Return to Little Chef

20 June 2008

Somewhere on a road between Dorset and London a familiar red and white neon sign flashed into view - Little Chef - and suddenly I am 18 and in a new country for the first time. My Great Aunt and Uncle have picked me up from Heathrow and it's cold and foggy and I feel sick. So we stop at Little Chef for a cup of tea. 

Overcome by nostalgia I force Mz Electra to pull over and we pile into the comfort and warmth of neutral taupe interiors, blue carpet and formica tables for a cup of tea (and an egg, cheese and mushroom breakfast roll at 10.30 at night).

Eternal Playgrounds of the Muddy Kind

Camp Bestival, July 18-20, Ludlow Castle

Having had to put ice packs on my knees after the last couple of nights out dancing I figured my festival days may have been over. But as luck would have it this is Britain and in Britain there are now over 400 festivals each year around the country with something for everyone: the massive scale of 50000 at the rock and dance of Glastonbury to boutique festivals catering for niche musical tastes from psychedelic trance to World music. And so it was that I found myself taking a day off work to embark on a road trip with Mz Polska, who brought chocolate, and Mz Electra, who made muffins, heading south to the Dorset coast and three days of Camp Bestival.

There are many things I wish I knew then, as we innocently slide down the hierarchy of roads, from the Ms to the As to the Bs, leaving the safety and comfort of London behind and entering shadowy narrow lanes with only hedges to protect us from rampaging badgers, mad cows and other Narnia stories. First, never leave home without tights. Camping in England, even in summer, is fecking freezing and the Australian festival uniform of miniskirt and singlet is just not going to keep a girl warm. A puffy vest or several layers of cotton are minimum. At least I had the de rigeur festival wellingtons for the one day it rained. It's an unusual experience, dancing in wellingtons and a fleece jacket at one in the morning. The last time I remember being dressed like this was hosing down the dairy yard in winter, although the boots were work standard black instead of blue paisley, so the weekend was already becoming surreal without any chemical enhancement.

The second fright was the sheer number of kids. Of the ten thousand tickets sold it seems 3500 were bought for children by clearly irresponsible parents. OK it had been billed as a family friendly festival but surely not that friendly! It’s not that I dislike kids. I’m auntie to dozens of them by now. But there are some things that should never be seen or heard at a festival including conversations that go ‘so who needs to poo? George do you need to poo? OK let’s get in the queue so you can poo’. And nappies being changed on the chill out lounges! That is just so wrong! And how many times in one weekend can you hear the words ‘Trixie, you apologise. Apologise now’. The deterioration of parenting over the weekend mapped the decline of civilisation, from the democratic, ‘now Bobby, I know you’re only two but let’s discuss why you don’t want to eat strawberries for breakfast’, to fascist authoritarian, ‘Bobby eat your strawberries and we’re leaving now’, by the end of it. Although having a baby on your shoulders in the mosh with cute little baby ear protectors on I admit brought out whole new ideas on the possibilities of motherhood!

It wasn’t just the hordes of kids that might induce a feeling of otherworldiness. Asking the 18 year olds who the DJ is is never a good sign, or worse in the chorus when you don’t know the lyrics and everyone around is singing them.

Mz Kitty: ‘What are they singing? ‘Just Divine’?

Mz Polska: ‘Justify?’

Mz Electra: ‘Just a boy?’

The great thing about being old though is that we have independent incomes and can afford Blackberrys (well, at least Mz Polska can) and can look up the lyrics in the car on the way home. ‘Just a band’. Thank you Scroobius Pip.

I’ve also realised now why so many of my students have attention spans shorter than my three minute pop song version of retention. Exposure to a frenetic DJ Yoda who apparently has an attention disorder and can’t leave a song on the turn table for more than 30 seconds before he has to mix in something new would probably do it.

Like trying to dance to DJ Yoda it takes a while to get into the rhythm of a festival. Despite all the frenetic activity there were surprisingly quiet moments. The mornings began being woken by Gracie, Maisie, Tamsin or Pagan’s mother’s at 7am asking the same question … ‘do you need to poo?’. I head for the showers to get us tickets so we can get in the queue later, then we head for the Magic Meadow to chill out in the sun with coffee and wait for the Hurly Burly Veg Café to open for breakfast. Then out would come the knitting needles and nothing much would happen for a couple of hours except the jumper would get longer and we’d workshop the problems of the world in the chai tent. Then slowly performances start in the Comedy tent, the Flamingo Bar opens, the jousting begins, the bands and djs start up. And by 4pm the familiar doof of speaker stacks becomes the tempo for the rest of the evening and into the night. By 12pm in reverse order, music from the bands on the mainstage would dissipate until it was just the djs in the dance tent still going and even they would eventually switch off and the food tents close down (except the Hog Roast which I think kept going 24/7 and saw off at least a few hundred pigs over the course of the weekend) and people drifted out to watch lanterns floating up to the full moon and then drifted off to find their bed among the sea of tents. It was always going to be a bit problematic to find a tent at night among 5000 others that pretty much all looked the same.

