Discovering an Ancient Future

Mmm, Bali. A tropical, paradise island in Indonesia home to volcanic mountains, coral reefs and green paddies; it is rich with culture, high in spirit and the perfect place to hold a consciousness raising festival. So that's what happened!  We were introduced to The New Earth movement, a consciousness raising initiative run by an eclectic group of individuals that have backgrounds spanning different professions, from tribal leaders to scientists; it brings together ancient wisdom and modern developments to create a conscious future. 

The New Earth, Ancient Futures Festival was the first of its kind; held in the beautiful surroundings of Ubud, Bali. A charismatic and passionate man named Sacha Stone who is one of the main initiators of the movement, hosted the event at his incredible residence. His vision took the form of intricate bamboo structures that were weaved together in different sacred geometric forms. For those that don't know, 'sacred geometry' mimics designs found in nature; the mathematic ratios and proportions of these designs are found in such natural formations as shells, flowers, music, light and the human body to name a few. Ancient cultures have utilised these designs to channel the energy within sacred spaces like the Ancient pyramids of Egypt, medieval cathedrals in Rome or Hindu temples in India. By designing structures in this way it effects the entire dynamic of a room; its circulation, lighting, sound and energy flow. By integrating materials such as copper, it can serve to ground ones energy. The earths surface is naturally charged with electrons that are pushed up into our body to the top of our head causing a potential within our being. As copper is commonly used in devices as an electrical conductor, it can be used to conduct our own electrical energy downwards, through our feet that are in contact with the earth. One structure, the 'bio-arc healing dome' was lined with copper wiring in-between the wooden floorboards climbing all the way up, into the center of the dome. This sacred structure is where we experienced our first workshop of the festival. 

L, R & I <3

The workshop we chose to attend was lead by 'G' , an extraordinary woman and the pioneer of cacao ceremonies to Bali. The cacao plant is traditionally used in many South American rituals as a powerful, heart opening tool. Everyone sat in a circle and in the middle was a jug of thick cacao mixed with wild honey, hot water, cajun pepper and other spices to help activate the natural properties of the cacao. We went round in a circle, sharing our intention for being there and pouring the cacao into small glasses to drink when we felt ready. G lead us through a two hour, meditative journey in which we danced, screamed and released that which did not serve us. Through this process, we paid respect to the sun, water, earth, wind and ether elements that work together to grow and nurture the cacao plant. Some people had profound experiences as the spirit of the cacao worked through them; shaking spastically, bursting into tears or screaming with laughter - it was amazing to see everyone in such a raw state of being. That was my first afternoon of the Ancient Futures healing process. By the end of that day my fear had melted away and my heart felt so expansive; R and I officially committed to our connection and went into the night rolling with the rhythm of the universe.

That evening and for the next 4 to come everyone danced in ecstasy to an eclectic mix of musicians and performers from all over the world; a group of sufi drummers playing the sounds of India, a Gypsie folk band from California playing instruments I've never even seen before, a dystopian breakdancing group, stand up poets and funky DJ's. The best part? Everyone was sober. The festival guidelines stated that drugs and alcohol were unwelcome but looking at the crowd, you'd never have guessed.

Every day of the festival was themed around a different element. The 'water' day was my favourite; in each beautifully decorated venue around the festival there was a different talk, workshop or meditation about this element. Some were more informative; explaining the water shortage in Bali or the global travesty of what is happening to our water sources; did you know, when water moves through 90° angles (e.g. in the pipes that it must go through before it reach our taps), the natural charge/ beneficial potential of the water is reduced. With the addition of heavy metals, fluoride and other toxic substances to the human body, it essentially becomes 'dead water', stripped of all its natural benefits or 'purified' as the cooperations advertise. The messages had a strong impact and the intention was to raise awareness and empower everyone to become protectors of water; social activists for the precious natural resources we so often take for granted. The negative facts were met with positive solutions; for example we were taught that if water moves through a vortex the molecules are re-energised and re-charged, restoring its beneficial potential. So devices exist that can re-charge our water or, given that our bodies are made of 70% water and our mind is our powerhouse, we can simply set intentions before drinking/ using it to maximise its effect on our body (check out Masaru Emoto for more!). A few scientists attended the gathering and although some things went over my head, you could see that the research of these professionals was extensive. "MNI WICONI", we all shouted - 'water is life'.

