Thu
15-Jul-2004

retro alco alto glasto aftermath

The ripples and eddies of retro alco alto glasto continue to stir our quiet computer-bound lives as Alex kicked off a poetry response to Abbie. He did however, nick a lot of this from some poor woman who really likes Hay of Wye, but I'm sure she won't mind.

Sheltered in a valley with hills that tower round,
a little town called Hay-on-Wye, its beauty is renowned.
The partly ruined castle on elevated ground,
Richard Booth is the owner, he's known the world around.

With Richard, Morelli and others, the town is full of books,
in every hole and corner, there's books and still more books.
In May, the "Literary Festival " of nationwide acclaim,
with writers, orators and linguists, mostly from the hall of fame.

They read their books and poetry for interested folks to hear,
the pianists and instrumentalists are a joy to the ear,
Classical, country and western, jazz, rhythm and blues,
Scientists, Psychiatrists, Broadcasters reading the news.

Orchards thick with fruit trees, fields of waving corn,
Black Mountains in the distance, majestic, yet forlorn.
With Hay's historical places and beautiful scenery round,
Go to Tom B's cottage and get wasted.

In Dorset, as in Hay,
We capped a rainy day
With revelry and drugs,
Then several dozen mugs
Of tea, in the morning,
Reflecting on the dawning
Of another day of Summer.

The gauntlet cast down
By the Allens and Elliot,
With a giggle and a frown,
Come, Muse, and embellish it.

******

Alas, with no 'shrooms, or MDMA,
But with tender memories, some vibrant, some shady,
How may I paint the glory that was Hay?
The apple award to which choicest lady?

Lads were there too, just as bonny and sweet,
Two noble brothers, and a master of ales,
And plenty of bohemians whom I just failed to meet,
So addled were my wits, and tortuous my travails.

Chemical pleasure ferments in the brain,
But garnered with that was the truth of the heart,
A talk in the loft, twelve drinks on the train,
As the pill starts to weaken, a friendship may start.

Another weekend, I had by that Wye,
With revellers less fucked, but possibly less sober,
Of years more advanced, but of spirits as high,
Though none there could contrive a Bell-like hangover.

O zealots of pleasure, Abbie, Mary, Kate,
O priests of indulgence, Al, Tom and Dan,
Under which stars may we such abandon recreate?
Step up, a master of ceremonies, and give us a plan.

But now this wan scribe, his powers all are lost,
Must be wedded to markets and unit elasticity,
To optimisation, and benefit, and cost,
Too far from the West, mourning lost felicity.

*****

My story now done,
You six blushing and hail,
Summon a new one,
Bright, sweet, Abigail?

retro alco alto glasto

Images

A motley crew descended upon the countryside near Hay on Wye last weekend for the almighty celebrations known to many as 'Alto Glasto'. Kate, Abbie, Mary and John S took a train down on Friday night, Rosie and Steve drove there in a car, while Dan, Alex and myself took a train there early on Saturday morning. Fearful that we might wuss out in the bleak light of a soul-chilling early morning, Abbie wrote us a charming poem to get us up and moving:

Ode to the Saturday Trippers

Twas a rainy day in 2004
when Rosie, Mary, Abbie and more
decided that the time was nigh
to venture to Hay on Wye

With Dr Wellsely's smile on board
and Mary's wit, and the hoard
of substances that Kate had packed
despite all this, they something lacked

For how much merriment can
one have without a hardcore Buffy fan?
What cheer is there, without a pair
of brothers with perennially re-dyed hair?

None, comes the answer, o'er hills and dales
None, speaks the wind from the depths of Wales
Though we may have Simon, Jezzer and Pippa
there's no Alto Glasto without Saturday trippers.

Tom B's house, site of the party, was marvellous. An amazing isolated little cottage tucked away at the top of a hill overlooking the green hills and vales of Merry Wales. We all started drinking and chatting and then lots of us went out for a bracing afternoon walk. Rosie and Kate invented a game called Falling Backwards Into The Ferns And Hoping We Won't Land In Any Nettles. Steve tried to fly his kite, but the wind was too irregular. He did, however, look pretty cool with the rolled-up kite slung across his shoulder. Legolas would have been proud.

By nightfall, the house was filling up with all kinds of people most of whom gamely began to take all kinds of narcotics, stimulants and hallucinogens. It was a pleasure and joy to behold.

The house was definitely suited to these adventures. There was a comfortable, stone-floor kitchen with a good aga for leaning against, a good-sized living room or two, a long attic with space for everyone to crash out in, a couple of tents in the garden and a pit out the back with a blazing fire that provided a primeval focus all night. The survivors of the night clustered around the fire as the sun came up, mostly us lot along with another quite random guy who Abbie became convinced was called 'Bayo', even though he kept assuring her that he wasn't.

The train back on Sunday was an amusing occasion as Dan, John, Abbie, Mary, Kate, Alex and I restored our bashed in bodies and minds with incredibly expensive alcoholic drinks from the train trolley. We idly played games, chatted and read bits of newspaper. By the time we arrived at Paddington, our section of the carriage was a remarkable rubbish dump of newspapers, magazines, bottles, cans and food packets. The dispersal at Paddington was a sad affair, as we drifted off into the London night like ragged butterflies.