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11月7日 Domestic explosion and Part 2iiJust a quick one first to tell you about the amazing party we had at the weekend, surrounded by family and friends (minus Cunno) There was fire, bangs, pretty lights, much vodka, singing and mulled cider.
 Bottled cider in pan.
Add cinnamon, cloves, ginger, orange juice, sliced lemon, orange and apple.
Heat up slowly and drink warm...yum!!!
I think cousin Si might have added a wee dram of vodka at some point too
 A chair was broken...too many people sitting on it.
I lost a bottle of vodka and found it broken in the morning...probably a good job!!!
Two people were sick...in porcelain thank the stars!
I singstared drunkly until I could sing no more...and got some dirty dancing in with the girls too!!! Thanks to Spot for his Jonny Cash rendition!
Sunday was spent dazed and confuzzled, asleep and cleaning the whole of the downstairs floors...hooray for hard flooring and the incentive to lift the rugs before hand!!!
The cats survived the fireworks...after sniper crawling across the garden like they were under fire, bless!!! They had learnt by Sunday night though!!!
I was given a beautiful bracelet of cousin Sam...which broke twice, so I left it until Sunday to mend!!!
The fire was large and hot...and didn't singe my prize passiflora.
Our fireworks rocked the village...thanks to the lovely H and her bloke.
I'm sure I remember a bottle of champers somewhere along the line too...
Once upon a Time Part 2ii
Deja vu
I have thought long and hard over the time I have been away from writing about the next week in this telling...I remember the following weekend was at Llanbister and, now, as I write this, more memories return.
Of the roundabout; of the 'James' red car...which ended up on site with us a few years later. Still not much of the weekend though.
I will move on to explain the title of this chapter...
The following weekend we aimed for the Brecon Beacons and the last in the Welsh trilogy, Trecastle.
As we climbed the twisting lanes of Cymru, I remembered back to a dream that I had had a few months past. Of the steep lane up to site and the handmade sign on the side of the road, offering us the path onto the festival, just as I was seeing with my own eyes at that moment. The feeling of disbelief was so strong, I couldn't resist telling my fellow travellers of what I was witnessing.
Then, I felt it was a sign of fate...that I was meant to be in this place of mist and greeness. Now, I know, it was more to warn me of the emotional upheaval to come that weekend.
Sweet Tea
My boyfriend had always been feisty...and not in a good way. That weekend was ruled by his attack on me, and still is.
The love and care of the girls in the big red truck, after I ran from him, reinstated my urge to be free.
They gave me tea with sugar, a drink that I don't usually touch to this day...but that day it was the sweetest nectar in the world. Not unlike a peace pipe. There was more in the mug than a hot beverage, and the understanding and bond between myself and the girls grew. My hair had began to naturally matt, they showed me how to separate it into dreadlocks.
I felt cared for and heard for the first time in a long while.
I felt at peace and, again, comfort and a sense of being.
Separation and Reunion
There was no improvement in our relationship after that. It became worse if anything. There were good moments, but they were tainted by fear of violence and abandonment.
For the next few weeks we moved between festivals...I grew more confident, in myself, in my surroundings and in the trust I had for this life and the people.
Cloud Nine at Thornton in the Ribble valley came. We arranged for one of the lads, with the blackest of dreadlocks, to drive us to Skipton to sign on. I remember years later, reminding him of that journey. Joking with him about snapping the ignition key in the door lock and how apologetic he was.
I had been accepted as easily as I had taken them into my heart.
There was a mutual respect between us all. One that allowed us to show humility, arrogance...
and allowed us the comfort of giving and receiving ridicule without hurt.
Kirby Steven followed.
The site crossed the road into the village on a small part of common land. I washed in the fresh clean water of the river, bracing yet embracing...addictive in it's sting of reality.
I had decided that it was time to head back to the North.
To run from the hurt and ridicule provided by my boyfriend-that-was. Mum offered to pick me up from Skipton the day I signed again.
The police had closed off both ends of the site. Black Morias patrolled the lane...cocky in the fact they could drive through site. This was familiar territory now and naivity and fear had been replaced with pride and resentment.
A calm would pass over site, like the second before a water drop might fall...
Stillness.
Anticipation of the drop that was to be or not to be.
Relaxed but watching and waiting...
The Transit van was swapped for a little yellow Bedford CF...bright like the sun with a beaming face and sparkly eyes, spritely in it's knowledge of freedom.
I was beginning to see the vehicles as more than just transport...each one had personality. In their shape, their bumps and scratches. In the way they started and ran. When something becomes part of daily life, when dependency rules over leisure. When you learn the idiosyncrasys of that something...then it becomes real. A relationship is formed...
I learnt how to read things, how to open my senses wider, to accept that what I had ignored in the past.
We were told to move...
No buts.
The convoy headed North, towards Stanhope moor...further from Skipton. I never got to meet my mum there, but she had a good day out...it was meant to be that way.
I spoke to her from the phone box at the end of site. She agreed to pick me up from there. Nervously I waited for her to appear, not knowing what she would think. We drove through site to the van. Through the music and wood smoke. Through the lights and strange shadows that had become my home.
I said my goodbyes...to my boyfriend-that-was and to my beloved Saff.
To my friends with promises of hasty return.
I remember the day clearly and with that I can find the date...Ninth of September Nineteen-Ninety-One. The day of the Meadowell Riots.
It was dark when we returned.
I watched, in shock, as the sky glowed orange with flames and the spotlights from the helicopters looked solid in the thickening smoke.
In the background, mum was ringing through her address book. Singing the praises and beauty of site to her friends.
Disbelief at this other world.
Shellshocked and far from my place of peace and comfort.
I was frightened of the place I had grew up.
Que cera cera
Boyfriend-that-was returned about a week later, without the sunshine CF, but with my precious Saffron.
We met in the pub...including the cat, secreted in his coat.
We carried on a failed relationship for a short while after. Until he blamed me for an attempted attack on myself which occured one night after walking from his house.
Frightened.
To this day, I feel anxiety in town...senses heightened, but not in a good way.
The drop of water, but not calm.
Scars to remind me.
In my mind I was focused.
I passed my driving test first time in the following January.
I attended a business course and arranged for funding.
I started my own business to manufacture and sell T Shirts at festivals.
Then I saw my truck in Autotrader.
Like the girls' big red truck.
An FG...my truck.
She was mine that week.
Pies and Sausages she was called. ERX 26V. I don't remember any of the others that followed with such detail.
Thanks to friends, we got her shipshape and ready to go.
I am still amazed at how easy the transition between driving a small hatchback to driving a three and a half ton truck was.
What will be, will be.
Fate, and a little hard work had shaped my destiny.
This time I would not return.
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