It's mudder on the dancefloor
The long car journey to Ratoath, Co Meath, the traffic, the slow stewarding and the queues, the wearing of silly attire and, of course, the rain.
We had all heard that the continental-style torrential rain on Friday night had flooded parts of the ground. But nobody thought there would be a repeat of last year’s Woodstock-type scenes.
Traditions are traditions, however. And there was no escaping the mud.
But it didn’t put the 40,000 music fans off. Not that you had a choice.
To get to the tents, particularly the Dance tent and the Upstage tent at the back of the ground, was like a tour of the Battle of the Somme.
Some revellers jumped into the mud, threw it at each other, and covered themselves in it, as if it was gold.
The music tents were in just as bad condition.
Seasoned punters asked would it not have been possible to put large sheets of flooring on the ground.
Outside, wood chipping had some good effect, but there wasn’t enough of it. But, it would be churlish to go on about the mud.
Like most festivals, there was also some evidence of drugs, but far less than at many other festivals.
As the Chemical Brothers came on stage, one hippy guy dug his own hole.
He had rolled up a joint standing up and was just about to finish it off, when out of nowhere, a security guy popped and said ‘I’ll take that’. The poor hippy shouted a little obscenity, then, to his credit, took it in his stride and continued smiling and laughing.
Then, of course there was the music.
And this year, there could be few complaints about the quality on show.
On Saturday, there was the atmospheric sonics of Mercury Rev and Gallic chefs Air, the spaced, guitar layered nirvana of Spiritualised and Irish quirky songsters David Kitt and Gemma Hayes. There was also the mesmeric Mexican duo Rodrigo and Gabriela, whose intricate and sun kissed slices of Spanish guitar made even the most hard hearted of Gringos jump for joy.
Yesterday boasted psychedelic giants Primal Scream and dance supremos Basement Jaxx and Groove Armada.
They battled it out with sweet soulsters Damien Rice and Badly Drawn Boy and headliners Oasis, carrying with them enough baggage as to give Ryanair handling staff a nightmare.
Finally, there was the romance.
Towards the tail end of Saturday night in the dance tent, a skinny, sweaty half-naked fella pleaded with a clean, well dressed girl to dance.
Observers elbowed each other laughing at the audacity of the guy. Mental bets were placed how long he’d last.
But, before you had time to slip on the mud, the two were snogging as if it was the last festival ever.
The sheer youthful romance of it all. Sure, it’s part of the fine traditions of Irish festivals.
And long may it last.
