Festival on Fire

Each August Bank Holiday, Nigel, Pascoe and I go to Greenbelt Festival and camp with Nick and Jackie (and this year, Mark, Adri and offspring too).  Nick found us all a great spot.

We were close to some portaloos and a stand pipe, but not TOO near.

Even better, we were right next to a large area of grass – presumably one of the campsite fire breaks. 

However, when we got back to our tents on the first night, a large fire was burning in the grassy area.  Worse, campers had begun to sing songs around it.

“Oh you’ll never get to Heaven in a biscuit tin…”

I was indignant:

“Don’t they realise how dangerous fire is on a campsite?  How do I contact the fire marshalls?”

“It’s okay Mum,” said Pascoe, “There’s somebody wearing a yellow gilet that says Fire Marshall…Hold on though – what on earth are they doing?”

The fire marshall was giving the fire a good poke and adding some sticks.

Clearly they had completely misunderstood the role of fire marshall. 

And it wasn’t just a single rogue operator – other fire marshalls joined him and stood warming their hands beside the blaze.

“She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes…”

I was no longer sure who to complain to.

And on the following night, it happened all over again.

It was only on our last night that I thought to check the programme and discovered that it was the official Greenbelt Campfire – open to all festival-goers.

So this Greenbelt was the one where I discovered my inner NIMBY – although I’m not sure I ought to be boasting about it.