the walk

 ♪

the air stank with a sweaty richness, and though it was crisp and biting, it wasn't necessarily cold. i have since become unattached to the specific dates, but if i were to guess now i'd try for early july. underneath the vast marquee a dewy morning was evaded, and the grass beneath footing remained soft and inviting even in those early hours. the alcove in the corner was where we slept; a blue-haired sprite with a year off me, a burly bloke with a black stretched tee and an apparent aversion to soap sat beside her, a smaller mousier boy leant in an unfortunate position on the bean bag opposite, and a final man in a brown leather jacket with a roman nose and a peaceful snore who happened to be new to the group joined us in our slumber. all four of them dreamed. 

the music had subsided from the night before to allow everyone an easy transition into the next bustling day, and we had decided to remain under the protection of the pvc while the rest of the festival-goers retreated to the bosom of their various tenting attempts. one by one, each of the four let sleep sweep them up and into soft visions, but my retinas remained alert and watchful. wearing red chequered pajama trousers and a slinky shirt, i neglected my socks in favour of a hippie tradition- bareness. usually, the marquee was titled the "Something Else Tea Tent", and it followed and inhabited festivals up and down the country. signs saying that feral children would be taught to say the word "cunt" littered the innards, and crocheted vulvas littered the sides.  two tressel tables had been erected in order to mount a hefty urn of boiling water, coupled with an array of tea bags, coffees, and cups to be sold to those pesky pedestrians who needed their caffeine fix before another indie-rock band infiltrated the stage.

when the sun had begun to rise at around 4 clock, i shifted the final brunette boy's sleepy head from my lap and traipsed over to the urn in the hopes of a morning cup of tea. instead, i had the bright idea to bend myself underneath and wash my shoulder length locks with a cheap shampoo borrowed from dad. i bundled my soaking hair into a years old towel and scrunched strands together to ease the lukewarm liquid out and onto the grass. when it was halfway decent and dry, i surveyed my little coven and elected to leave our area of solitude in favour of the enclosed festival grounds. 

the gates had been locked the night before, which made entry impossible for anyone who wasn't crew or performer. it also made exit another inviable option, and so my journey was inevitably going to be a short one. this did not prohibit, however, an enjoyable early morning stroll. i ventured towards the main stage where some dying britpop band exercised their single hit the night before, and attempted to progress through into the backstage area. surprisingly, security was nowhere to been seen nor found, and my entrance into the forbidden quarters of the higher ups was granted as a result. 

numb as my feet were in the morning cold, their delicate and unburdened nature made for a silent approach, and i quietly stalked a small bird that had landed before me. he led me round the back of the stage, and his polite disposition gained my trust. 

futile. he fucking flew off.

and i was left, abandoned, at the back of the main stage. with no real sense of direction other than my aim to progress to the other side of the vast structure, i advanced toward the artists' camping. the time must've been around 5 in the morning, as the bulk of people were silent and the sun had risen enough for a warm glow, and i heard some faint laughter. deciding instantly that i'm about as safe locked inside a festival grounds as i am approaching strange musical men, i seek out the noise and am met with a Foo Fighters' tribute band lazing around happily in green plastic (WAAAATERING CANS) chairs, all sharing a spliff. we get to chatting, and i ask there whereabouts of Dave Grohl, to which they respond that he's "miserable" and being a "diva" in his tent. i think to myself that Dave's actually being rather reasonable considering the early hour and his band's lack of social niceties, but i only nod my head and make my kind goodbyes. they offer me a cigarette and i take it, as apparently it's a menthol filter and the taste reminds me of skipping college and chip butties.

i continue my walk around the festival, and delight in the quiet. i remember feeling a reverberating sense of adulthood, and remaining on the fence over whether i did in fact miss my home or not. i thought about the cat that had recently taken to wandering into our garden and staying with me for elongated periods of time (this kitten we now all know to be our dearest Pippin), i thought about what tattoos i might like to get when i would soon turn eighteen, i thought about the four people i had left behind in the marquee. and i headed back to them, to enjoy the final day of the festival. to enjoy being seventeen. to enjoy my new freedom.

since then, and since the other festival that shall forever remain the single most important event in my lifetime, i have loved the warm morning sun. and i have loved the feeling of the dewy grass. and i miss the festivals, sometimes. and i look forward to the sunny days that are coming. they're on their way folks, don't you worry!

sincerely, the caravan girl.