Just got back from Greenbelt, a festival of arts, politics and theology.
After several years of my kids camping with friends, we had a fairly orderly encampment of five families or part-families, more typical of how it was before the offspring became teens.
With Carenza, I visited an art exhibition by Nicola Green about the election of Obama, with Perran, I attended Shobana Jeyasingh’s “Configurations” (Indian Classical Dance alongside a string quartet), I joined Pascoe for a talk on food security in Malawi and with Nigel, the hilarious comedian Barbara Nice (your Nana’s point of view – but only if your Nana was deeply subversive).
We also shared craich, cups of chai and glasses of wine with good friends.
I have been fed spiritually, but luckily, not watered. Last year, we were six inches deep in quagmire. I saw another middle-aged woman slip over. She arose looking like a chocolate-coated gingerbread man and I spent the rest of the weekend worrying it would happen to me. But this year was a good one for sitting around on the grass wearing ridiculous festival clothes (of which I have a selection).
For us, it was probably the perfect Greenbelt, but as with everything else, things are changing. Greenbelt happens at Cheltenham Racecourse where they are about to knock down and rebuild the huge grandstand, so the festival may be looking for a new home. Plus the twins reckon that if they come next year, it should be as volunteers, to help with the day-to-day running rather than relaxing with us.
But I’m sure that somehow, somewhere, Greenbelt will happen and that most of us will be there.
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