Every day I began to feel stronger and every day my consciousness began to expand. As everyone's energy began to merge, our collective frequency intensified. One day as everyone was lining up to get their beautiful cooked, locally sourced vegan food, I wondered through the hippie paradise. I dipped my toe into the healing pool that was lined with crystals, feeling so grateful for being in that magical space. Everyone was going through a healing process of some kind, some metamorphosis - releasing the old and welcoming the new, we were all equally vulnerable and equally receptive. There was little room for judgement but lots of room for expression and expansion; in the process many real connections were made. By the end of the festival, unlike most others, my memory was intact and full of knowledge. Through the transformational breathing, soul healing and body work we had tapped into that inner wisdom that everyone has the potential to reach. 

I left our lovely villa and said goodbye to R, L and all the other beautiful souls I had connected with; I looked out the window at the lush green rice paddies of Ubud and the old stone temples strewn with faded flags. It was time now to take what we had learned from the wisdom keepers and inspirational speakers and share it; as part of the movement to consciously create the new earth we want to live on. I am so grateful to Bali, the hosts, organisers, volunteers, guests and everyone in-between who made the experience possible, Aho. 

Rewind to Christmas Thaim.

So I'm almost 2 months into life in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Living at home, working full time and learning to appreciate the weekends more every day. I've found my priorities shift as my free time has become squeezed into a narrow 2-day gap and my recreational 'to do' list is still just as long ... and incomplete but I'm ticking off the boxes one by one. The lesson I'm learning is that it's ok to slow down because unlike the days of my degree, in this working world there is no end to the race. So while it's long overdue, this post is something I wrote over the christmas holiday and although I'm in a very different space now, it's nice to let the mind return to a time that was once a reality...

The clocks hand has finally cut the circle in two; it's 7.30am and my body is up and eager for the day. The 8am morning yoga in the buddha hall was sounding good but alas, nature decided otherwise. My mum and I are staying in a little wooden bungalow at the top of a mountain, in Koh Phangan, Thailand. Aside from its solid foundations it stands bare and defenseless against tropical rainstorms like this. The shutters closest to my head are swinging open and closed and gusts of earthy wind are circulating the room, it's a wild experience to be a part of. The tropical trees are shuddering and the giant leaves - so thin and strong have been weakened as they fall to the ground in all directions - soon to become part of the next layer of jungle floor when the storm has passed.

Yesterday, when I looked out the window at the vast expanse of sea, my eyes were entertained by the constant currents and rips that were surging and merging into one another. But now, looking out there is no distinction between the underwater rhythms. Despite the outer chaos the water is seemingly calm, awash with a million tiny pockets from where the droplets continue to fall. Through the ancient medicinal lens of Ayurvedic tradition that we follow in yoga this weather would be described as vata; a 'dosha' or constitution that connotes purifying, wet and strong weather on the outside and a desire for movement, creativity and contemplation on the inside. If one were to sit now and practise anything it would need to be the opposite - long, deep, heating breath and strong, grounding movements - working with the elements. A big thunderbolt just struck the sky and in its wake, silence has followed. Now we rest in the calm after the storm...

I love it here, this patch of earth that we've been coming to for over 10 years now; I'm with my mum, her boyfriend T and his kids C and T to celebrate New Years. To the side of our hut, enclosed by a little bay lies 'The Sanctuary' - a healing retreat scattered along the roots of the jungle. The restaurant is full of vegan and gluten free goodness and the shop full of Ayurvedic oils and pretty garms. The grounds are run by the glam hippies adorned in sparkly sequins and sarongs, floating between natural and psychedelic healing sessions. On the other side of us is Haad Tien where 'Eden' lies - a venue that holds great sentimental value, positioned between ancient rocks and home to the most magical raves. It's a sight to be held when the sunrise reveals the seamless stretch of bay, sea and jungle - previously hidden by the night. I remember being on an adventure here when I was 18 years old with J... we'd managed to escape the obnoxious beats of the half moon party on Haadrin and instead, chose to board a little boat to an unknown bay that offered an unimaginable alternative. We danced until the sun rose and then I remember recognizing an old school friend from Sri Lanka and then another from Cambodia! My worlds had collided and shrunk into a tropical raindrop. It is truly a place where magic happens... I found it comical yet not surprising that we had discovered the rave right around the corner from the healing retreat that I'd spent time in growing up. So this is where the adults had disappeared off to when I lay in bed at night listening to the cicadas sing. The dots all add up eventually...

