A Summer of Love
My mind is muzzy, I’m a little drowsy, and I would list the places that hurt but there are just too many.
All I know is – I am grateful to be home, I felt grateful for my hot bath, and I’ll be grateful for my bed once weariness finally takes me whole.
I ache so much, how is this even possible? The soles of my feet throb, my back is a twinge, my thighs are stiff – am I getting too old for this? I’ve got work in the morning and I’m sat here wondering if I’ll be nimble enough to move. I don’t think the outlook is good.
Bestival, my festival
Each morning, over the tent-filled fields of Boutique and the do-it-yourself’ers, and over the stages and decks, the commune and stalls, and over the bars and little nooks of knickknacks, the sun rose and chased away the clouds, mostly – the real heavy rain held out until Missy Elliott’s set, which was lucky.
Each morning people woke with bodies aching for the night before, for the coming day of more, the anticipation so palpable it held force –
Life returned and it felt glorious…
From our tipi in Boutique to the robot on The Grassy Hill, to the ferris wheel in Bollywood Field – I couldn’t help but get lost, get caught up in the expressive passions of others – the power of Bestival seeping, its acceptance of every one of us.
You must be you, the fields insist, and you must do exactly what you want…
On Thursday I arrived with a friend and we were out exploring by four pm, and then we met our tipi-neighbours and explored some more.
On Friday we caught Gabrielle Aplin, George the Poet, Ella Eyre, and then we got a little lost at The Port.
On Saturday we chilled – we’re not at all hardcore! – we unwound in the Magic Meadow, the Ambient
Forest, and mingled with the crowd roaring for Annie Mac.
Sunday was the day – The Jacksons, Kitty, Daisy & Lewis, Neneh Cherry, Missy Elliott, Mark Ronson, and so many more, too many more to list, too many to remember…
We woke Monday and queued wearily for the shuttle to Ryde, for the hovercraft to Southsea, and dragged our sorry selves home.
We’re done in.
You killed us Bestival – I’m beat.