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| Warning - may or may not contain actual field |
It’s hard to explain to those who don’t ‘get it’ why
choosing to live under canvas in a field for a few weeks in a country regaled
for it’s unreliable weather could ever be considered a holiday…. The thing is
that despite the frequent rainy days and nights, the potential for storms that
will demolish the very shelters you’re sleeping in (and yes, that has happened
before), the mud, the very limited showers / toilets (to the point that if they
were more limited they would disappear like a Cheshire Cat, leaving just a grin
to say ‘Well, you complained about me
whilst I was here, what are you going to do if I’m gone…..?’).
You see this particular field is pretty much that – a field.
In fact it’s two big fields, both the size of several football pitches, camping
only allowed around the edges, on a cliff, facing the North
Atlantic. No glitz, no attempt at entering the twenty first
century. We replace the cows that live there for a few weeks every year. And
it’s heaven ! As a bonus there’s absolutely no mobile signal either. There’s a
kind of allowable anarchy that runs the place and that’s why I go back. Imagine
a festival with no music, no crowds, no entrance fee and you pretty much have
it (sorry to go all hippy on you but don’t imagine something like modern Glastonbury
or V, rather stroll back to early Stonehenge or maybe take a walk even further
and picture a mediaeval encampment with wood fires and lute players strolling ‘round
whilst wenches dispense rough wine from earthenware urns…..
OK perhaps stick with the picture of a field with tents
around the edge….. That said there were plenty of late night fires with guitars
and much much rough wine, Joe Strummer would have been at home there.
In fact the only real complaint from the younger Tins was
that someone was playing the bongos into the early hours and whoever it was had
no rhythm… I had to admit that I thought it was a good idea at the time… until
you’ve heard That’s Entertainment accompanied by bongo’s, well…. (and for accuracy I should point out it was a
djemba I was torturing)
It was / is a place where I can just forget the rest of the
world. The kids know my ambition once there is to spend the whole time not
leaving the field apart from walking the five minutes or so to one of the most
perfect Famous Five type beaches I have ever seen. Uncrowded, surfable, rocky
outcrops to climb and leap off, caves, blowholes, islands, poisonous fish (Oh I didn’t mention the Weever fish did I? This year being notable as for the first time
in years I didn’t get stung by one of the evil sand lurking spiny devils and
thus avoided everyone telling me they’d piss on my foot – It doesn’t work by
the way, the water needs to be hotter !).
Then there’s the other people. Hell can maybe be other
people but there it just generally isn’t. That’s where the manageable anarchy
comes in. There are no rules, but if anyone starts to make it hard for anyone
else there then a few people will absolutely always step in. Provided you don’t set fire to anyone’s tent
then you can do what you like. Personally for me that involves shedding layers
of clothes and wandering unselfconsciously about in a towel for most of the
morning drinking an early glass of red wine like a primitive Noel Coward – so far no-one’s asked me to leave because of that…. Maybe next year ?
It’s the physical space that my soul needs, that my head
needs and that my life needs. I guess we all find the ones that suit us best. I’m
by no means averse to cities, I love them, and I’d love to go off to a villa in
Greece or a hotel in New York. But this place
always does it for me. And as a measure of its charm the kids always, despite
now being old enough to do their own thing, eagerly anticipate going there (and
amazingly still seem to want to spend their time hanging out with me which is
so not what I wanted to do with my parents at their age !) – the youngest spent
some months in Australia and
Bali earlier in the year and one of the first
things he asked when he touched back down was ‘ When are we going to the field….?’
I could write reams just about being there but I don’t want
this to turn into the blog equivalent of being invited over for a sherry and a
light ale and a look at the neighbours’ holiday slides, so I’ll try to restrict
myself over the next week or so. Although do expect some specifics to show up
now and again.
I’d invite you all
there to join me, but like all the best locations it’s a secret spot...
And yes it's obvious - but I love this version of the song....
