I do not know who mentioned it now. It was so long ago...

The North was so dull...it was true what they say...it's grim up North.

Well, it was.

I was eighteen and bored of life.

Bored of the North.

We bought a Transit van for eighty quid, advertised as taxed and tested.

It was the end of June 1991. Solstice. Four lads, a dog, a cat a bed settee and myself piled into the van and set off.

That's where it all began...

 

 

I could smell the wood smoke through the open window. I leaned a little closer, vying for position with the dog. There were alot of vehicles, unlike any I had seen before, horses, dogs, people...beautiful, facinating, new sights and sounds.

I think that is when I caught the bug.

 

I am sitting here now, 16 years on, trying to remember these times. The memories are faded, but I can't remember them ever being any clearer. I am upset that I don't remember order as well as I should, as well as I remember feelings and smells. I know how things ended that weekend and I know how they started. I will never forget some of the people I met.

A mixture of feelings now. Excitement remembered and new, confusion and sadness at forgetting.

 

My boyfriend-at-the-time lit a fire using petrol from the jerry can...

I now laugh at how naive we were.

He burnt his hand badly. The next day, we took the van into town, to the hospital. Some others came along from the site, wanting to shop. I already felt like I belonged, that these new friends were family. They had been there for my whole life...comfort.

Past the gate, past the police that had appeared overnight.

 

I feel, now, the feelings from then, mixed with feelings gained later on my journey and with what I feel now.

Three ages.

This age was innocence.

 

 

The wound was wrapped in a bag, like some macabre microwave meal for cannibals.

As we hit the outskirts of the festival, the traffic became slower and the number of mutant, intriguing vehicles increased.

We stopped.

Roadblock.

Police were checking vehicles. We were an easy target. The young, fresh quarry.

It was said that the tax disc in the van was from another vehicle. To this day, I do not know if that was true. We returned to site, without the van and the driver.

 

I don't recall where we stayed that night or how we got to Andover in the morning. I remember kind people and the police station.

I remember the broken prop shaft and the search for a new one.

 

The police had searched the van and analysed the contents of our protection charm (much good that did us), the milk powder and the incense. Originally, they had been marijuana, cocaine and mushrooms. Maybe, back then, the police were as naive as we were.

All charges were dropped, the van was released from the pound and we were allocated twenty-four hours to repair the vehicle on a verge opposite the police station before we were, again, impounded.

 

I can see the concrete bridge now. Imprinted on my memory, the view from the windscreen, stared at with worry and helplessness for hours, waiting for the new piece of van. I think, while I stared, I must have made a vow to never be stranded again...to be aware of my vehicle and know every nut and bolt.

I never forgot the double universally jointed prop shaft...a transitional year for the Transit.

 

That night, my boyfriend, the cat, the dog and I slept in the van while the lads slept under the bridge. We awoke in the morning to the desk sergeant with a tray of coffee and pet food.

Once the new part was fitted we headed back up North.

The North.

It was never to be home again. I spent time there, but I knew where my heart belonged.