On Friday I packed an old rucksack with all the things that I would need during a weekend away:
tent;
sleeping bag;
a gallon of cider;
half a gallon of wine;
enough food;
my old petrol stove; and
Miklos Banffy's Transylvanian Trilogy to read.
On my head I put an old green Transylvanian forester's trilby hat with a feather tucked into the band - a festival hat.
My rucksack was very heavy as I trudged a long hard mile to the station.
An eccentric old man with a bushy grey beard, who drives a car with one door a different colour to the remainder, spoke kindly to me in the street. Judging by my appearance the hobo community was ready to take me in.
A glass of traditional ale (from the White Horse Brewery, no less) on the train banished my thirst and left me mellow to get into a festival spirit, listening to the Byrds and the Beatles on my iPod.
Not long after getting down from the train I had my tent set up, dinner cooking on the stove, and a mug of old English cider in my hand.
Here's the view from my tent.
This is very much a "by invitation" festival, therefore friendly and uncrowded. Everyone present knows at least a proportion of the other visitors. There are no "problems" and nothing illegal happens.
There was plenty of music right through into the early hours of the morning, much of it from the '60s and '70s, with some more recent compositions too. The old favourites appeared for us to sing along to, not forgetting House of the Rising Sun and Country Road.
In the night I sat by the fire drinking cider with the great-great-grandson of Charles Darwin, an accomplished anthropologist, musician and author. It was such an interesting talk that only when the growing drizzle became rain proper did we notice the downpour and take cover.
At the end of the rented farm field stood a peculiar relic. It's an old shepherd's wagon. These boxes on iron wheels were towed out to the pastures where sheep grazed, providing summer quarters for the shepherd.
Twenty years ago there was still a shepherd on these, however he lived in a cottage and drove out to his flocks. I wonder when those wheeled boxed of corrugated iron and timber were used last for their intended purpose? My guess would be the 1950s.
The weekend passed quickly. Too soon the sea of music and merriment vast me up on the shore of the outside world, tired but full of memories.
The cider and wine had all been consumed, and so had much of the food.
In between music I had devoured another great chunk of the Transylvanian Trilogy, transported back a hundred years to a land of deep forests and deeper intrigue, of introspection lacking prescience of the impending storm. I learnt too about places that I used to drive past unware of their history. Better to read now rather than have driven about knowing and therefore lamenting daily that which was lost for no gain.
Best for now to enjoy the beauty of the music, the goodness of companions and old friends, and the rare opportunity simply to sit and read.
Then Danielle brought me back by car, in time to visit and ride my Slovenian mare, a visitor from yet another erstwhile Habsburg land. History, it seems, is one thing that I cannot escape.
