Having arrived and been "wrist branded" by the door crew, it was now "donkey time" - and I am not referring to appendages legendary, photoshopped, real or imaginary - I mean the arduous haul of our camping gear to the only remaining “parcellette” of land under the shade of the old oak tree - and, I hasten to add, not a yellow ribbon to tie thereon was to be had anywhere!
Never mind, the ingenuity of folk to mark out their pieds à terre was amazing and a beautiful sight to behold indeed. I made note that things had indeed moved on since the last time I “festied” under a banner that read with all due subtlety: “The MacBastards are over here”.
During the third leg of the trek, with my luminary and guide Shirker Tensing aka Eli at base camp making acquaintances with the new neighbours, the solitude and the heat did, at one point result in my advancing senility becoming a serious cause for concern.

For the route had suddenly disappeared before my very eyes, only to be replaced by a fence of unscalable proportions and a cohort of truly helpful crew, none of whom had even a “waffer theen” idea as to how to conquer the west face of the car park route. So, with the car so teasingly in sight, I pressed on in search of another more scalable route to the summit.
The homestead erected, we relaxed, in the ever-dimming twilight, drinking in the sights and sounds of a beautiful summer’s evening. And it was to be such glorious weather that was to bless us for the entire weekend and mark it as one of those weekends that you look back on during the many dismal, dreary and rain-sodden summers to come, that question the sagacity of the professionalmeteorologist and prove undeniably that summers were always proper summers when we were younger - or at least, less old.
Rar, rar and lashings of ginger beer!

By Friday morning the site was buzzing with anticipation, the sound checks done and with a pow the third Glade festival opened. The fields were awash with colour - from the wonderous decorations to the festival goers, fantasy creatures, clowns, hippies and general wierdos which abounded everywhere. After a loved up visit to the Oxfam shop, Eli tried on an amazing wedding dress, which she simply had to have.

And thus, Eli & I decided to get married. Bridemaids' dresses were purchased, best man found and even a dear friend to give Eli away - thanks Bobbel-Dad! All systems were go for our forthcoming nuptials, Saturday at 1 o'clock. We woke early the next morning with a sense of mounting excitement and for Eli a strong feeling of impending doom.
Was she doing the right thing?
Should she be promising herself to a man who was at best an idiot? She wasn't sure. However, she didn’t listen to that inner voice and this was to be to her detriment later on; her new husband proving to be an idiot by scoring 11 on a scale of 1 - 10.
It must have been the sheer excitement of netting such a catch that caused Eli’s affliction with symmetry to rear its ugly head once more. Legend has it that the mark of the snake on Eli’s left foot was the result of a battle in India with the God of the Careless Barefoot Errant. And having been asymmetrical for a number of years another battle was bound to ensue.

So it was no surprise that a yelp and a scream and a limp later Eli had an equal identical scar on her other foot after an alleged barefoot battle with the God of the Protruding Tent Peg. Of course, Eli claims this as a victorious conflict, but others, including the future bridesmaid were unsure. I of course was sure. For Her Eliness knows my number: I cannot disagree.
With not one moan or grump or grimace or complaint (no, I lie not) we proceeded to have an excellent day wandering around the heavenly venue that is the Glade. For those of you who do not know, Glade is, in my opinion, one of the best festivals I have ever attended. It takes me back to a different era; back to the Panhandle, back to the Haight, back to times when the
future looked bright and certainly not orange.

But this time there was an order, a knowledge, a wiseness to the whole affair. The organisation behind Glade is remarkable and I would like to congratulate the organisers here and now. The layout, décor and amenities are a marvel.


Check out the gallery here and elsewhere on the winky wanky woo for an idea of what to expect. Then factor in the Kozinskiesque Being There factor and the actual experience is multiplied exponentially. Magical paths lit by fairy lights, huge inflatables, totemic wicker statues, heraldic flags and reflective surfaces, amazing stages and sound systems, ultraviolet trees, hanging decorations which abound and mingle with nature and a world that is held together by the most beautiful and eclectic mix of electronic and less-electronic music and a mere twelve thousand or so worshipping pilgrims.

It is the morning of the wedding and we all amass outside the inflatable church. The whole wedding party are there apart from the chief bridesmaid who has been a dirty slapper and stayed up all night. No matter, we press gang a replacement into action and she changes into her outfit outside the church itself.
In all the excitement, what with the additional visit to the onsite medics to tend to Eli’s battle scar - and how excellent were they! - we realise that we have forgotten to book the ceremony.
Fortunately for me, the Reverend Duncan Pritchard makes an exception, and it is not long before Eli has me on my knees, again, with a rope around my neck and I symbolically retrieve the ring from the Best Man and place it upon the bride’s wedding toe.

