She lay on her side and watched the people coming and going from the tented stalls and music stages. I lay on my back beside her and stared up at the billowing ceiling. We’d arrived at the Ragged Hedge Fair, put up the tent, had a series of unbelievably petty squabbles in the process, and were now paralysed by apathy. We lay in our tent, barely speaking, until it was dark.
The Ragged Hedge Fair, held in the Cotswolds each summer, is one of a growing number of small ‘green’ summer festivals springing up to cater for those disillusioned by the squalor, commercialism and criminality at Glastonbury. Power is supplied entirely by sun and wind, on-site transport by horse and cart. Generators aren’t allowed. Neither are dogs. Campfires must be raised off the ground on braziers. Film canisters are available from the information tent for smokers to use as portable ashtrays. ‘Leave no trace’ is the fair’s motto.
Hunger and thirst drove us out of the tent in the end. It was so dark outside we couldn’t see the ground or each other’s faces. I’d forgotten to bring a torch.
Tongues of fire flaring out on the hill drew our attention and we headed towards it. A lively display of fire-eating and juggling was in progress. We joined a half-circle of onlookers. ‘They’re going to set fire to the wicker man in a minute,’ said a silhouette next to me. He spoke as though we were co-religionists. Sure enough, a sinister, 12-feet-tall silhouette was standing nearby, its arms stretched towards us in mute supplication. And sure enough a few moments later one of the performers shoved a flaming torch into its guts and retired.
According to Julius Caesar, British Druids burnt people and animals alive in large wicker effegies to celebrate the solstices. As the flames spread, connoisseur-like absorption was inscribed on the fire-lit faces around us. The wicker man was a raging, man-shaped inferno for about half a minute. Then he appeared to twist in agony before crashing head first to the ground in a shower of sparks. The twist and fall was strangely lifelike and drew uneasy murmurs from some of the more impressionable onlookers.
As the wicker man burned on the grass, the glistening fire-eaters recommenced their acrobatic display. Speculating on where I might get something alcoholic to drink, I stepped back for a moment to scan the tents on the far side of the darkened field. As I looked, I saw in the distance a strange, fantastically lit vehicle bumping slowly towards us through the night, its flaming propellor and revolving coloured lights illuminating a retinue of wild dancers.
When this bizarre contraption passed by, it turned out to be a mobile sound and lighting system powered by children on bicycles. The bicycles were fastened in rows to an articulated frame. The roof bristled with weather vanes, windmills, solar panels, revolving lights and loudspeakers. A row of serious-faced toddlers, facing backwards, sat in a tiny trailer hitched to the rear.
If the children didn’t pedal hard enough, the music faded then ceased, the coloured lights went dim, and the flaming propeller slowed and went out. If they redoubled their effort, everything came back to life immediately. A man dressed like a master of ceremonies put his shoulder to it when an uphill gradient required it. It was called Rinky Dink. It was so utterly ridiculous you couldn’t help smiling.
A pint of mescalin-strength organic rough cider each in the beer tent put us both right. Not having one as soon as we arrived had been our biggest mistake, we realised. A ska band was putting on an impromptu performance in the beer tent. Rough cider and ska in a beer tent — what a combination! Our petty disputes were forgotten. I bobbed. She moved from foot to foot. We were at the fair — finally.
The master of ceremonies appeared in the beer tent. Rinky Dink was parked outside; its lights were out, its loudspeakers silent. I told him how much I admired his machine. It was actually quite a sophisticated piece of equipment, he said, run by a ‘permanent magnet generator’ with a power efficiency of 70 per cent: 120 turns of the pedals per minute produced 120 watts of electrical power, which isn’t bad. He didn’t like to leave it, he said, gulping his pint and glancing over his shoulder. You know what kids are like. Turn your back for a moment…
He glanced over his shoulder again then sprinted from the tent. Rinky Dink was no longer parked outside the tent. Ablaze with light and great jets of flame, and swaying violently, it was careering melodically down the hill, almost out of control. The young thieves were crouched over the handlebars, pedalling furiously. We looked at each other and fell about laughing. Friends again. I ordered another pint of cider each to celebrate. Things were looking up.
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