For a change, this holiday I haven't been so drawn to the beats that echo across the island. My body has been recovering from the last few weeks of madness in London and I'm luckily in the perfect place to heal. The other day as the post-yoga gong was sounding through the hall, I heard it merge with the deep bass from Guy's Bar and I smiled... true.vibes. It's 3 days on from New year, the music is still going and the people still flowing passed our little hut with remnants of glitter on their faces..

So that tropical storm grew and grew until we could no longer stay

For fear of being blown away.

And after a few hiccups we were all homeward bound 

and we made it back safe and sound.

Now I'm counting down the days,

until the next glorious getaway.

Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrbaZ7dpJyg

The final wave

And then there were 4… It’s coming to the end of my time in Morocco and our Essaouira family are coincidentally leaving within days of each other; like a game of dominoes, when L left it initiated the movement out of our comfortable lives that we’ve become so used to. Every evening over the last week has been a goodbye, not that our nightly activities have changed from the usual red-wine and smoke fuelled jam sessions in the apartment or on the terrace. In the midst of this leaving procession, there was a super full moon and for me, the days leading up to it were ridden with anxiety - an emotional build up to change perhaps, as though an animal in flight mode preparing to flee the nest. But as the moon begins to disappear again from our visual field and the end of our time here nears, I feel calm. The time has come for change. 

Over the last month, we’ve formed a transitory family in this magical town by the sea… It started off with just two of us. I’d been working at the hostel Surf Mellow for a week and I was on the terrace, arduously washing the wet suits. R walked up the stairs having just checked in, he was a fellow nomad from Seattle a year into his travels and his opening line was a sarcastic comment on my poor ability to complete my task; that did it, friends for life. R was constantly entertained by my many failures at hostel work (that eventually lead to my being relocated to a different hostel), my lack of enthusiasm for the job was apparently quite obvious. Our daily routine was simple: I’d teach yoga in the morning, we’d surf together in the afternoon and chill/ work at the hostel in the evenings, with meals filling the gaps. We were absorbed into a new subculture of people with which we lived the beach life that was so simple yet so fulfilling; from the kite surfers in the wind to the surfers in the sea, we too learned to dance with the elements. 

Our routine was jogged when R and I were no longer welcome back to the hostel because of various reasons surrounding incompatibility with the owner. R went first, a few days earlier than I and instead of confronting him about the true reasons, the owner had just said that there weren't enough beds available; so whilst waiting for a bed (that would never appear) R decided to camp in a sand dune amongst the desert shrubs. By the time I’d been kicked out too, he was over his 'Into the Wild' stint, and was ready for a bed so we both happily relocated to the sister-hostel ‘Ambra’, where our duo began to grow. V was the endearing and inquisitive Chilean of the group that always had everyone hooked on an interesting thought: "what does it mean to authorize yourself?" His look was strong; he’d pensively play his guitar wearing a black beret whilst smoking a cigarette that would stick out beneath his moustache. We were all sitting on the balcony having our first conversations and (appropriately) drinking red wine, when I met D – the energetic, loud and loving girl of the group that soon became my Moroccan (meets Melbourne) ally. D was also here on a business venture, launching a line of leather bags that were being produced in Marrakech. It took one evening together to know that we’d all found somewhere we wanted to stay with people that we wanted to stay around. 

One of my favourite parts about travelling is the characters you meet along the way; for those first initial days we were graced by a special character Rd, the magician we called him. He’d travelled down from Portugal in his magic van for the electronic music festival that was bizarrely being held in Essaouira. Every so often, he would wave his wand and cast a surprise spell out the back of his magic van, sending someone off into a dimension of some sort. When it came time for his disappearing act, he returned to Portugal and D went back to Marrakech to check on her bags. Meanwhile R, V and I continued on with Ambra life.

