kwesi Johnson, which in itself made the weekend worthwhile. The kids still loved the freedom of roaming unwatched, the mountains, when you could see them through the rain and clouds, were still beautiful and the food just as delicious, even the ice creams!
But somehow, the magic was gone.
Perhaps the novelty that comes with "first-time,' experiences was missing.
Perhaps you should never do the same thing twice.
But mostly, it was the mud. Cloying and ( by the end ) stinking, we are still finding it in our clothes and van and wellies and tent a year later.
The truth is, that us " oldies," are fair-weather festival goers. Deep down inside, I know that mud and dirt and blocked toilets are an integral part of the true festival experience but I have always preferred green grass and cleanliness and toilets that flush.
And I can't help feeling relieved that I can now tick the " go to a festival," box on my life plan.
I am glad it has moved from my: " to do," to my: " have done," list.
And when our kids are ready to festival on their own, I will willingly help them pack their bags with wellies and flowers and toilet paper, while I dream quietly of weekends away in sweet smelling hotels with crisp white sheets and unmuddied bathwater.
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