Upton Folk Festival 2014, Friday: tents, drinking and more drinking and some ear-bending

One of the regular dates for Stone the Crows Border Morris is Upton Folk Festival, which takes place every May Day bank holiday weekend. This is something Greg and I have never done, Greg having been completely averse to camping until last year when Simon, our then Squire, managed to persuade him that camping doesn’t necessarily have to be the worst experience you could possibly have. This year we put our names down for Upton and went and bought a tent (having used a borrowed one last year). It looks like we’re quite the converts now.

The actual dancing at Upton takes place on the Saturday, Sunday and Monday but of course you have to travel down on the Friday and having had experience of pitching the tent in pitch black last year (well, Greg did most of the pitching and I only pitched in once the difficult bit had been done), I decided to ask for a half day holiday, so we could get to Upton in plenty of time and pitch the tent in daylight. The leave was duly granted and Greg, not wanting to be upstaged by me, got a day’s holiday, thus enabling him to do vital preparatory work like getting the tent, airbed, sleeping bags and all the other camping paraphernalia out of their various storage locations and piling them up in front of our front door ready to pack into the car.

I went to work and gradually got giddier and giddier throughout the half day until 1 O’clock struck and I raced for the door like a whippet. Well, like an ancient, arthritic whippet. Once home we started to pack the car but I noticed a slight problem: the airbed still had air in it from last August, so I very expertly rolled it up, folded it up, knelt on it (thereby expelling the air) and then packed it at half its previous size into the car. Once everything was in the car (there wasn’t much space: we had quite a lot of stuff and it’s a small car) we set off on our epic journey. I decided to use the motorways and the M6 was reasonably clear, although traffic crawled over the Thelwall Viaduct and on various other stretches and going onto the M5 proved less traumatic than on previous occasions (when I have been reduced to tears). The M5 was less generous and we were brought to a total standstill at points but we still made it to Upton in a reasonable time.

The tent after pitching. I have circled it because it’s not obvious and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. Photo courtesy of Frances Judge.

We got to pitch the tent in daylight and with the assistance of Brent (who is a master-tent-pitcher), who gave us some handy hints (which I will remember but Greg won’t) about pegging out guy ropes to keep it upright. I then put in the bedroom and the porch groundsheet, pumped up the airbed, made the bed and transported all the stuff we would need for the weekend into the tent. While all this was going on, Phil from Bunnies from Hell wandered into our corral for a chat. Greg went over and introduced himself and when I emerged from the tent and had managed to persuade my back to straighten up, I went over to meet him too. Phil informed us that he had decided to give Border Morris a general amnesty for the weekend and then went on to explain why exactly he doesn’t like Border Morris.

After this, the side decided that we had waited long enough and it was time to set off to sample the various ales available at the various beer festivals in the town. Our first stop was at the White Lion. We did a brief reconnoitre and found not-at-all-Newby Pete with his wife, Elaine in the front bar but there was no room for another 6 or 8 people, so we went to the beer garden. There was a good selection of ales, so I unhooked my trusty tankard and went to order my first half. I have no idea at all now what I drank but it was good and I went back for more. While we were there, Richard, our youngest member, sat on everybody’s knee (well everybody who would let him), as if he was trying to find the most comfortable one and Brent told one of his jokes, which I have, thankfully, since forgotten. I do, however, remember the first joke he ever told me, which I will reproduce here. Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition.

Q. Why do farts smell?

A. So deaf people will appreciate them.

After a few more drinks a decision was taken to move onto the Swan Hotel, where there was another beer festival. I was to become quite well acquainted with the barman at the Swan beer festival over the weekend. I must have had a few because after a while I was persuaded to sing and chose The Nutting Girl. Part way through the first verse, I realised that when drunk I tend to forget the words and had to mumble and slur the bits I’d forgotten. Singing the other verses did not improve my memory and I estimate that I slurred/mumbled at least 15 words during my performance. Fortunately, I was surrounded by people in various states of inebriation and they really did not notice.

Not-Nick, on the left and Dark Morris Dancer on the right at Shrewsbury and not a bent ear in sight.

At the Swan, we saw Martyn from the Iron Men, whom we had originally met at Shrewsbury and renewed our acquaintance with at the Black Meet. With him was their foreman, whom we had also met at Shrewsbury and renewed our acquaintance with at the Black Meet. Now, for some reason, Greg had got it into his head that he was called Nick but it appears he had got it wrong because he is not Nick; he is Paul. I was by this time quite drunk and, although I don’t tend to act the fool completely and do silly things like dancing on tables and stuff like that, I do tend to become pretty garrulous when drunk and poor Not-Nick had to bear the brunt of my garrulousness while Greg and Martyn discussed squire-like things. Anthony and Mark (also Crows) stayed with us (I have no idea why, they wouldn’t have got a word in edgeways) and when the bars closed, we moved onto the Rugby Club, where there was a late bar.

I had another half in there and after a mouthful or two I realised I had probably had enough. No matter, I continued to bend Not-Nick’s ear, conversing on subjects as diverse as my 90 year old father, my 90 year old father and my 90 year old father. He very politely appeared to listen, although he may have had trouble concentrating on what I was saying: I suspect my speech may have been somewhat slurred by now. Greg and Martyn were still exchanging notes on being squire and Anthony and Mark were… Well, I don’t remember now, I was too busy talking at Not-Nick.

Well, at 2.15am or thereabouts, we staggered out of the clubhouse, stepped gingerly down the earthworks (presumably some kind of ancient fortification erected at some period lost in the mists of time) and somehow managed to find our tent (I think we managed this last because I had taken a torch with me, which is unexpectedly organised of me) and went to bed. Being rather the worse for wear, I didn’t wrap up enough and every time Greg had to get up to relieve himself (rather a lot of times), I was painfully aware of the cold. However, we made it through the night and didn’t die of hypothermia and when my alarm went off at some unearthly hour (before 10am, anyway), I was forced to get up because we were going to be dancing on one of the stages at 11.00.

And I must leave it there so as not to break my no more than 1500 words rule but I will be back with Saturday, Sunday and Monday…