Festival No.6: the good, the bad, the ugly. #1


Bastille’s new album came out the week before last and G stopped by HMV on his way back from work on the day it came out to pick it up for me. If that doesn’t speak marriage material then I dunno what does.

So it goes without saying that I’m writing this whilst listening to their new album.

Also I saw them live for the first time during the first weekend of September and that still makes me a little emotional every time I think about it.

I am just all about Bastille right now.

I finally saw them live at Festival No.6 in Wales. It was our second year at the festival and it felt a lot more dramatic than last year which was so super chilled. But then last year we didn’t have two inches of rain in less than 12 hours or 40mph gale force winds.

Or end the weekend with our car needing to be pulled out of a flooded field by a tractor.

Yeah. That happened.

I think this year, more than ever, the whole festival experience was reinforced for me. Let’s say it how it is guys. Those people who post photos on social media with flowers in the hair and dots on their face are putting across that image that we all like to have of festivals. That it’s all sun and fruit ciders and amazing bands.

When the reality is not so picturesque and we all know it.

Well, unless you’ve never been to a festival and you thought it was all sun and fruit ciders and amazing bands. In which case, I may be about to ruin all your pre-conceived notions forevs. Soz an that.

Every festival I’ve been to has been bloody hard work. Yet filled with unforgettable, magical moments. In one day you can have one of the best life experiences (i.e. finally seeing Bastille live) and then the worst (i.e. getting the shits in a festival portaloo... um, soz if you were eating). It’s a total  head fuck.

So this is pretty much how our weekend went down, warts and all, and split into more than one post just to prolong the excitement of the tractor story.

(FYI – Festival No. 6 is set around Portmeirion in Wales. There’s two main fields, the wacky and wonderful town of Portmeirion, a massive forest and an estuary. If you get confused, last year’s post is here. Past Kate probably explains it better.)

The alarm went off at 5am on the Friday and we dragged ourselves from bed to car. It’s a 4 hour drive from St A to Wales and we wanted to miss the rush hour traffic around Birmingham hence the hideousness of the hour.

We stopped briefly for croissants and couldn’t find the park n ride for an age when we made it to Portmeirion but by midday we had parked up, hopped on the shuttle bus to the site, walked up a hefty hill and had found a spot to pitch the tent.

Oh and it wasn’t raining.

Win.





Day One

The good: 

In keeping with last year, we got some chorizo and red pepper scotch eggs with sweet potato fries for our lunch, and first food of the festival. We went and found a bench in the main field where we played spot the difference between FN6 2015 and FN6 2016. Oh and a guy leaned over and told me he couldn’t stop staring at my egg. I think he was high.

We walked round the main field, into the small field, through the town and right down to the estuary, still checking out the differences from last year. The buzz started to feel infectious and we both got a craving for a cider. So we watched the paddle boarders for a while whilst sipping on Summer Berries Old Mout Cider and the sun peaked through. Yay.

We decided to solve our mid-afternoon energy slump with churros whilst watching Clean Cut Kid in the main field. Yeah baby.

Hollie McNish. A sassy, empowering performance poet and author who I freakin love. She performed and made me laugh and cry and basically get all the emotional feels. Also, she’s bizarrely performed at my mum’s work conference and instagrammed a pic of my mum last year calling her a ‘fucking don’. My mum thought she was being insulted, I had to explain slang; it was bants. I eventually plucked up the courage to go tell Hollie this story (which she thought was hilarious), and that I love her work. She hugged me and so I can only assume we’re now bffs? No one reading this will understand what the eff I’m chatting here but I don’t even care. It was marvellous.

I ate Anna Mae’s mac n cheese (oh maaaan) whilst watching Kaiser Chiefs. We also discovered the Crumble Shack which, hands down, best crumble I have EVER had. Fiiiiianlly people who understand my custard – topping – fruit ratio. So. Effing. Good.

BASTILLE LIVE AFTER WAITING HALF MY LIFE. Danced and cried in equal unison and it was beautiful. I was so tired afterwards (been awake for soooo long) but the adrenaline was too much so we sat people watching for a while whilst drinking plum juice. Hashtag wild party gal.

The bad:

I literally ripped half my nail off when putting up the tent. It caught on a clip and literally tore from my skin. It bled. It stung like a bitch.

Good job I packed that family pack of plasters eh? Hashtag adulting.

The ugly: 

I woke up at 2am 98% sure I was going to vom, or ya know... the other one. This is some kind of hellish experience on the best of days but when you’re in a tent and your only way to a toilet is through the death trap of overlapping tent guy ropes, I assure you it is NOT THE ONE. Also the only option of toilet is a festival portaloo. And the security guard thought I was drunk and lost. Good oh.


Keep an eye out for the next post which involves power cuts, halloumi fries and dodgy sexual shenanigans...  

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