Bestival 2006: Episode IV: some hopeThe last hurrah of the summer was for me the only hurrah of the summer. For that reason and others Bestival 2006 was going to be a weekend with no barriers. Early in the day it appeared that - subconsciously at least – I intended to apply this maxim to the letter when I very nearly crashed the car into a barrier in a supermarket car park in Newport. Still, onwards and upwards.
Allow me to get a bit of a moan out of the way before we continue. It must be said that the early signs were less than encouraging. At 10AM - when the gates were due to open - cracks started to appear. These subsequently widened into great yawning chasms as online and telephone bookings went missing, the organisers (a term to be taken lightly as they were already 30 minutes late when the house of cards began to tumble) decided to re-label the windows that punters had been queuing in front of for over an hour before realising that there was no power to fire up their computers. This was all rather immaterial as the printer had gone into meltdown the night before in the middle of spitting out a list of all the names of the ticket holders. Surnames from A through M, join the crush. Everyone else… er, we don’t know. Wristbands arrived. The wrong ones. Guest lists arrived. “No, the blue folder… Not that blue folder… Oh dear. This is the last thing we wanted to happen…” These were the last words I heard as I nabbed my wristband and attempted to make my pilgrim’s progress.
Squeezing through the smallest imaginable gap with a significant amount of luggage (is that what it’s called at a festival?) involved clobbering anyone and everyone clamouring at the ticket windows with tents and all manner of related paraphernalia in order to make your way to the festival gates proper. This was where the real problems began.
Once through the security checkpoint (actually two trestle tables manned by disinterested but amiable guards) we were confronted with a 70 metre downhill slope so steep and treacherous that you’d have thought twice about tackling it un-laden, never mind with all the trappings (rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, enough wine to keep 30 people smiling for a month, cider for the same, fancy dress costume, changes of clothes destined to remain unworn etc). Fellow Bestival-goers were approaching this mini-Matterhorn with large trolleys, wheelbarrows and anything with wheels they were able to drag out of their sheds. Many visibly struggled to stay in control of their improvised wagons and I certainly didn’t fancy my chances should one of them become a runaway train. Later on, reports circulated of twisted ankles and broken legs and, while this may have been a case of Chinese whispers, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. (A security guard told me on Sunday that five people had broken their legs, although I’ve been unable to get confirmation of this. Probably best hushed-up if it was true. The last thing you want at a festival is the Health and Safety Executive: they have a way of putting a dampener on things.)
No barriers and broken limbs. Luckily for all things improved immeasurably from this point. (to be continued)