Unfortunately by the time you get into the swing of things you have to come home, so I've decided that festivals should be compulsory under the NHS. We need these 'demented playgrounds' (the Gelitin Collective). Where else can you dress up for a weekend; stand in front of Billy Bragg in the coffee queue (I love you Billy just in case you're reading); discover Kate Nash is a knitter as well so i'm not such a dag after all; and rethink that idea of a career in Burlesque, especially when it’s served with champagne and cream scones. We’ve separated the spiritual into religious institutions and play into commercialised clubs, chemically enhanced ballrooms and the marketed coolness of MTV. So why not create space for real ‘demented play’ in the ordinary rhythms of life? Why not dress up everyday in what you really want to wear? Why not spend time drinking chai and discussing politics with complete strangers in a tea tent every day? Why not drink champers in the afternoon wearing your knickers and pasties (okay i did spend a bit of time in the burlesque tent)? Why not get dirty playing in mud? Why not dance everyday, just for five minutes?

Speaking of dancing, you would note if a regular reader of this blog that a wee accident in July had damaged one knee so the plan for the festival was, I reassured my imaginary doctor, that I would sit quietly and listen. There would be no pogo’ing or any other form of bodily movement that could in the smallest sense be described as dance, not even if someone was playing Drum and Bass. No, most definitely not. It’s amazing how at the age of 41 I can still live in denial. So the knee has had a little setback in getting better and there should be no dancing now until at least …. Notting Hill Carnival in August.

Fall From Grace

Campitello, 22nd June 2008

In the picture above there is a sensible descent (in the middle between the two peaks) and there is a plain silly descent (off the left side). Quiz question, for 100 points and your chance to win a set of tofu sausage knives ... which one did Mz Kitty take?

It's okay, you're allowed to laugh. There I was, having a whale of a time, walking through the stunning Dolomites near Campitello, north Italy. Such a good time in fact that I missed one tiny but very important detail, mistake number one, that the route I picked to descend the Gruppo del Sella was in fact part of the legendary Via Ferrata (Iron Way). I didn't actually realise I was on the Via Ferrata until the lovely man who rescued me asked me where my safety harness was.

Mz Kitty: 'ummm I wasn't intending on going climbing so I don't have one with me'.

Lovely Man: 'But this is the Via Ferrata! are you crazy!!!' (that last bit was in Italian but I got the gist)

Mz Kitty: 'No Way! I would never attempt the Via Ferrata on my own without proper equipment!'

Lovely Man: 'You're on your own! are you crazy!!!'

I should have probably realised this was not going to be an easy route when the people walking kids and dogs disappeared and there were just hardy types left on the trail and then just me.

I’m blaming the Italians … they have cappuccino machines in their refuge huts for goodness sake! How hard can a trail be if they're serving pasta, red wine and cappuccinos in the refuge huts! Relying solely on the map also turned out to be a bit problematic as it marked the morning section (Piz Boe, pictured right) with the same difficulty rating as the descent, and going up and over Piz Boe had been relatively easy peasy (mistake number two, never rely solely on the map).

I was actually pretty proud of myself for almost getting to the bottom of the first col when I slid on a patch of snow. The fall was thankfully broken by scree, my backpack and knee. Managing to get down to a plateau hoping there would be a nice traverse to the bottom I actually found the beginning of what seemed like a 200m drop off with nothing but fixed cable to climb down and me with not a prussic cord or carabiner to my name, a rapidly ballooning knee and various other cuts and bruises. There was no-one else on the trail within cooee as it was coming up to 5pm. Swallowing gulps of pride it was time to call in the professionals.

Pulling out the trusty mobile phone I paused ... and then 
silently realised that, firstly, I’d accidentally deleted the number for Fabiana, the owner of the auberge where I was staying, and secondly, I’d forgotten to bring the local emergency rescue number (mistakes number three and four); could the day get any better. I had at least told Fabiana's mum at breakfast which route I'd be on although given the level of my Italian a full understanding of where I was may not actually have taken place.

