Mum’s first festival!

Nobody believed I could do it. Least of all me.

Me with Will, Roisin and Chandrima.

I did something last week that I vowed I would never do. For once, I decided to override my lifelong FOF: that’s Fear of Festivals

Mine is the usual list of cliched aversions: the ever-present threat of being trapped in a grotty bog, a la Glasto 1997; asphyxiating in an overflowing chemical toilet cubicle; no showers for days; people. So many people. I can’t. Never been thrilled by the idea of any of it. My friend, Emma B, asked me to swing by her Virgin Radio daytime show to discuss ‘festival fashion’ and she couldn’t stop laughing about the fact that a few days later I would actually be going to The Isle of Wight Festival. ‘You?!’ she kept saying. Very ‘off brand’ for me, we agreed.

But I’d drunkenly accepted a kind invitation some months earlier. I was at a drinks party thrown by my friend and PR legend, Alan Edwards. He’d just visited the island and was all spiritually energised by the place. He’d fallen in love with it and wanted a motley crew of journalists to do the same.

So he invited us to be his guests at the Isle of Wight Festival where The Cure would be headlining. The actual bloody Cure! All that kohl-drenched emo despair brought me so much joy as an 80s teen. And the chance to correct a great injustice of my youth - in never getting to see them live - inspired me to attempt to conquer the FOF. Well, once I had written confirmation that I’d be staying in a nice hotel.

But then the itinerary arrived, and I had a bit of a wobble. Let’s just say, it was not designed around the Elvin stamina and its woeful limitations. Exhibit A:

We had to leave home at around 7.30 on Saturday morning, and we’d be powering through to 1am, after a set by The Sex Pistols. Then straight back to the Festival in the morning to enjoy a lot of acts I’m really not bothered about - David Gray, The Kooks, Rita Ora - until The Cure go on at 8.30pm. Straight after, leg it to catch a midnight ferry to the mainland, followed by a car to Waterloo station, from whence to find your own way home at around 3am on Monday morning.

Even some of my most enthusiastic festival going friends were going green when I showed them this schedule. I started to think I should figure out a plausible excuse and cancel.

But… The Cure. I decided to tell myself to shut up and buckle up. Sleep when you’re dead etc etc

And guess what? I did it! With stamina and good cheer. All of my friends have seen me start tugging at my husband’s sleeve to go home about 10pm. Everyone should be shocked and impressed with how well I did.

A few things definitely helped: One, not drinking wine. The one paper cup full I was handed tasted like it might actually be rat’s piss. So I opted for margaritas and pace myself - one an hour, at most. And this is how I learned that other drinks don’t make you anywhere near as tired, as quickly, as wine.

Two, I doubt I’d have been as good humoured without a real bed to lie in after a real shower and the comforting proximity of my own clean toilet. It’s best for all concerned if I’m never invited camping.

Three, we did not stay up to watch The Sex Pistols on the first night. We went to bed at midnight. Good move.

And four, it has to be said that, key to having the best time was that our fellow festival goers were a delight.

Some I knew very well - like Ross, he’s my husband. I’ve also known Alan, our weekend leader, for more than 20 years and he and his partner Chandrima are always fun. I have known The Times writer Will Hodgkinson, for more than 20 years, through mutual friends, but until last weekend, I’d probably spoken to him 10 minutes tops in all that time. He is a well known name and face to music fans of a certain demographic and Ross and I enjoyed watching him being stopped, at least 10 times, by greying rock fans keen to nerd out with him about some unheard of hippy band or another.

I love these kinds of excursions where, unlike a party or a dinner, you don’t feel the same kind of urgency around making conversation sparkling. You know you have hours and hours to fill with the same people so the rhythm is different. It’s a casual mix of random, in the moment observations, brand new-in jokes, bursts of animated anecdotes that blend easily with comfortable silences. You get to know people in a totally different way. And then just when you least expect it, one of them blurts out incredible gossip about their friends who live next door to Harry and Meghan in California. (You’ll have to watch my royal show for more on that).

Just for a little while, I stopped watching the clock. I stopped fretting about how I would feel the next day on so little sleep. I even found myself enjoying one or two songs from The Kooks which I couldn’t have imagined just 24 hours earlier. Just not my cuppa tea, but you know… I was there, doing my best to live in the moment.

When we were finally in our Uber, at 4am at Waterloo station, I said to Ross, ‘Can you believe we did this?’ ‘No!’ he laughed, before quickly adding, ‘Well… I can’t believe you did it.’ Fair point, well made.

Here’s some photos.

After a very foggy early ferry ride, our first stop was lunch at Dimbola Museum. The former home of a pioneering Victorian photographer, Julia Margaret Cameron (not least because she was - gasp! - a lady), it’s now something of a temple to the island’s rich culture and a lot of that is Festival-related. They’ve just opened an exhibition called Experience Hendrix, dedicated to Jimi Hendrix’s 1970 performance at Isle of Wight. He would be dead just a few days later.

Dimbola is room after room of festival history, along with the preserved sleeping quarters of Julia Margaret Cameron - romantic-slash-creepy as is the Victorian way.

In fact, Jo Macaulay, curator of the Jimi Hendrix exhibition, is adamant Julia’s ghost is about and it’s not hard to believe.

They make blue sparkling wine on The Isle of Wight and if you’re intrigued you can buy it. How does it taste? Like white sparkling wine.

The Molotovs, a young brother-sister duo, were a godsend of a mood boost just as I was having a real fatigue crash on Sunday afternoon. A cheering mix of rock, youth and arrogant swagger.

The Cure - absolutely everything we all hoped. Robert Smith’s still got the pipes and his own artful way with misapplying lippie.

And it’s really hard to keep track of just how many brilliant songs they pumped out in their day and they played all of my favourites. Which, to my utter delight, included obscure fan favourite, From The Edge of the Deep Green Sea.

My friend Melissa Odabash had generously gifted me this hat which I love and which was necessary in the heatwave.

Quick PSA: See that dot above my lip? A skin cancer that needs removing. Protect your skin in the sun, kids.

Kept thinking about getting on this swing ride, never did. And now I must live forevermore with the regret.

We stayed at Albert Cottage, which was once owned by Prince Albert. It was pretty. And gave good breakfast.

Alan stopped in at a local bookshop to see if his book was there and it was and he signed it. And the book shop owner, pictured, was another one of Will H’s mega fans.

I wore a kaftan on the first day. From Zara.

But you were seriously underdressed if you weren’t accessorising with an inflatable alien.

I felt like death for two days after getting home. I wanna go next year.