It Never Rains but it Pours

"Bring on summer festival season!"

That's been my mantra for the last month.

Cars overheating while you wait for hours to get in. Kicking up hot cyclones of dust on the dancefloor. Collapsing into a sweltering tent for some sweaty shut eye when it all gets too much. That's what summer festivals mean to me... that is until Shine On.

Ironic it should be called that given that it rained relentlessly for almost 72 hours.

Driving up to the festival we watched the dark clouds begin to swallow up the sky. A storm was a' brewing and it was obvious it wasn't going to be fleeting. Best get in and set up camp ASAP was the general consensus. As we drove across what was already becoming some fairly bog-worthy terrain the first drops of rain started to fall so we chose a spot and intended to set about building our temporary home only to discover SOMEONE had neglected to pack a crucial component of the construction materials - tent poles. I should probably mention that someone was me, although I am still trying to pass the blame for that one. Sure, I was the one that actually grabbed the tent this time round, but who packed the tent last time is what I want to know? And why weren't the tent poles in the bottom of the tent bag where all good tent poles belong? That way the next person to use the tent picks up the tent bag which is all inclusive of everything necessary to build a tent and doesnt have to waste valuable memory recalling the tent and the poles as two separate items! Anyway, I forgot the tent, which pretty much started the trend for a whole series of unfortunate occurrences which followed.

My would-be-room mate and I, always resourceful, didn't let this minor setback get us down. Borrowing supplies and manpower from nearby campers we somehow managed to build the mother of all marquee/tarp tents. A roomy abode with a solid roof and walls and even a little verandah that we could sit under to enjoy the double rainbow. Chuffed? Youbetcha! We plonked the swag in the middle and set off with the masses to enjoy some music, happy in the fact that we had a nice little shelter to retire to. A nice little shelter right in the heart of the black lagoon. Yep, the rain persisted and our home was smack bang in the lowest point of the district, or so it seemed. Upon return to the shack, our boudoir was washed out, swag floating in the middle like a lilo in a damn. But lilo in damn is reminiscent of summer frolicking, sunbaking and splashing - this was reminiscent of your bed for the next few days saturated and floating in a grassy puddle. We had no option but to push through, denying our bodies the sleep which probably would have saved the delirium that was to follow.

We tried to keep spirits up but it was at times difficult. Gumboots are heavy and make your legs tired which just gives you one more thing to complain about. There was no Krishna van which left me unsatisfied with all food intake. The music was willing my body to dance but the swap of a dancefloor hindered all efforts. Come Sunday I was ready to go home. Really ready. Let's go. Home time. Remove all belongings from the black lagoon. Pack the car. Let's go!

Too bad we got bogged and had to wait to find some kind German stranger to tow us out.

There were definitely some positives to the whole experience. The main one being that the weather conditions permitted you to be able to use the terms "slurry" and "bog" as often as you pleased without them losing in relevance.