Trusty back up friends were required who would not panic when receiving a text that went something like:

‘Hi, need mountain rescue, am in Dolomites, near Campitello, route 649, ASAP, it’s getting cold’.

Calling 999 also worked at least as far as getting an Italian operator who then found someone who could speak English. In the meantime the legendary Conal and Basia had also found the Italian mountain rescue number - 118 should you ever need it. Settling down on my ledge with an amazing view of the Dolomites, enough water and muesli bars and a jacket to get me through the night, I wished I'd brought some knitting or a good book. There’s so much to contemplate while waiting to be rescued: the dirt under your nails, the throbbing of your knee, your navel, the paradox of unattainable intimacy, conversations that should have been can be replayed, residual memories can echo off canyon walls, getting louder.

Love. There’s a big question to contemplate when you’re stuck on a mountain. Love ... Love a person, love my bike, love songs, romantic comedies, soap opera love, big love, love up, love in, smile on my face kind of love. Pull me, push me, he loves me, he loves me not. Oops, he fucking hates me. Love. Someone who can give you waht you want, what you need ... house, nice car, a life ... I don't think so. Although a strapping lad to get me off this cliff would be nice right about now.

And on cue, the whooping sound of rotary blades gets louder and louder, and just like in the movies a helicopter appeared from below. I cannot even begin to describe where they landed it long enough to get someone out to check on me. He came trotting down the trail, asked me what happened, and all I could say as I looked into his beautiful weathered face was 'I love you'. I think he was kind of used to it, my nameless hero. He bundled me into a harness and hauled me into the helicopter but not before about 30 seconds of floating in the air above the cliffs which must be what freedom feels like. They flew me to the local hospital to patch me up with a brace from thigh to ankle for suspected ligament damage, and included daily self-injected in the stomach anti-thrombosis drugs just to remind me to not be so stupid in the future.

My heartfelt thanks to the following people:

• The lovely Italian mountain rescue team and the Cavalese hospital, including their very own Dr McDreamy – you guys rock! I wasn't even their first rescue of the season that had started only two days earlier. I was the fourth!
• The fab friends that didn’t panic – you guys are rocks!
• Fabiana and her mum ... highly recommend 'Garni Tyroli' B&B in Campitello.
• All the people from Campitello to Budapest (a journey with a leg in a cast over two days made by taxi, bus, three trains and taxi), who opened doors, carried my bag, minded my stuff, gave up their place in the queue for me or who just came up to see if I was okay – complete strangers, often with no language in common, without being asked. In particular, the lovely man in the ticket office at Innsbruck who booked me two seats for the price of one so I could rest my leg; and the lovely French-North African boys on the train to Salzburg – we started off on the wrong foot and they ended up helping me put my shoes on – bonded over a mutual dislike of the politics of Sarkozy and a mutual fascination for how green Austria is.
• The taxi driver in Budapest who gave me a discount – something apparently unheard of in Budapest.
• Jen Tarr for walking very slowly next to me for two days and carrying my conference notes.
• The lovely tour guides on the Hop On Hop Off tourist bus in Budapest – yes, even worse than having to call in the emergency rescue helicopter was having to get on a bright red Hop On Hop Off tourist bus if I was going to see any of the city.
• The lovely lad from the Boomerang Hostel who dropped me to the airport, carrying my bags in and delivering me to the lovely Ambos who pushed me around in a wheelchair (great way to get through security in a flash) and gave me a ride to the door of the plane, and then to Pam, the lovely cabin steward on Easyjet who looked after me on the way home. No thanks to Luton airport though – apparently they couldn’t help with a lift, wheels or carrying bags ‘just in case’.
• Fortunately a Hungarian student got me to the bus – big thanks to her. The lovely bus driver got me to Marble Arch and into a taxi. And the lovely taxi driver got me home and carried my bags up the stairs for me and refused to take any extra money for it. The world is still a wonderful place.

My minicab driver got me to the NHS the next day and in a classic case of cultural difference, my English doctor wondered what the Italians were thinking putting me in a cast for a week and all I needed was to take a constitutional, eat Nurofen and keep a stiff upper lip for a month.

While this is my first accident in twenty years of bush and hill walking I think I have at last learnt that I am not indestructible and I do hereby solemnly promise that I will NEVER set foot alone on a trail graded higher than medium without first researching it in fine detail start to finish in a language I can fully understand. I am of course now obsessed with the Alps and getting down route 649 under my own steam. We can still tackle our mountains ladies with gusto and cappuccino, but just make sure we have the emergency rescue number as well.