SPEAKING AS A VETERAN

The first festival I ever went to was Glastonbury in1990, when I was 16. I didn’t have a ticket, but still got in, then lost my friends, so didn’t have a tent either. No, I didn’t have a mobile phone. Yes, there is a story there. It involves the kindness of Hare Krisha’s and finding my friends among 70 000 strangers the next day. I had the time of my life, without taking a single photograph and still treasure memories of Ladysmith Black Mombasa, orange robes and bare feet.

35 years, and many festivals later, I’m on my way to Electric Picnic. I still don’t have a ticket or tent, but now I’m rocking a performer wristband and driving a Berlingo van, complete with bed, black-out blinds and net curtains. Perfect! I’ve always loved camping, the closer to nature the better. But truth is, at 52, I’ve done my time carrying and pitching wet tents. It’s hard work. I don’t want that part of festivals anymore. So, don’t do it.

I’m at EP as a book in a Human Library. It’s a brilliant project inviting participants to listen to a person’s whole story, instead of judging the book by its cover. My pages are dogeared and coffee stained, but still worth reading, with new chapters still being added. The other books have become friends and are in tents nearby. We all know the privilege of the performer’s campsite; closer, cleaner and less crowded than general camping.

I love festivals because I’m happiest when outdoors and untethered. I like flying solo, choosing to dip in and out of company without commitment. Whether it’s freedom or selfishness, I’m used to eating when I’m hungry and resting when I’m tired, not bound by anyone else’s wants or needs. Now I’ll also be able to dance, hear poetry, lie under a tree, practice yoga or curl up in the wagon, all whenever I want.

The writer in me is a creature of the hedge, observing, incognito and alone.

EMBRACE THE APP. AND TREES

I went to EP last year for the first time and enjoyed it. I was a human book then too, but didn’t camp with the rest of the library and spent too much time alone, wandering aimlessly. A bit of aimless wandering is good for the soul. But when I walked for an hour trying to find the campsite after a long day / night, it became frustrating. So, this year I resolved to stay connected to the group and (shockingly) use the app. I’m a bit of a luddite, always asking ‘am I using technology, or is it using me?’’ But I don’t want to depend on other people for directions, and do want to get where I’m going. The app makes sense.

I get my bearings first, knowing which gate I need to get back to the wagon. The challenge with directions at festivalsis that the landscape changes, becoming a sea of moving people as the weekend progresses. You can only orientate yourself by huge, unmoving landmarks above all the heads. In the campsite on day one you’re sure your tent is beside the big purple tent. But by day two there are several big purple tents and another hundred in between.

At first, I play with the app like a child’s toy. It’s fun watching the wee blue dot moving as I do. Knowing whether I’m getting closer or further away from a toilet is important information. Middle age, remember? The app. becomes my best friend, on my terms. I also choose to turn it off and get lost, clueless but curious about what’s around the next corner. I’m glad I did, because that’s how I came across one of my festival highlights, on neither app. nor map. It’s a tree.

There are many trees, but this one has been lovingly decorated with photographs of Stradbally and Electric Picnic through the years. I’m enchanted and comment to a family beside me. The mum swells with pride, telling me it’s her friend Finolas project. The young son is delighted to point out a photo of him “when I was wee.” He’s no more than six now. A page fluttering amongst the leaves reads;

*Stradbally is more than just a place*

*It’s the music echoing*
*across the hills from electric picnic*
*Sounds of celebration and the feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself –*
*a community that knows how to come together*

***The festival tree is a living tribute to that spirit – the joy and togetherness that define our town.***

It’s not a big tree and is right in the middle of a busy thoroughfare, firmly rooted amidst the hustle and bustle. In its place long before Electric Picnic and remaining long after. I may be a sentimental ol’ hippie, but this captures festival vibes for me. They don’t start with corporate sponsorship and A listers. They start when someone with vision has the seed of an idea. Whether Michael Eavis in Glastonbury or Melvyn Benn in Stradbally, that someone is often thought to be a bit bonkers at the time. But once rooted in place, the festival grows slowly, branching to different stages and areas, and more people. The branches will change over time as it grows, but the roots stay. Or at least they should, in my opinion.

I stay with this tree for a time and revisit it over the weekend. I never would have known it’s significance or chatted to a local family about the festivals history if I’d kept my head stuck in a phone, mindlessly following the blue dot to the next thing, instead of appreciating the now thing that’s right in front of me. I found this tree because I dandered slowly, drinking it all in. There is no app for that.

POETRY FROM MARCHING BOOTS . . .and KNEECAP

3.30pm on Saturday is the slot that no performer at EP wants. That’s when a few young fellas from the North of Ireland will take to the main stage to rap in Irish and shout about genocide. The excitement is palpable and mounting. From about 2.45pm it feels as if the whole site is starting to tilt, gravity pulling thousands of people, in a trickle first, then a flood, towards the main stage. From tiny weans in tricolour balaclavas to curious pensioners, everyone wants to at least glimpse the phenomena that is Kneecap.

