I lost my Britishness at the Bestival

Jul 22 2008 Agenda

Shahid Naqvi experiences the delights of a music festival, at Camp Bestival in Dorset.

OK, I admit it. I’m a 40-year-old festival virgin.

At least I was until this weekend. For years I’ve seen those images of people in water-logged fields and wellies that you usually get this time of year and thought, why put yourself through it? Unhygienic toilets and getting stuck next to a tent full of noisy hippies were other things that put me off.

But there are some things in life you have to do before you die. Going to a festival is one of them. And Camp Bestival seemed a good place to start. It’s billed as a more family friendly festival inspired by the “halcyon days of summers past” and a “1950s British Holiday Camp with a twist”.

Trudging a mile through mud and rain with my 10-year-old and his friend to the campsite after a five-hour drive on Friday evening, our legs buckling under the strain of all our camping gear, did not, however, seem like “fun for all the family”.

Returning to the car at 9.30pm, still in the rain, the kids collapsing and refusing to make a second journey through tiredness, was not “fun for all the family”.

At this point, I decided to complain. How can you bill this a family festival and make people go through this nightmare, I moaned? Call this Camp Bestival? More like camp hell. I was a second away from giving up and booking into a hotel instead.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one to complain.

Camp Bestival, at Lulworth Castle, is the family-orientated sister festival of one on the Isle of Wight and this is its first year.

The reason for the Friday troubles was the car park near the campsite had become full because the organisers hadn’t expected everyone to travel by car.

Which seems a bit daft – how else would a family get to such a remote place with all their camping equipment?

Anyway, accepting the apologies of the organisers we valiantly began our epic return journey to the tent – and got our first taste of festival magic.

“Want some help mate?” asked a lovely, slightly worse for drink, woman from Brighton seeing myself and the boys struggling.

“I had to do the same earlier,” and with that she grabbed some of our gear and walked along with us. Dawn was her name – we didn’t see her again, but I’m eternally grateful.

Finally installed, it was not long before the next crisis. I lost my son’s friend, let’s call him Bob.

Foolishly – or just because my mind was on getting to camp – I hadn’t had him tagged with my mobile number, which was the system used to keep track of children.

After searching the area with no success, I went to the lost child kiosk, panic slowly building.

On his own, in the dark, rain pouring and surrounded by thousands of strangers, was not a good place for him to be. How would I explain this to his parents, I wondered.

Thankfully, Bob eventually emerged, oblivious to the hysteria he had created.

I was relieved, although it did mean I missed legendary rock ‘n’ roller Chuck Berry perform.

That night we only managed a quick walk to the main event area where I got my first inkling of what festival life is all about.

Basically, it’s a temporary town. Tents and marquees were everywhere all peddling something to tempt festival goers like some medieval tapestry. There were old sofas outside around campfires, people gathering singing. Coffee and juice tents, rough and ready bars all playing their own type of music with their own particular feel and crowd.

As we headed off to bed – about midnight – you could sense the night was just beginning for some.

Next day, it was sunny, thank God!

Breakfast outdoors around a camping stove in the sun with fellow festival goers is a good start to the day. By 10am we were eager to explore what was going on down in the main festival area.

Of course, for real festival goers, 10am is far to early. Some had not long gone to bed. At this time in the morning much of the area was closed off for deliveries which, again, is not much good when you have early-rising children.

Fortunately, the organisers soon realised the futility of this and let us free to roam.

True to its child-friendly boast, Bestival had a large area specifically for kids, with plenty of outdoor activities, entertainers, an insect circus and its own stage.

The daytime also gave an opportunity to observe the full splendour of our location in the grounds of historic Lulworth Castle surrounded by lush countryside and looking out to the Channel.

The second thing to know about festival life is if you think it’s about camping, forget it. Festival is a party – and you dress accordingly.

Turning up in your tracksuit bottoms is not on. Turning up in a dress if you’re a man or dressed as Alice in Wonderland, Fred Flintstone or any crazy outfit is. Cheap trainers are out. Trendy wellies are in.

Basically, the idea is to stand out from the crowd, not blend in with it. To let yourself go – a chance to cast aside British reserve and show a bit of cheek, literally in some cases.

As the day wore on the tempo of festival life shifts gear. The bar areas start to fill, a comedy tent got going and the main music stage came to life. By the time the Cuban Brothers, a tongue-in-cheek Latin American funk outfit, came on the crowds were starting to stream down from the campsites, many dancing as they walked, high on festival spirit – and other stuff.

And that was when I saw, or sensed it: a kind of common pulse encompassing thousands of people fuelled with a beautiful sense of a temporary collective belonging.

And then I lost Bob again.

This time it was serious. An hour later, he was still missing and it was dark.

On the third visit to the lost child tent the police were about to be alerted.

During an hour and a half in which I aged five years, Bob had been with another parent within my group back at the tent. Unfortunately they hadn’t told me.

Bob’s disappearing act did slightly spoil my enjoyment of the main event of the evening, “psychedelic alt-rock” band, The Flaming Lips.

The highlight of the gig – and possibly the whole event – was the band’s lead singer Wayne Coyne walking in a giant bubble down the steps of Lulworth Castle, through the crowds and then getting thrown on stage by people in the front. Truly brilliant.

Festival life is full of highs and lows and probably not for the faint-hearted. But if you want to cut loose from the nine to five and hang out with the beautiful people for a while, this is the place for you.

Next year Glastonbury!