A Lull During Bestival

A festival
Bestival!
Packing
repacking
squishing it all in the car.

Driving
driving
queuing
a little bit more driving
waiting in a skin blisteringly hot car.

Driving solo;
a lack of car snacks
a lack of air conditioning
a lack of traffic patience
a build up of hot, sweaty frustration.

Cake at the campsite
greetings, hugs, questions, stories,
tents, pegs, airbeds, long walk to the toilets.

Long walk to the arena,
dusty pathways, dog searches, bag searches

Finally in the festival;
glitter, sequins, funny hats, fancy dress, sore sunburn lines already in residence,
arguing couples, screaming children, funfair melodies, pumping beats, long build ups, disappointing drops, bass bounding back in like a bully barging into my brain.

My bass, our drums, forty odd drummers moving in unison.
Rhythms and beats pounding through me.
Sweat running into my sun-squinting eyes.
The rest evaporating in the midday heat.
Sun cream reapplied,
following the shade as the day draws on.

Tightrope walkers, spinning lights, blinding lights, stages you can only see through the silhouetted crowd.
People.
People everywhere.

Food smells, toilets smells, funny smells the dogs missed.
Fuzzy head from too much sun. Too much heat. Too much everything.

Sleep.

Time to escape.

An early morning escape. Not ten minutes down the country lanes.

Here:

Lulworth Cove. A hidden retreat that was once a haunt of many a smuggler. I imagined the cool, calm water to be a veil over possible forgotten loot and stranded vessels strewn over the jagged rocks, littering the sea bed.

Yet none of this was enough to deter me from my mission. I needed the sea.

The pebbled beach invited me towards the shore and soon my shins were pushing past the lapping waves. The sun was shining but had yet to hit its full stride. I took a deep breath and took my first dive beneath the surface.

Cold, salty water rushed over me and my muscles propelled me on through the waves. The dust, and the sweat, and the aches, and the stresses, and the lingering remnants of festival life were washed away, peeled away from my skin by the cool currents swirling into the bay.

Once I surfaced, I squinted into the sunlight and wished to be below the surface once more. So the process was repeated. Diving, surfacing, pushing through the water until I could no longer feel my fingers. The floating was the best. Lying silently still, staring up at the white cliffs comfortably besieging us. Sculling around so as not to be blinded by the ever-strengthening sunlight. My head submerged below the surface so that the only sounds reverberating through my body were the garbled push and pull of the ocean and the sound of my breathing, pulsing like the tide itself.

I knew I couldn't stay there forever. My numb fingers were reminder enough of that.

And we had to get back to the festival. To the sounds. To the smells. To the people. To the everything.

I could just about manage to steel myself for another festival onslaught because of what Lulworth Cove had given me. I could follow the steps of the smugglers before me and leave the cove with my own personal contraband. Not rum or gold, but peace and reflection.

And the knowledge that the next day would bring another lull from the craziness.

Imperfect Beauty

Hands up if you like perfection.

I'm a no. Always no to perfection; it's too shiny, too finished, too...perfect. Nothing good can come from perfection. There is no soul in perfection. Imperfection is where the real life is.

Lisbon is a great place to visit for fans of imperfection. Don't get up in arms here Lisbonites - what I'm saying is that it's more beautiful because of the imperfections: the chipped tiles, the graffiti all over, the scaffolding hiding architectural works of art, the broken down trams, the boarded up windows, the perennial renovations. They are much more interesting. They show the daily grind of life in Lisbon. I love Lisbon!

Sure, I expected to see a good few tiles around Lisbon - it's part of the package. You wouldn't go to New York and not expect to see any yellow taxis. But I hadn't anticipated the aesthetic love I felt for the small ceramic squares to be quite so strong. They make everything look more interesting. Even when a splash of modern spray paint invades the barricade of tiles, it only augments the pleasure radiated by the colours and patterns. I had to stop myself taking photos of every tiled building - why do you need so many pictures of patterned tiles woman?

Lisbon seems to run on making do. If there's a problem, an imperfection, don't worry. Leave it there, cover it up (or don't) and move on. The tram we were on had to stop, we were transferred onto a bus in literally one minute to continue our journey. A grandiose, colonial mansion is broken, leave it and move on. Leave it to its own devices. There are many such abandoned buildings strewn around the streets of Lisbon, all adorned with graffiti tags, broken windows and the creeping invasion of nature's greenery. I have no doubt that they are also filled with a countless number of stories and fragments of people's lives that they will never share.

This was one of my favourite buildings. If you peer through the gated walls you can see what must have once been a wonderful house. Does anyone still live there? Are the walls still sanctuary to someone? What will happen to its history? What will happen to its future?

Finally, we need to talk about the most imperfect and at the same time perfect things to be found in Lisbon. To be fair, they were one of my main reasons for travelling there in the first place: the Portuguese custard tart.

