We returned from Scotland, an agonising nine (9) ticks short of GBG immortality, on the penultimate day of August.
The 31st was spent wondering whether we should have made the effort to get to Orkney and finish the Guide. We wouldn’t have had any time to sleep, but hey-ho.
But it was too late. September arrived, and we were headed down south to the End of the Road, somewhere in a field near Wiltshire (like in the Pulp song without the Es and Whizz).
Yes, it’s festival time, which means a 4:22 hour slog with a healthy breakfast at the criminally underrated Towcester Services.
Our planning was exemplary. I packed the beer, remembered Baa Baa Toure and bought the programme;
Mrs RM put the tents and flags up,
and James kept out of the way. It’s division of labour, like Adam Smith intended.
This was to be my 10th End of the Road, and while in theory it’s all about wistful young songstresses from Australia and scuzzy punks from Brighton, in reality it’s the art in the luscious gardens,
and the food carts,
and the cider bus that you come for.
Thursday lunchtime was too early for the warm cider, even for Mrs RM, but in the interests of research I thought I’d better have a (tasty, NBSS 3.5) pint of local Gritchie Sun Lore in a reusable plastic glass for you,
if only so you could say “HOW much !”.
Get used to the £6 pint. If you live in London you already are.