The adventure begins
We set off Thursday lunchtime, our charabanc crammed to the gills with plentiful supplies of waterproofs, sundry items of freshly-purchased camping gear and an empty water-bottle refilled thoughtfully by yours truly with Master Gordons' finest.
Inevitably we lose our way. I blame the frankly bewildering sat nav in my new car, Teenygoth blames the frankly bewildered driver. Happily, our short but fascinating detour through the back lanes of leafy Suffolk proves a blessing in disguise - we miss a long queue of traffic on the main road and breeze merrily into the camp-site in splendid isolation. And despite two months of almost continual rain the sun shines!
I celebrate by breaking open the Gordons' whilst Teenygoth rings mum to confirm safe arrival. Our festival experience is about to begin as duly stamped and wrist-banded we make our way toward the Pink Moon camp-site.
Sun come rain
Thursday evening passes in a miasma of sun-drenched cider and a brief foray into the world of Noodles'R'Us. Our first, but not last encounter with the shadowy world of festival fast-food.
We retire and
it rains ....
...... endlessly.
Posh toilets and bluegrass punk
Early morning, and kodo-styled raindrops drum out a relentless beat on the taut-stretched canvas of our pup-tent, punctuated at regular intervals by loud snores from my good-self. To compound matters, the air-bed has decided to commit Hari-Kari during the night and is but a shadow of its former self.
Undeterred, we break cover to find we are within spitting distance of the Yurts. Posh tents mean but one thing - posh toilets! We storm the facilities and liberate the Dyson hand-dryer. It resuscitates a soaking wet shirt that is beyond the pale then promptly dies a death. Proles one, posh boys nil!
A sound helping of traditional English cooked breakfast revives the spirits, then lo and behold the sun returns as music begins! The Punch Brothers (a Teenygoth recommendation) prove their worth. As we watch, a group of passing young ones perform a strange pogo-inflected barn dance to the chattering strains of bluegrass punk, all captured courtesy of my trusty Leica.
Away from the music for a while I chance on an open-air performance of Henry V (Part 1) with men in military uniform running up and down a hill shouting loudly. At first, it makes little sense, but as the performance continues it captivates a growing crowd. Excellent stuff.
Meanwhile the music treats continue aplenty and, as the evening acts draw nigh, Teenygoth and I slink through the crowds and make it to front stage. We arrive in time to catch Metronomy, who I've never heard before. They put on a great show. The headliner, however, is Bon Iver, and what a revelation!
Having heard only his first album I'm expecting a gently strummed acoustic guitar and keening vocals. So what do we get? A veritable onslaught of feedback from massed ranks of hairy guitarists and a maelstrom light-show of epilepsy-inducing proportions. With ears still ringing I escort Teenygoth (the sensible one of our strange pairing) to the comforts of the Pink Moon campsite before returning to the main arena.
The film-tent is showing the Chemical Brothers', 'Don't Think', which I've seen a few months ago. However, the prospect of viewing it on three huge screens in the presence of several hundred sweaty ravers has a strange appeal. I'm not disappointed, but as I make my final exit from the main stage past midnight the heavens open.
Torrential, does not even start to describe it!
An encounter in the woods
We wake to find mud everywhere, a thick ochre-caked mass that oozes and bubbles like a well-boiled witches' cauldron. Overnight the field our pup-tent is pitched in has turned from green to brown. We chance it anyway and head down to the Comedy Tent.
The surreal combination of populist heart-throb, Professor Brian Cox (in the red corner, representing science) and Al Murray, pub-landlord (gamely pitched in the blue corner for the arts) leads me to conclude the acid-house raves of last night have scrambled what little remains of my brain. However, the women in the audience appear to love it! I receive a text from a dear lady-friend who confesses she doesn't understand a word that's being said, but just wants to have Brian's babies! This leaves me with the unsettling prospect of having to surrogate the progeny of pub-landlord, so duly chastened I depart with Teenygoth in search of food.
Having booked on-line (the ultimate middle-class cop-out) we jump the queue at The Giant Robot outdoor restaurant. Teenygoth enjoys a suspiciously large glass of Margarita as I enjoy the prospect of picking up yet another debt-laden credit card bill come the end of the month. Our waiter is highly entertaining. He shows us his tattoos as we await the food and takes our photo together. He is, apparently, the Maitre D at a Michelin-starred restaurant in France .. but I guess he keeps the tattoos hidden when he's there.
Suitably refreshed we go our separate ways, and I chance upon the little jewel of the festival. I head out across the bridge and take a few minutes out to watch the impossibly lithe forms of the Royal Ballet Company dancers as they twist and turn across the Waterfront Stage. I'm deeply envious! Then it's up and on to the i-stage, hidden deep in the woods. The mud gets muddier and the trees close in as I climb the hill. It's like travelling back in time to some rain-soaked Confederate rebel camp.
The scene that greets me as I reach the summit is worthy of inclusion in the redux version of 'Apocalypse Now'. A rammed tent, ceilinged by what appears to be a huge American flag, bleeds raw heat and energy. And on stage are Wooden Shjips. They play one chord endlessly, the drum and bass locked so tight that fresh sweat fails to penetrate. Truly, truly marvellous stuff, and for me the highlight of the festival.
Elbowed out
The evening's entertainment beckons, and once more Teenygoth and I brave the moshing masses to find front-stage. Richard Hawley is on first, sadly incarcerated in a wheel-chair having taken a leg-breaking tumble just a few weeks earlier.
The drugs, however, definitely do work on this occasion. Pain-killered to the hilt Hawley lets rip with the effects pedals and we're transported to an alternative universe where love, death and sex do battle in the psychedelic hinterlands of darkest Sheffield. And this is just the warm-up!
Elbow hit the stage as the sun begins a slow but sure descent. Arms aloft in Southwold as Guy Garvey single-handedly captures the moment. Star!
Friends re-united
The last day beckons, and we receive a texted invitation to join some friends in the camper-van park for a bacon-sandwich'n'beer combo. Given Teenygoth is a vegetarian this presents an interesting challenge, but it's great to have a chilled start to a chilled day.
Bat for Lashes and Lucy Rose close off affairs nicely, and then it's the long drive back to normality with a boot-full of washing and a head full of music.
Latititude 2012 ... you rock!!
The Bands I saw ....
Low
Jonathan Wilson
The Antlers
Wooden Shjips
The Punch Brothers
Dexys
Metronomy
Alabama Shakes
Bon Iver
Elbow
Bat for Lashes
Lucy Rose
Laura Marling
Richard Hawley