Working there was an interesting experience… 5 hours a day of sitting on the dark, bottom floor of the hostel, checking people in and making sure the door stayed closed. This was in exchange for a €5/night hostel bed and breakfast (that rarely appeared). The bottom floor of the hostel was the only Wi-Fi zone in the building, so I was fortunate to always have company; but the job soon became mindless and restrictive – I felt like a trapped animal and my petals began to wither as I spent most of my day sitting in a dark hostel, while the sun shined outside…  I still wonder why I stayed for so long. The cleaner of the hostel, Fatima spoke to me regularly in Arabic; none of which I ever understood but nevertheless, I’d respond in my broken French/ English and motion with my hands. Despite not understanding each other the conversation would always end with some form of unknown agreement, Fatima walking off shaking her head while I stood confused, wondering what we'd just spoken about. The manager of the hostel was another funny character - Rw, the cool, young Moroccan who used to compete in capoeira competitions with the 2 hostel owners. I don’t know how long he’d been managing Ambra for but there was no system (alike most other hostels in Essaouira). He’d never know how much money guests had paid or how many rooms were free and if there was ever a mistake, it was never his fault. Like my experience with most local, Moroccan men he persisted in his shameless and incredibly forward attempts to flirt, despite being married. 

Time went by, V was still ‘leaving in 2 days’ and R eventually started volunteering with me so I could finally have a day off. But it was Murphy’s Law and my day off was also the day the hostel had to be (conveniently) quarantined due to a bed bug invasion; it seemed the managers technique of playing musical beds and avoiding the bugs, could only work for so long. Those working at Ambra weren’t considered a priority so we were mercilessly asked to leave. R stormed out after a dispute with Rw who refused to listen to how awful the management of Ambra was and I walked out smiling, finally free from hostel work and its mundanity. 

This is when we discovered The Atlantic - the biggest hostel in Essaouira that hosted about 100 people and was known for its late night parties. Cous Cous was the nickname for the crazy chef with the 10 one-liners that you’d eventually notice repeated themselves amongst each new group of travellers. Much to our amusement, he assumed a fairly authoritarian role in the hostel despite his actual lack of authority, for he was only in charge of the kitchen. But as fun as it all was I had been living in hostels for a while now and craved my own space; so I spent a week going on missions around the medina with various locals, looking for potential apartments to rent. I viewed countless properties that ranged from small, run-down dusty spaces to beautiful, open-plan villas adorned in vines and banana trees. One night, out of slight desperation after a series of unfortunate events I sent a drunken text to my estate agent, confirming a property by Bab Marrakech… finally, my own space.  

I moved in to the apartment and like clockwork, I was hit with the flu. For a week I went M.I.A and slunk in to the quiet side of the medina, skipping the late night jam sessions. Our crew had grown larger now, encompassing D and L – two best friends and writers from New York, Le a chef/ writer from Canada and A, the sweet American girl next door. As I started to feel better, I began to miss having constant company around so R moved in to my extra room. He now had space for his nightly shenanigans and I had an amazing housemate. Meanwhile, back at the Atlantic the heat was beginning to rise - incidences of stolen property had become increasingly frequent and the thief  still remained a mystery. The staff’s method of handling the situation was to ban all outsiders, meaning R and I. Never in our lives had we been kicked out of this many hostels, for a moment I had to wonder whether it was actually us ... but just for a moment. This new rule meant there was now an awkward divide amongst the group and when the terrace tunes began on the top floor of the Atlantic, R and I would reluctantly slink back to our apartment. Occasionally, we’d have the whole group crowd around our little Moroccan-tiled living room table; but the angry knocks and shouts from our neighbours suggested that they didn’t quite enjoy our jams as much as we did… 

During the daytimes, everyone had their own routine but we’d all meet up regularly at one of our favourite local cafes, Chez Omar or the lentil stand. There was always a new member to meet and a new story to hear as the crew expanded like a growing organism. Every character in the group added a unique touch and we all shared a love for music; as we went about our daily activities, someone was constantly bursting into song or playing a tune, it was wonderful.