Meanwhile a young poet has made it to Mindfield with only munutes to spare after a fraught seven-hour journey of diversions and car trouble. Annie Logan is understandably stressed, until she steps on stage. Then a calm, defiant determination comes over her. Big black boots on small legs are planted so firmly that the world could turn upside down and shake, never mind tilt, she wouldn’t budge. Kneecap could be playing in the same small tent at the same time, her voice would rise, not falter. Committed certainty with every word delivered, this is poetry born of activism, not books. These boots have marched for Bloody Sunday, Palestine and the environment. This poet speaks truth to power, with or without an audience. Poetry of resistance, for change, needed in the world now, more than ever. I want to cry and cheer at the same time. I’m glad I stayed.

I do get the second half of the Kneecap set. Not mosh pit material, I bounce aro9und near the back of the crowd, singing / shouting along in my very little Irish, made louder by the other 50 000 voices.

Close enough to a moshpit for me. Good boys Kneecap. Keep ‘er lit!

DERRY HEADS wi’ DIRTY FACES

I love music and dancing, but never know who’s who in the music world. One of the joys of a festival is being able to just follow sounds, you can hear techno or opera, stay if you like it, move on if you don’t. Nobody cares, in the best possible way.

The only act I’ve scheduled (check me out ‘scheduling!’) is Bog Bodies on Saturday night. As well as browsing to find good music, I also love recommendations because people who know me, know what I’ll like. The app doesn’t know me. I bump into friends, the poet Frank Rafferty and artist Rachel, they tell me that they’re going to see Dirty Faces. “You’ll like them, they’ve great energy, you’ll dance.” That’s me sold. I’m open to any genre of music with good energy. I arrange to see Frank and Rachel there later and wander off to find food for fuel. It’s the tastiest cheese toastie in all the land, devoured while messaging friends where I’ll be. I relax knowing I’ll find the Brutopolis stage in time, self-satisfied by how well I’m using technology.

The minute I step into the small dark tent, I move. And keep moving for the 45 minutes of the Dirty Faces set. This is another accidental highlight of EP for me. ‘Rant rap’ is how the two piece describe their music, and rant and rap they do, in pure Derry style. Punks and poets, working class commentary with cynical lyrics over brutish baselines. A raw and original sound. I’ve just stolen that description from their bio, because to be honest, I’m not sure what I was listening to, I just know that I loved it.

The crowd is a wile pile of Derry Heads that I know and that know every song. A nod, a hug, and a dance. In a dark wee corner of this massive festival, an oasis of Derry soundness, Sandinos in Stradbally. They end with a heartfelt rendition of Bogside Man, and the whole place stands as for an anthem, because it is, an anthem.

I leave on a high, with friends, ready for Bog Bodies at 12.30am. I’m gld it’s the Crio stage because this is music best heard and felt outside. The guttural sound and lyrics rise up from beneath your feet, jangling your whole body. Rousing vocals, bodhrán, flute, mandolin, guitars and drums, blending old and new, earthy and electric. I feel it in my bones as much as hear it in my ears. They are magical performers, but I stand and sway more than jump and stomp.

The Derry boys broke my dancing legs.

Not special effects, I found this photo on my phone when I got home. No idea!

A GENTLE EXIT

And so, to my last day, Sunday. Sorry Kings of Leon, I’m sure you’re brilliant, but I have a long drive and work on Monday morning. I aim to leave in the afternoon, drive in daylight and miss most of the traffic. That’s how middle aged I am.

I’ve really enjoyed company this year but still like to spend my last day quietly alone with the land that has held us all so generously. Like every other morning, I head to Global Green and am a bit surprised by the long queue. I guess word of great coffee, reasonably priced soon spreads. I realise I don’t have my bank card with me. Shit! I try to work out the google pay thingamajig on my phone. Mobile data? NFC? WTF? Why can’t I just use cash? The luditte in me comes flooding back. Not flustered exactly, but I am disappointed that I might not get the coffee I’m craving. Step up Connor; a stranger with a Cork accent and civil face. He buys my coffee, ‘no bouder at all’. It tastes even better for this random act of kindness.

Dandering through the art trail, I find a nice spot under the trees and sit, then lie myself out like a fish supper on a wooden bench. I gaze up, mesmerised by the canopy of green and glittering raindrops landing softly on my forehand, chin, hand. Rustling leaves harmonise with snippets of passing conversations. A beautiful song. I’m wearing a green waterproof poncho, so probably camouflaged.

I sit up again and acknowledge people passing with a small smile. Young and old, drunk, hungover and sober, without fail, every single person smiles back I must look approachable because many come over to say hello. They don’t disturb my peace or invade my space. They just stand briefly, telling me how they are, how they’re enjoying themselves, then walk on. I have copies of a fairytale I’ve written; I offer it to some. They take it gratefully, and I feel grateful too. It’s a gentle time and place to be, and to share.

ROSSEMARY GOES, AND SO DO I

The wagon is easy to pack up. I tidy and take the blinds off the windows. That’s it. My very fluid plan was to leave at about 3pm, it’s now nearly 7pm. Being solo means changing my mind because I’m enjoying sitting under a tree, no other explanation needed.

It’s been another great experience, with only a few photos more than I had leaving Galsonbury, 35 years ago. I do have two videos on social media and a newfound appreciation for technology. I reflect on a decorated tree, bare feet, and music and poetry that I never knew existed, but will never forget.

Radio on. ‘Love grows where my Rosemary goes’ plays. The rain has stopped; the windows are open. I roll slowly out of the campsite in my wee wagon, smiling at beautiful humans who are free range like me, for a weekend at least.

Festivals, where humans are free range

Freedom to write at the John Hewitt International Summer School