Wind in the morning got me up, not the heat. My festival tent is very much a festival tent. It would blow off the mountain if it didn’t break the back of the yak before I got there.
I incompetently bungled round the outside of my tent, meaninglessly pushing thin pegs into chalk soil with my Birkenstocks. Bending half of them.
I wandered down the hill. It rained.
A woman covered in reindeer teeth and skins who knows my brother told me about pre-history. I bought a bacon butty and called Lou. Then I found a programme for the day.
This is so wonderfully varied and geeky. What a delight to be able to be here. I listened to people debate about The Long Man of Wilmington. Is it old or is it landscaping? I go and see him pretty often. He lives on a slope just down from my favourite yew tree, in Wilmington Church. A talkative temple of a tree, in the grounds of a church as so many are, being trees that were planted in places of power. Thousands of years old and it has responded eloquently to many generations of benign humans trying to prop it up and keep it safe. There’s old broken chain embedded in it, the props have been moved with time, it still berries bright and feels so wise. I write about it from time to time.
Then William Dalrymple. “It’s wonderful that such a good historian can write so well,” is the general consensus. He’s a friendly and forthright man. I buy his book and he signs it, dedicating it to Lou. “She loves India,” I tell him. “I applaud her. Encourage it. Join her.”
Callum gave a talk about original practice and the man is a calm fountain of knowledge. I’ve landed very well with this group. People are earnest and thoughtful and hard working.
Then some Scaramanga fellow got helicoptered in to do a talk entitled “Me and me and me and me and me and trump and me and me and me.” I may have misremembered the title slightly. The whole festival went to see him like he mattered. I couldn’t bear it, not that it isn’t relevant, but that I am in a field and don’t want to think about that man. Someone started playing “Summer is icumen in” on a hurdy-gurdy and a crumhorn and frankly that was enough to pull me away even if it only led to a very performative Robin Hood show for kids.
Then I met a knight, who was extremely knowledgeable about chainmail. I saw some old cars and a lot of tired clever experts. All the while someone kept firing blanks in the WW2 area. There’s even a tank.
This festival is so varied, I couldn’t have possibly expected it. I met a steward walking up the hill. “Imagine if you were a time traveller and you wound up here,” I said. There absolutely must be a Doctor Who episode where something goes tits up and the doctor winds up here and doesn’t have a clue what era he’s in.
I got to the top of the hill to find my tent beautifully pinned and stable, rather than halfway down the hill with all my stuff scattered hither and yon. I am told by Callum and Emma that there are magical tent fairies in Wiltshire. If only there was some way to thank them.
Now I have my new £3.50 Vinted Cerrutti denim jacket on and I’m gonna go listen to people being clever about things again for a bit. The sun is falling. I’m feeling very chilled.
AlBarclay 