I've just returned from taking my little brother and the T.P. to a strange festival and it was marvellous. I'm not a huge fan of camping, the idea of sleeping somewhere with terrible loos in something that is basically a kite doesn't really appeal. I quite like the small plates and kettles you get for camping but the horror of washing them up reduces the appeal and lets just not speak of the sort of jackets people who take camping seriously wear.
However when fun is a possibility there is almost nothing I won't do so it was stiff upper lip time. My little brother was in his element, he didn't want it to end. It's a very safe festival, tiny compared to the mainstream ones, so he got to go off in a large pack of children his own age causing mayhem and getting covered in dusty mud like a proper small boy. We wouldn't see him for hours and when he did return he would have stories of how he saw something amazing and then ate some chicken.
There was even a casino at this event, run just for fun and the T.P. went in it then left only occasionally, getting through to the final of the poker tournament and impressing everyone. I mean really impressing, she is definitely going to be sent back to that tent next year.
The weather was gloriously hot and I'm sporting a fine Farmer's tan on my face and arms. I'm exhausted to my very soul, but refreshed, there is something about being outside for a few days, in the (relative) countryside that always makes me feel more human. Perhaps it is the call of Devon or just that I always have fun at these things.
On the way back from the Festival we listened to Paul McGann read Sharpe's Havoc and now I want to be Sharpe. I mean, look at that spiffing jacket and his steely gaze. He might be a simple man, but he is a man of honour (with a lovely coat).
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