During every festival season, I often reflect on a quote from Nell Frizzell, an interviewee and writer, who recounted her experiences as the child of hippies attending the Womad international arts festival. She humorously described it as “standing in a field next to your dad wearing a bumbag, and thinking, ‘Oh, I’ve seen enough men from Kazakhstan playing fiddles.'” This anecdote resonates with me because I’ve personally lived through a similar experience, although it was my mother who took me to Womad. It captures the amusing feeling of being dragged along to something by your parents, who insist you’ll love it, when in reality, you’re there because they want to be there.
Recently, I attended Glastonbury, and it was my first time away from my son. Surprisingly, it turned out to be the perfect choice for this purpose. There was so much happening at the festival that I couldn’t focus on worrying about the distance between us. It dawned on me that parenthood had prepared me well for the chaos and less-than-ideal conditions at festivals. Could I handle sleep deprivation and exposure to unappealing aspects like human waste? Absolutely. Was I accustomed to dealing with unpredictable behavior, strange meal schedules, and overwhelming emotions? Yes, indeed.
Initially, I had never considered taking my son to Glastonbury because I wanted that time for myself. However, witnessing firsthand how some infants were struggling and having a miserable time made me rethink the topic of bringing children to large festivals. Upon arrival, I immediately encountered the sight of a nearly naked newborn being carried through a campsite. While I try to avoid passing judgment on other parents, seeing a baby in ear defenders being dragged through a crowd of intoxicated adults after midnight, with the infant cowering under a blanket, seemed far from the child’s best interests. On several occasions, I witnessed parenting practices that shocked me, and one young woman, almost in tears, expressed her concerns about a particularly distressed baby.
Of course, I don’t claim that these individuals were inherently bad parents. We all make misjudgments, act too optimistically, and end up regretting our decisions. Perhaps these parents spent the entire day at the Kidzfield, which offers incredible entertainment and support from the National Childbirth Trust in terms of feeding, bathing, and changing. It’s possible that they simply couldn’t find their way back to their camper van. Interestingly, the children who seemed to be having the worst time were not the typical “hippie kids.” The hippie kids one can spot at Womad and Glastonbury generally appear to be having a wonderful time.
The happiest baby I encountered during the weekend was nestled in a tipi in the healing fields, enjoying a serene moment with her mother. I also delighted in observing the older kids who reminded me of the children I grew up with. They possessed that distinct feral energy, with sun-bleached, ratty, long hair, bare feet, and weathered faces. You could tell they live off-grid in Cornwall or Wales, spending most of their time outdoors with minimal exposure to the internet. However, I must acknowledge that, based on my own experience, there is a chance they may not be up to date with all their immunizations, which is definitely concerning. As I emphasized in an article on the hippie revival in 2017, these children may face significant challenges in school and social settings, experiencing notable embarrassment. Nevertheless, in terms of their caring, kind, and progressive values, they are admirable. Often, confronted with the world beyond their own, they encounter quite a shock.
I believe festivals are important for children because they exhibit diverse groups of people coming together in a largely harmonious manner to engage with music and culture. Such events teach children about costumes, encourage play, and provide a safe opportunity to explore the outdoors away from screens. Recognizing that modern parents are eager to continue attending festivals, these events have become more child-friendly than ever. Womad, for instance, boasts a dedicated World of Children, while Camp Bestival is conceived entirely as a family-friendly festival-camping holiday, offering a plethora of activities and even a Cbeebies bedtime story tent.
Festivals also hold significance for parents. Some individuals may believe that having children signifies the end of one’s personal life, but festivals prove that it’s possible to continue pursuing interests, albeit with some adjustments. Although I attended Glastonbury without my child and fully indulged in the party atmosphere, my maternal instincts still shone through. I ensured unaccompanied children exited the toilets safely, acted as a barrier to protect a sobbing teenage girl from an intoxicated individual, and even carried a mini first-aid kit along with a small bag of sliced oranges for my pre-mixed Negroni.
Observing the hippie kids at Glastonbury made me reflect on my own parenting choices, which is a healthy exercise to undertake periodically. Do I want my child to live a predominantly urban, indoor existence, or am I interested in providing him with an upbringing more akin to my own? The accounts from counterculture children indicate that hippie parents don’t always get it right. During my research for my upcoming novel, which explores this very topic, I encountered some distressing stories. I highly recommend the book Wild Child: Girlhoods in the Counterculture, edited by Chelsea Cain, as it delves deeper into this subject. However, I’m also not entirely convinced that modern urban environments always offer the best upbringing for children.
Consequently, like countless others before me, I return from the festival both exhausted and invigorated, contemplating the many thoughts it has provoked. Perhaps I will desire to change our way of life, or maybe I will revert back to our previous routines, forgetting that alternative ways of living are possible. But of course, until the next festival rolls around, those thoughts are just speculations.
What’s working:
Lately, I’ve been using Bob Dylan’s 1975 album, “Blood on the Tracks,” as a lullaby for my baby. Almost without fail, he falls asleep by the end of the song “Idiot Wind,” which lasts a lengthy 7 minutes and 48 seconds. I’m pleased with how effective this choice has been, although I do occasionally wish I could listen to the rest of the album beyond the first four songs.
What’s not:
The sprinklers at our local playground are malfunctioning again, and this unfortunate timing coincides with the warmest weather. Our landlords refuse to provide us with an outdoor tap, so we can’t even fill a paddling pool to cool off. Perhaps this is why the memories of my childhood, spent paddling in rock pools and swimming in refreshing mountain rivers, are currently so tantalizing.
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