But no song lasts forever... so with the last gusts of wind, the notes are beginning to fade as the dominoes continue to fall and now we’re down to the final 4. We all sit together at our favourite local cafe for 'one last' Moroccan sunset. An air of love and nostalgia surrounds us as we indulge in msmen with amlou and sip on mint tea, what a magical moment by the Essaouira sea. 

Song of the day: Give me one reason (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym1eDeOxq14) 

BOOMtown

Boomtown

Boomtown, the festival where all your unconscious phantasies come to life – It would truly be Freud’s paradise. The festival is constructed like a town and organised around a narrative in which different areas and districts contain theatrical characters and stories, interwoven through performances over the course of the festival. How to turn it into words? I’ll soon find out.

I arrived at boomtown in a truly bamboozled state. I was dropped off on the wrong side of this massive festival (home to over 35 stages) and due to my poor sense of direction and lacksidasical attitude, I found myself somehow lost inside the festival walls, trying to dodge the security guards and ironically break out of the festival to get a wristband. What a pickle I was in. An hour after wandering around aimlessly, I ended up in Whistlers Green – the lovely, healing side of the festival situated amongst cornfields, how apt it was. I didn’t even think such a section would even exist at a festival like boomtown that was renowned for it’s grimy, grotty underground scene. The sky was dark and time was ticking until the ticket office closed, so I unwillingly declined an invitation to camp with the hippies for a night as I’d already committed to the ASBO Disco crew. Our stage was in the centre of the Red Light district, part of downtown with opposite vibes and at the opposite end of the festival from Whistlers Green. I gave them a cuddle and was sent off with a tribe of teenagers in high vis’ that lead me into more new territory. Strolling along I finally felt like I’d hit a spot of luck as they happily took all my bags off me and I followed behind them. But then we reached a gate and as they handed me my bags I felt the burden return. A confused look washed over everyone’s face and I realised they had no idea where they were going either. Shit. It’d been 3 hours since I’d arrived now and I had 20 minutes to get my wristband before the ticket office shut. With the last rush of adrenaline I ran through uptown mayfair, passed the half constructed sets, through the psytrance forest and towards huge metal constructions with hundreds of digital eyes, opening and closing at different times all around me. I made it 5 minutes before the booth closed, locked eyes with a steward that caved in and gave me my golden ticket. IN.

The ASBO Crew

Once I’d calmed down from my manic state, found the site and the crew we went on a tour of the empty grounds to get a feel for the land before the punters arrived…

As the sun rose into the centre of the sky the next day, I stood in the centre of the bowl-shaped ground where the original festival used to be held before it expanded to its surrounding valleys. The punters were beginning to arrive now – streaming into the camping grounds like ants on honey. The empty fields around me were soon a colourful patchwork quilt of tents and the buzz was beginning to rise. I went for a wander up the dreaded infinite staircase that connected downtown with uptown. Just as I’d reached Whistlers Green, gasping for breath, I saw a beautiful sight that made me stop. Positioned perfectly in-between 2 trees, a couple lay in a four-poster bed, adorned with vines and flowers in the middle of a miniature forest. A dining table with 12 chairs stood nearby, ready with a china tea set for the forest fairies to dine… I was getting butterflies “JESS!” I was shaken out of my reverie and turned around to face the sound and see J, a festival friend that I’d been bumping into in various magical fields around the country… the beauty of synchronicity that festivals create amazes me; that magnetism that draws you to those you know despite however many thousands of people and activities there are.

The ASBO Crew

Later that day, I was born into Boomtown. Re-emerging as an ASBO girl in chunky chains, adidas hoodies and sports bras, I'd found my alter ego. The look was chavy, the vibe dutty and the attitude cheeky. Along with my other ASBO girls I re-awoke my love for theatre – when else do we get to perform in such a menacing way and where best to do it but a huge, 5 day music and chem fuelled performance that perfectly merges narrative with improvisation. This year, the chapter of the boomtown book was Revolution and the Boominati were the big dogs on the block. They controlled the boomtown currency that could be found everywhere; if one were to really get their act together (although I didn’t meet anyone that managed it) they could play the game and collect all the hidden numbers at various stages. If they presented the correct sequence of numbers to the bank, a vault would be opened with a secret prize hidden inside.

