The English Rose Knows: Festivals
I admit, I have been known to feign last-minute food poisoning if the forecast is anything but rosy for a music festival. And Glastonbury’s televised mud baths filled me with fear as a child. But festivals have evolved from beer and Brit Pop to bellinis and Beyoncé.
The love affair began in a haze of hedonism. It was summer 2004: Sienna was on the cover of every paper in neon shades, little black dress and embellished belt. Kate did wellies and golden girl dress. We barely noticed the rain storms (and actually the leather boots Matthew picked up for me in Morocco only got better once scuffed in the crowds of the main stage). Mud on our boots and flowers in our hair… Now I’m a master of the mud, or maybe more vixen of the VIP area. This summer I’ll be heading to Port Eliot (think the culture of a literary festival with the style accolades of Fashion Week) then Farr for far-out dance vibes in sun-drenched cornfields.
Print scarves are essential. This leopard one is light enough to multi-task round the neck, knot as a head scarf or belt, and I’ve even been known to work one as an eye mask when heading to my tepee at dawn. There is another essential – I said tepee not tent. All the festivals have yurts filled with furs and four-poster beds (seriously). Worth the investment. Make your boots count in colourful prints, keep your hemline high to avoid a disastrous maxi in the mud situation, and pack sunglasses in every shade of the rainbow. I’ll fix up a flower crown from roses in the garden, then twist my Azza Fahmy chains amongst daisy chains and VIP passes.
It’s only rock-n-roll, but this is the way I like it.
The English Rose