Bestival

On the coast path.

OK, one last hurdle and then I can stop living in a tent.  Er, I mean one last festival to enjoy... specifically, Bestival on the Isle of Wight, well, somewhere I've not been at least.  Seems like a pleasant place, though finding where I need to be to sign in proves tricky, and quelle surprise, I'm not working until Friday again.  Well, off for a walk on the Thursday then, I'm able to walk straight out of the site and into fields, and the island not being a terribly big place, it only takes a couple of hours to get to the coast, at Seaview.  From there, I follow the coastal path around, past Ryde where a hovercraft turns up to disgorge festival goers, who then get in a huge queue for shuttle buses.  Obviously my plan to walk back via East Cowes is better, well... it turns out that going all the way to Osborne House was not worth it, as English 'we're not bitter about the National Trust at all' Heritage want £16 just to see the outside of it.  Still it is a pleasant route inland along the Medina estuary to Newport, sadly from there I have a mile or two along the very busy, verge-lacking road to the festival.  At least there is a pub I can stop at before going back in.

Boutique camping.  You can stay in an actual hutch.

To work on the Friday morning, I have drawn 'boutique camping' where people have paid extra for more showers and actual flush toilets, or in some cases much, much more to stay in tipis and the like.  They are not a lot of trouble to steward, I mainly have to politely inform the non-boutique customers where the nearest showers they're allowed to use are.  Then into the festival... hmm.  Turns out Bestival is not for the faint hearted, they have many kinds of music here, including thumpy, shouty, and indeed thumpy and shouty.  Seems to be the sort of thing they play on Radio 1.  Slightly out of place are Duran Duran on the main stage, still they are pretty cool, and I find an oasis of music with actual instruments at the unpromisingly named 'Pig's Big Ballroom', the Caravanserai is nearby, as is the People's Front Room.  Just for a change, I watch the Men That Will Not Be Blamed For Nothing, and then make the long walk back to my just about upright tent... has been a long day.

In the lovely Caravanserai.

Feel kind of broken on Saturday, don't really do much before my shift starts at 4pm, same place, even less to do now as the punters mainly know where stuff is.  At least my fellow stewards are pleasant company, and time goes quickly enough, and at midnight there is still plenty of festival going on, albeit mainly of the shouty and / or thumpy kind.  Worse, I struggle to find beer, there is a crew bar, but frankly it is rather horrid, being, surprise, the home of an ear destroying DJ, and also a bunch of people queuing to buy cocktails.  I find myself paying £5 for a can of tuborg in Club Dada, recognisable as the Pussy Parlure that was, I decide to knock it on the head after that.

The Jacksons!  Only four of 'em, but four out of five ain't bad.

Sunday, my shift starts at midnight, yay, so I have a largely sober day.  Turns out there is more of the festival that does not suck, up the hill towards the pub there are various cool things, I wander around in an actual maze (the always turn left thing works), and watch a string quartet doing their thing.  More music in the Big Ballroom (it is not big), the Caravanserai for the Woohoo Revue, a look into Club Dada (the Ohmz, they are local), and then to the main stage.  It's the Jacksons, again a little out of place here but they've still got it.  And then the rain, which has defied the forecasts and held on 'til now, starts to come down.  Well I had to get back to the Oxfam field to eat (shout out to Nuts Cafe), but after that I lurk in my tent and hope the rain stops.  It does not... well, I at least am well prepared for my all night shift in the wet.  My younger colleagues aren't so well equipped with waterproofs, but to their credit they build a serviceable shelter from a discarded and broken looking gazebo.

I manage a few hours sleep the next morning, before being woken by gale force winds that try to blow my tent away with me in it.  And then, off to get a ferry, and that is it, no more festivals.  To be honest I could do with a rest... not sure if I'll do this again, if I'm in the UK next summer maybe I will do a festival or two.  But not one every week I suspect.  And not one in a poxy camper van.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.