Muti was the king of the underground in which we lived. A district laden with some serious characters, the hardcore garage girls being one of my favourites as they skanked to DnB on derelict boom-cars, wearing tight leather with half-shaved heads and tattoos streaking their faces. By night it became a multi-dimensional dungeon rave with characters in futuristic suits flipping on blades, hanging from ropes and spinning in hoops; each group battling it out with synchronised dances to live freestyles MC'd by the head of the boomtown police force.

Being nawwtyy

Each crew had its own afters when the music stopped at 4am. One evening, the ASBO afters merged in with our neighbours - the itchy-red-rash girls. As we entered their boudoir, our mouths dropped at the incredible sight of half naked women in tight corsets, passing around trays with straws as the Madame sat on her throne, with a watchful eye. I turned to chat to Muti’s second-hand man, the guard of the underworld who was grinning with gold teeth and a mad look in his eyes that were coated with thick, black coal. He was sniggering about what he was going to do to the security guard that had been making pervy comments to us girls all day… they were dark times and I loved them. Transgressing out of my ideal light, hippie world and into the dirty grime of the underground scene where you made all the rules.

ASBO Girls

We performed every evening from 11pm – 4am, skanking on stage to the fattest sound system of the festival, banging out heavy dub and jungle with artists like Mungos HiFi, Manudigital, ASBO and more (https://www.mixcloud.com/.../aries-b2b-fleck-b2b-asbo.../). The rest of the time, we’d ride the boomtown current, seeing colours in the trees of the forests, falling into Fat Freddy’s drop or being convinced into a ‘civilized’ family breakfast in boutique camping with C’s mum (how we managed to pull that off in our states, I’ll never know). The westest moment of the festival was definitely being pulled away from a skank into a tiny glass room with a cushty movie set up. On the screen was octopus porn with tentacles invading holes you’d never dream of… If you could take snippets of nightmares and dreams, add a jungle soundtrack, inject it with gallons of fuel, shake it up and turn it into a reality... you’d get boomtown.

ASBO DISCO

I departed that festival completely stripped of every ounce of energy, health and life.  Keen to get home and avoid waiting a few hours for a lift, I trekked up the dreaded staircase, gasping for breath as my chest felt close to collapsing. And then it did and the medical team was surrounding me with inhalers and water… defeated, I was that girl. When I’d calmed down, I discovered the 6 hour wait for the shuttle bus to leave the festival – massively regretting not taking up the offer for a lift and thinking of a painful 6 hour wait at the end of a festival?! What a joke. But amazingly, the sun shone the entire time and I happened to be sat next to the one man with a working mini-rig banging out great tunes while Peterpandimensional dusted off his festival powder on my other side. During that 6 hours, everyone jammed together and shared the last of their remnants, food and water. The departure turned into a free party, just as boomtown had begun. I buzzed off the communal interaction that had just formed as I sat on the train, closed my eyes for a second and woke up hours later... in Wales. Luckily I wasn’t the only mug who'd missed their stop, so we spent the last of our pennies on a cross-country taxi journey back to Bristol to finally get some sleep. Ka-BOOM - What an ASBOlute.Trip!

The official Boomtown After-video: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bkAEzu7ydJc

Gottwood

It was finally that time of the year! Like an excited schoolgirl ready for her first day, I jolted out of bed; my breathing getting shorter as my mind began to race with mental notes “tent poles? Check. Glitter? Check. Wine? Check” I took a deep breath. One step at a time. First mission: Coffee (not that I needed more stimulation...)

It was time for Gottwood, the first festival of the year located 6 hours from Bristol in Anglesey, Wales. I zoomed over to N’s house as the caffeine levels peaked, half dragging along my camping gear that was awkwardly strapped to my body. We packed the boot of his newly acquired, 1960’s baby blue Volvo, shut the bonnet and sat down to fiddle with the ancient seatbelts. As the hum of the engine began to reverberate through the leather seats, I rolled down my window, closed my eyes and felt the Bristol breeze as the first of the day’s tunes began to play.

