Buddhafield festival in Somerset

---

Buddhafield festival
The Buddhafield festival in Somerset, where I blagged my way in as a volunteer (they were desperate for an additional ‘poo fairy’) is way out hippie dippy. No drugs or alcohol allowed, nudity tolerated, but is mainly evident in elderly men, and there’s something about an elderly man naked except for socks, shoes and a shoulder bag that doesn't inspire me to stay in the moment or enjoy the natural countryside.
And the opening ritual with Men of the Wildwood, (oh yes, and Women of the Wildwood too. Let's include them, or at least tag them onto the end because we're all-inclusive here) welcoming the Buddha made me want to giggle, with their green make up, and the Lord of the Wildwood's costume looking like the remnants of the faux leatherette cover of a 1970’s sofa.
There are some characters really up themselves, but there's also a lot of genuinely nice people. And the great thing about being in this company is no matter how weird I am, there's someone weirder here. And it's rather nice to walk among smiling people who are ready to give and receive a compliment from a total stranger.
The persistent rain on Tuesday, when I arrived, made the ground a quagmire, but finer weather followed, which meant the airfield next door was busy with a budding Red Arrow pilot, soaring and plumetting above us, drowning out the story teller, and frightening the audience.
I was going to a comedy show but the child who was running about on the stage round the poor man trying to do his comedy routine, put me in such a bad mood, I had to leave before I smacked his mother.
One morning I carved a wooden spoon with the minimum of personal injury and went Conscious Speed Dating in the evening, which was a little like the ice breakers one has in staff training sessions, but with fewer inhibitions. Talking of which I've dropped a few of those; having a shower and sauna I felt a little overdressed wearing my towel when everyone else was wandering about the mixed area au naturel. So I threw caution and my towel to the wind. There’s apparently naked dancing here too; perhaps I'll try that. Or maybe not.
I've chatted to Emmy Jungle, a fluffy rabbit who was sitting on the shoulders of his owner, (acquired by him after a night drinking with the gypsies in Portugal), and I ruffled the chest feathers of Daffy the falcon who sits on his perch by the van opposite me.
The friend I met here is working much longer hours than I am, so I have the perfect experience of doing a lot of my own, but meeting up with a friend to share opinions and meals.
We listen to a story reputedly told by gypsies a long time ago. The man sits on the stage built on the side of an ex-horsebox, and tells stories twice a day to an increasingly larger audience, and a croakier voice.
There are workshops on birthing, death, cuddling, and mystical therapies alongside longbow making and metalworking. Tribal body art workshops need participants to be pretty inhibition free. And all this without drugs and alcohol (allegedly).
There's talks and dancing and some music, but a lot of the time I'm happy pottering around the van, sorting out storage; now that I've removed a unit, I have to rejig.
Monday morning and the punters are going. The site is reclaimed by the traders and crew packing up.
Tuesday we're off towards Ilminster to visit an off-grid community trying to feed themselves with agriculture on a piece of land donated under a Trust.
The car park on Ham Hill, above this piece of land, looks westward towards the Quantocks and Blackdown Hills, and the thunderstorms that lashed everyone else passed either side of this hill.

---