Adventures of a Girl

I can see how the Notting Hill Carnival becomes tradition - groups of friends, backpacks of beer, masquerade, calypso, soca, samba, sound systems, a few pounds for the food stalls (curry goat, jerk chicken, fried dumplings, plantain) and bribing local residents for the use of toilets and you're looking at a perfect day out.

Another festival? Well turns out you can never get enough so a white theme is planned, a champagne breakfast starts the day and a short bus ride later we're joining the queue to enter the southwestfour festival - a genius name seeing as it is held in postcode SW4. Damn the recession, those marketers should get a raise! This fest is just a massive grass dance floor - makes sense when the lineup is full of DJs. None of whom I've heard of. Am I embarrassed? Well, no. But I'm in the moment, and loving the music and there is a lot of dancing going on. And a lot of drinking, and a lot of conversations starting over my 80s Madonna get-up. Oh yes, and the sun is shining again. What's not to love about festivals?

Berni is a mad fan of Groove Armada. My local park played host to the annual Lovebox Weekender, featuring none other than Groove Armada themselves - so a group gathers and we head there for a day of sun, beer and bands. My highlight was without doubt, The Black Seeds. A little taste of home (ironically) in my backyard. Lowlight was the pitiful lack of beer tents, and subsequent long queues. But I do love festival season in the UK - whether it's a local weekend event, or camping on a farm, it's always good times and so far - the sun always shines.

It's hot. Probably the first words out of my mouth when touching down at Corfu Airport. Cause it was hot. A different kind of European hot, that even though the temperature gauge is not that high, kind of clings to your skin and never goes away. But it's summer right? And I'm here to have a summer holiday, so I ignore it best I can and look forward to arriving at Gouvia Marina where Paralos, our home for the next few days, is moored.

Only Paralos isn't in the marina, but on a charter - so we use the time wisely in the marina bar drinking local beer. Now, this is more like it.

Sunday brings more heat, more sunshine, and a perfect day for sailing. So we load up the boat with essentials (friends, food, alcohol, that kind of thing), and head off for a sailing adventure. Only the mix of heat, sea, sun and beer takes it toll and I end up having a 'lie down' that lasts most of the afternoon. Oh dear. But panic not - I recover in time for souvlaki in the local bar, cocktails at Poco Loco, and tequila shots and 80s dancing at Whispers nightclub in Gouvia. Well, thank goodness for that.

Next day we're feeling a little fragile, and have to wake early because the boat is on charter. We are quick to head poolside, and very slow to leave - just managing to drag ourselves to dinner and an early night (for me).

Tuesday is tourist day. Alice and I head to Corfu Town and do a spot of sightseeing and shopping. Turns out there is not actually a lot to look at, although I'm glad of the change of scenery and the endless cafes. That night we head back to Poco Loco and this time eat (yes, and drink cocktails). Phew - all this eating and drinking is wearing me out.

On Wednesday there is a lovely breeze, so we make the most of the day and take a drive round the coast towards Ipsos where we stop for lunch at a cheap cafe with a million dollar view. Oh, the irony. We drive to Agni Beach, then Kalami Beach where we stop for a swim and worship the sun a little. And yes, then we have dinner and drinks.

Thursday is our last day. Now that I think I'm getting used to the heat, I feel sad to be leaving. But it was a lovely summer holiday in a near perfect setting and Ken and Dee were brilliant hosts and friends. So this is a good opportunity to shamelessly plug their business, so you can have a hot Greek experience too! Check out their website: www.bluebaysailing.com

You come to Glasto not only for the amazing bands you wouldn’t otherwise see, but also for the people, the mud and the experience. Glasto certainly delivered one hell of an experience to me. First day was a nightmare. Now it’s not that I’m soft, but surely you’d agree that a haze of traffic jams, heavy rain, arriving in the early hours, pitching tents in the dark, forgetting pillows and being surrounded by youngsters experiencing Glasto for the first time and don’t want to sleep, is trying for anyone.

So next morning, I gave myself a talking to – something along the lines of ‘it’s to be expected and you’re made of stronger stuff’. Powerful indeed, and second day was a turnaround. I worked my first shift at a bar by the Pyramid Stage – exhausting but fun - and tried very hard to stay awake and watch Kings of Leon. I met some great people, ate some interesting food, drank hot-spiced cider (yum), bought some new gumboots, traipsed about in the mud, and got wet from the rain. A great day!

Saturday started with an early shift at the bar. You’d think that people wouldn’t be too interested in beer at 11 in the morning (when Shakin’ Stevens is playing the main stage), but turns out at Glasto there are no rules. So after another exhausting shift, we finally got to enjoy the sunshine, and kick off our boots on the hills above the main stage and (most unfortunately) hear James Blunt. Then it was back to the workers village for lamb shanks and a shower before venturing out to Glasto-by-night, the dance tents, the Pussy Parlur, Amy (aka Smackhead) Winehouse, and headliner Jay-Z.

Sunday brought more sunshine and our last shift at the bar. By now I’m a bit broken and spend the morning face down in my tent feeling a bit sorry for myself. But, no whinging from me – I’m made of stronger stuff remember? So I’m up in time for work, and count down the five hour shift with a permanent smile plastered to my face and the same jokes for each punter (well, they don’t’ know). Then we head to the other stage for a bit of Groove Armada, then to the Glade to find ourselves. Not much chance of that seeing as everyone else has the same idea. By now it’s late and I go for a last wander round the site, then head back to the workers village for a final sleeping bagged snooze.

Glasto is not for the faint hearted. Unless, of course, you are rich and can afford a winnebago with all the comforts of home. But for the average joe, the Glasto experience involves broken sleep, queuing for port-a-loos, eating on the go, sore bones, and mud, mud, mud. But it also delivers a feeling I can’t quite describe, and an experience I wouldn’t have wanted to miss.