It is quite possibly, the greatest feat of culinary engineering ever mastered.

No, it does not look pretty. It doesn't look like one of the faultless delicacies you'd see in a Parisian patisserie or an utterly immaculate cream concoction from an Austrian bakery. The custard tart is not uniform. It is speckled. It is a bit burnt. It has uneven borders. It has a crusty, flaky edge ready to drop off. But these 'faults' are what makes it so great. Excuse me a moment whilst I wipe the drool away from just thinking about these delicious devils.

These features that first seem like imperfections melt away into a gooey, flaky gloop of sweet sweet goodness. A mouthful of tart will give you the heady mix of soft crunch and glutinous goo that will make you want to send for all your belongings and set down roots within walking distance from one of Lisbon's many pastelarias.

Lisbon is the European capital of flawed beauty and, in mastering this, it has a warm, welcoming heartbeat pervading every single aspect of life within the city, from the tumbling buildings to the admirable irregularities in the food. Everything about Lisbon is a little less than perfect; but perfect is pointless.

I never want to taste perfection if this is the taste of battered, crumbling, but most of all, loved, imperfection.

Dance Badajoz Dance!

I found it. I found the choreographed dance centre of the universe.

I didn't know I was even looking for it, but I'm super glad I found it.

It was a slightly unexpected find as I had presumed my visit to Spain would consist mostly of drum playing with only a smattering of dancing. I was wrong. They were dancing in the streets in Badajoz. Literally.

Badajoz, a city next to the Portuguese border, hosts a wonderful carnival every year that lasts several days. I was lucky enough to be invited to play with Batala, a samba-reggae band that I'm also lucky enough to be a part of.

The carnival engulfs the whole city and everyone in it. You can't walk to the supermercado without bumping into a family of bears or having to skirt past a loitering group of Incredibles - one presumes waiting for disaster to strike in order to spring into superhero action. If you're wearing 'regular' clothes, YOU'RE the oddball. It's brilliant.

But enough talk of costumes; let the dancing begin!

The people of Badajoz love to dance. I love to dance. I guess that's why I spent a lot of my youth making up bedroom dance routines or learning the grapevine for the Scout and Guide Gang Show. And I guess that's why, on some level, I joined Batala.    

Yes, we play drums. Yes, we are incredibly good at drumming. But we also like a little movement with our music. I, personally, find it easier to remember the music when I have a dance to go with it. Which is handy as a lot of our songs have dances. Yet when I got to rehearse with the super-band made up of the Badajoz contingent and delegates from Batala bands from around the world, there were MORE dance moves. And heaps of sun-invigorated energy. We were adding extra steps and bending here there and everywhere. There was a dance train and I was running along trying to keep up.

The Badajoz dancing didn't stop at rehearsals either. Party time is always dancing time in Spain, but at these parties, the dancing was a finely tuned, chaotically choreographed affair. Apparently, I missed the best of the dancing on the night before I arrived but the upshot was that there was a dance for every song. The Badajoz band were kind enough to dance the rest of us through the basic moves. So much so, that when certain songs started, there was a cheer and the collective was called into dancing action. Having missed the tutorial night, my favourite was the one where we basically charged around the dance floor like teenagers hyped up on too many Haribo and then let loose in a circle pit. Not the prettiest of dances, but fun.

The Badajoz band had a more civilised dance planned as a surprise for us visitors later in the night. I say civilised, but it's always hard to be civilised when dancing to 'Cotton Eye Joe'. They demonstrated the routine and then urged us to join in. Which we did, with gusto. It's not often you get to line dance amongst farm animals, DC super villains and Frida Kahlo. (A party without costumes isn't allowed during carnival.)

Alongside our recreational dancing, Badajoz is overtaken by the serious business of the main parade on the Sunday with the Desfile de Comparsas. This is when hundreds of people, all dressed in the most elaborate and wonderful costumes, parade through the city, dancing all the way. Each comparsa has a different theme and so a corresponding costume and dance. They are an explosion of colour and material. The time and effort that goes into this is astounding. I'm reliably informed that local comparsas spend the whole year secretly planning what to showcase during the carnival.

The dancing is incredible. There are lines upon lines of people (men, women and children) all dressed immaculately and all doing the same choreographed moves. Incredible is an over-used word, but I completely couldn't work out how, logistically, so many people had learnt the same things and were performing their moves so militarily.

Dancing is a passion and a serious business here. Take a look at some of the comparsas' work here. I loved the Marvel heroes particularly, but if you pick any moment in the video, it will bring a smile to your face. And isn't that why we all dance? That's why I dance - for the joy it brings me and the joy we can spread through dance. Nos encanta bailar.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9a84xN4Teuc