The flow was easy as the hours passed, countless rollies were smoked and conversation continued … until we hit standstill traffic. The summer sun beat down hard on the bonnet, the temperature gage was stuck on ‘hot’ and we began to feel like a slow cooked, Sunday roast with no ‘fan assisted’ option to cool us down. “Please can the engine not blow, please can the engine not blow” was the mantra for that moment as I supressed the possibility of getting stranded in the middle of Wales.

One hour later, when patience had reached its limits, the traffic started moving and so (thankfully) did the breeze. We drove on, engine intact, brain half baked but managing to keep our cool and save the full cook up till later. It wasn’t long before we’d made it through the tedious queues, bargained down the shuttle bus driver and arrived, along with the rest of the crew to the camping spot that T and D had patiently saved… poles, pegs, mattress pumps and many hands – soon enough we’d erected a little village with I and B’s totem Bell tent adorned in fairly lights and incense, serving as a signpost and safe-haven for when the rain fell.

Gottwood was the perfect festival to start the season; the music was mostly funky house with the line-up including amazing artists such as Joy Orbison, Bradley Zero and Archie Hamilton who played in stages dotted around the Welsh woodlands; the lake-stage holding the perfect day vibes for when the rays were out and the pyramid stage, with its 3D mist-filled visuals transforming the night-time into a multidimensional reality of sorts. With our beautiful crew who could often be found slutdropping under the neon arrow held by Queen L, we wondered through the woods, dancing along and branching off to discover magical venues.

It’s funny how fast we create routines for ourselves, the motive of our waking life became the music instead of the sun; rising late-afternoon, beginning the ritual of glitter and fancy dress, packing some real nutrition in at the avocado stand followed by a caffeinated beverage of some sort: re-set, re-charged and ready. Should the griminess and overflowing portaloos get too much to bear, the glorious options of a shower or a posh poo were game changers. Although, it did rain enough for a daily cleanse (free of charge!)

I chuckle to myself as I reminisce about the first downpour. I was sat against a hay bail, talking to a beautiful stranger about our love for the elements and nature. A deep, monotonous techno tune was playing and every 4 beats, a woman’s voice would quietly chant “rain”. Sure enough, synchronicity was in effect and the droplets started arriving, rapidly picking up pace and shifting the tone of our conversation from appreciation to annoyance; we cursed the elements that we’d loved only minutes before, gave each other a squeeze and ran off to join our separate crews. We clambered into the bell tent, leaving our muddy wellies at the entrance to enter the west world of yoga and slut drops to a harmony of kumbaya… “Inhaaale” everyone lifted their arms “and exhaale”, as their eyes closed and their arms came down “OI OI OI OI OIIIII!!! CHUG IT!” We creased at the vibe-kill as the group of lads next door began chanting loudly, jeering their mate on to chug his beer and then like clockwork, L stumbled in to the centre of the circle, eyes rolling and 2 bottles in hand. What to do but laugh…

From laughing to tears, the times took an emotional twist. I truly learnt the effects of sleep deprivation due to being convinced that the festival finished a day early and pulling a premature all-nighter. I realised I’d gone from half-baked to fully frazzled when I bumped into our mate O (who we’d spent all morning with) in the middle of a crowd, looking at me as he called my name, still dressed in his policeman outfit from a few hours before. My blood froze, thinking I’d been hunted down by security and was being kicked out of the festival. I stood in shock for a few minutes before my very slow brain began to recognise him and I loosened the grip on my rucksack and broke the confused silence with a laugh. A new song came on and the rhythm continued, as it always does.

So, although there were shit moments (like when we were dancing at the pyramid stage and the guy dressed in the inflatable poo-suit popped up on top of the hay bails), most of them were incredible (like when the whole crew coincidentally found each other around a random tree, like woodland creatures responding to natures call). On the last morning, C & I were the last to leave the deserted campsite due to our deadened response to all the attempted wake up calls. I managed to luckily reclaim my phone at lost and found before we spotted N & D who’d been patiently waiting for us by the car. As we drove off in that baby blue Volvo, I smiled; still riding the buzz of the weekend and feeling the warmth of beautiful company, like an aftertaste of the Chai-rum that had always given us that much needed lift at the end of the night. Until next year, Gottwood.

Song of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-s32ESIR-4 

Mix of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1hIxht83h8