After a quick photo session, much to the amusement of onlookers, and a drink of most excellent cider and we head over to the Pussy Parlure for our wedding reception. And what a venue to celebrate such a ludicrous occasion.
This 1920's vintage mirrored tent offered a touch of glamour of which even my Aunt Lilly would have approved. One could have easily imagined the whole family entourage embarrassing themselves on the dance floor, strutting their stuff to the funky, jazzy and soulful disco music that was being showcased in this splendid place.
It is early evening and the sun is still scorching the earth. People cling to the shaded areas; any shade. The dust hangs in the air from the to-ing and fro-ing and one could imagine, with ease, being anywhere but this green and lush island. It is still a touch too hot to be inside but that will change as the sun bids us farewell for the evening.
The newly weds retire to the honeymoon tent to prepare the wedding banquet. Despite our generous offers of haute cuisine à la camping gaz, no-one seemed to have an appetite.

Quelle surprise! So we wined and dined and more wined alone, got on our glad rags and ventured out for the night.
We stumbled along the Magic Path towards a musical nirvana. Despite the psychedelic storm emanating from the Liquid Tent, the heat and our curiosity kept us outside and onward moving. Inevitably we succumbed to the allure of the Origin Stage and shaked our booties down to the pumping sounds until fatigue dictated that the very consummation of our marriage was now in question. Yawn! We retired immediately with a cup of cocoa and a copy of "Woman's Weekly". (Editor's note: the next paragraph has been censored).

It is the last day and we are basking in post-nuptial bliss. It is scorching but there is not one sign of irritability on people's faces. We did not sleep well since someone was having an awfully bad experience after, presumably, over indulging on his birthday. In fact, this is the worst I have ever seen anyone and I am not alone. For everyone at our end of the site was up and about wondering what on earth was going on. After a few hours of mayhem and annoyance for sleepers who thought that there was a mere trouble causer onboard all is now quiet. A merrymaker returns as the sun is beginning to light the sky. Unknowingly, he picks up his guitar to bid us good morning with “She’ll be coming round the mountain”. In true “It ain’t half hot mum” style a throng of about 100 tired campers scream out in unison: “SHUT THE F**K UP!!”

He is evidently most surprised, but nonetheless ceases his concerto practice immediately. My beautiful bride awakens and asks if I had a slept well. I simply smile and say, “Yes, of course.” I do not tell her that the inflatable mattress had deflated once again.
Sunday is our last day and the sun is still bleaching the turf as we eat breakfast outside our tent. Little do we know of how the day will unfurl as we plan a rather chilled out day. Even though this is the last main day of the festival the atmosphere is equally as vibrant as the inaugural moment.
We eke out shade, along with other like-minded souls, and end up in the coolest place around, namely the ID Spiral area. Although the music is a bit too chilled for this time of the day, it is a most welcome setting for us tiring newly weds. We listen to some acoustic guitar and some heavenly sweet female vox before the chill becomes more established. We lay around for a while before we decide to take in some live music in the form of Celloman and later on some Gaudi. It seemed such a pity that the sets were not outdoor; the heat of the day forced us once more outside to make rendezvous with some fine chilled apple juice ambrosia. For us, the time to depart is upon us and the ascent of the west ridge to the car park is inevitable.
This moment for me it is to prove too much. With Shirker Tensing once more holding base camp I make several journeys to the car. It is on the last of these journeys that all hell lets lose and the unimaginable happens: I lose the keys to the car which contains almost all our belongings.I scour the entire route for sight of the keys over and over again on my hands and knees; but to no avail. It is getting dark. It is actually getting very cold; the clear skies offer no protection. I go to the Access All Areas lost property tent only to be reassured that the keys, if given in, will be posted on the website in a couple of days. Hmmm…. I am grateful to share this bijou of information but unfortunately this does not solve out predicament. My marriage is now uncertain. Oh dear! We call the car hire firm to be told all will be sorted in an hour… Nine hours later we are cold, in fact we are freezing in our shorts and skirts with only a duvet, straw hats and the wedding bouquet for comfort.
We are mosquito-bitten and, what is worse, we have been openly harangued and mocked by members of the security team less blessed with compassion and brain cells than your average baboon. They really do hassle and taunt, and it is much to the detriment of all the other security guys and gals doing an admirable job. This really leaves us with an unpleasant memory about what has been a most excellent festival. Organisers please make note.

We eventually get back to London, in a taxi. We have no belongings, no clothes and no apologies at all. Hertz hurts indeed. I still cannot believe the inadequacies of such a global brand. We feel exhausted and annoyed but such is the event of Glade that we are still good humoured and talking to each other. My marriage is still safe, thank heavens. All in all, we have had a fantastic weekend and nothing, not even overly obtuse and rude security are going to ruin it.
Roll on Glade 2007!

© Eli Saikadeli & Zee
Glade photo gallery