Goodness is gracious
A small festival turns out to be a trip back in time, to a more civilised world. Words by Hazel Davis. Pictures by Sophie Pitt.
Butchery, archery, poetry, coffee-making and Cerys. Welcome to one of the strangest new festivals on the circuit. Cerys Matthews’ inaugural one-day Good Life Experience Festival promised to be like no other. It certainly lived up to this.
Nestled in the stunning Hawarden Estate in Flintshire, the festival is the result of the inimitable Cerys teaming up with Charlie and Caroline Gladstone, owners of the estate and the Pedlars brand. As a result, many of the folks seen dawdling their way in at the start of the day were in Hunters (no, darling, nobody’s wearing Hunters any more, they were probably DuBarry’s), white linens and mainly called Matilda and Ludo. Cerys herself was dressed all in white and like
Jennifer Saunders’ character in Jam and Jerusalem and circulated, hugging people here and there and grinning the whole time. The preponderance of posh was, oddly, a refreshing change. Though the subjects of the festival (beards, the olden days and campfires) were achingly hipster-friendly, there were few hipsters (too far from Shoreditch, I s’pose) in attendance.
The festival was surprisingly tiny and we soon veered from “Oh. Is this it?” to “Wow. This is it!”. So often, festivals can be huge and unwieldy, difficult to get around and easy to get lost in. At GLE (as I shall henceforth call it), everything was basically in front of you. Once we had got our heads around the idea that it was essentially someone’s back garden, then we were ready to roll.
The main music tent ran alongside the main thoroughfare, which meant you didn’t need to cram inside to hear the action as you could sit on the blackberry-lined banks and listen/watch instead.
Though it took about an hour to arrive, I was treated to one of the best coffees I have ever had, through the door of an old chrome coffee cabin. The vendor disappeared inside for what seemed like forever, coming out with one cup every hour or so. But, by golly was it worth it.
Around the site were little nuggets of good life, a time long gone. Sea Scouts on the door, ice-cream made from local cows (“no wundaaah it tastes sew good” brayed an 11-year-old Sebastian (probably) as he made easy conversation with the vendor in the way only a privately-educated pre-teen can), a merry-go-round, a vinyl stall, alpaca products, ACTUAL alpacas and a rack of free pears. (When was the last time you got something free at a music festival??!) (apart
from an STD).
And the music. The music at this festival was almost an afterthought, though that’s not to say it wasn’t brilliant. In true Cerys style, the programme was eclectic to say the least. The London Bulgarian Choir filled the site with their clashy harmonies and energetic whoops. The poet Musa Okwonga told some audience members off for talking through his (fairly limp) poems and then proceeded to talk through everyone else’s set. Thank god for Murray Lachlan Young, who entertained with an impromptu kids’ set (it was that kind of day), featuring a lot of poo.
The highlight, of course, was Cerys’ singalong. As the rain drizzled down, she strummed her way through some real old-time classics such as Oh My Darling Clementine (which pleased my daughter, Clementine, no end), Show Me The Way To Go Home and Eviva Espania (what?). It was exactly the right way to cement the already-fairly-strong feelings of love in the field.
CC Smugglers and Paprika followed, it was clear that this is exactly the sort of festival Cerys should and did curate. GLE, please don’t change a thing
next year. Except maybe get the girl in the silver van some more milk, or her own cow.
Nestled in the stunning Hawarden Estate in Flintshire, the festival is the result of the inimitable Cerys teaming up with Charlie and Caroline Gladstone, owners of the estate and the Pedlars brand. As a result, many of the folks seen dawdling their way in at the start of the day were in Hunters (no, darling, nobody’s wearing Hunters any more, they were probably DuBarry’s), white linens and mainly called Matilda and Ludo. Cerys herself was dressed all in white and like
Jennifer Saunders’ character in Jam and Jerusalem and circulated, hugging people here and there and grinning the whole time. The preponderance of posh was, oddly, a refreshing change. Though the subjects of the festival (beards, the olden days and campfires) were achingly hipster-friendly, there were few hipsters (too far from Shoreditch, I s’pose) in attendance.
The festival was surprisingly tiny and we soon veered from “Oh. Is this it?” to “Wow. This is it!”. So often, festivals can be huge and unwieldy, difficult to get around and easy to get lost in. At GLE (as I shall henceforth call it), everything was basically in front of you. Once we had got our heads around the idea that it was essentially someone’s back garden, then we were ready to roll.
The main music tent ran alongside the main thoroughfare, which meant you didn’t need to cram inside to hear the action as you could sit on the blackberry-lined banks and listen/watch instead.
Though it took about an hour to arrive, I was treated to one of the best coffees I have ever had, through the door of an old chrome coffee cabin. The vendor disappeared inside for what seemed like forever, coming out with one cup every hour or so. But, by golly was it worth it.
Around the site were little nuggets of good life, a time long gone. Sea Scouts on the door, ice-cream made from local cows (“no wundaaah it tastes sew good” brayed an 11-year-old Sebastian (probably) as he made easy conversation with the vendor in the way only a privately-educated pre-teen can), a merry-go-round, a vinyl stall, alpaca products, ACTUAL alpacas and a rack of free pears. (When was the last time you got something free at a music festival??!) (apart
from an STD).
And the music. The music at this festival was almost an afterthought, though that’s not to say it wasn’t brilliant. In true Cerys style, the programme was eclectic to say the least. The London Bulgarian Choir filled the site with their clashy harmonies and energetic whoops. The poet Musa Okwonga told some audience members off for talking through his (fairly limp) poems and then proceeded to talk through everyone else’s set. Thank god for Murray Lachlan Young, who entertained with an impromptu kids’ set (it was that kind of day), featuring a lot of poo.
The highlight, of course, was Cerys’ singalong. As the rain drizzled down, she strummed her way through some real old-time classics such as Oh My Darling Clementine (which pleased my daughter, Clementine, no end), Show Me The Way To Go Home and Eviva Espania (what?). It was exactly the right way to cement the already-fairly-strong feelings of love in the field.
CC Smugglers and Paprika followed, it was clear that this is exactly the sort of festival Cerys should and did curate. GLE, please don’t change a thing
next year. Except maybe get the girl in the silver van some more milk, or her own cow.
