The first dawn chorus is from the crow. Guttural, deep, a murderous cockerel in the treetops overhead. Closely followed by the second dawn chorus, from a bleating gang of itinerant sheep roaming the fields beyond. Within minutes the third dawn chorus, an electrifying synth orchestra of bantering bird song breaks out from the hedgerows.
Sleep now broken in an unholy fashion, the teenagers are acting out mutiny on the bounty, making loud accusations of all night drunken snoring from the squished confines of the tent.
It is 5.23 a.m. on a heaving campsite in the meadow fields of the New Forest. The happy campers are all zipped up and snoring off whiskey excesses. I haul my weary hungover arse through the tent flap, slump into the canvas chair and stare bleary-eyed at the ring of fire coming up in the east.
The sun is peeking between the gnarly oak trees lining the campsite, getting his wriggle on, kissing the green sleeved leaves, and streaming through the branches.
I have a flashback. Of peaking by the stormed and fallen perimeter fence of Glastonbury’s stone circle – as boho hippies, scrumping K-hole crusties, sketchy day trippers, bucket-hatted ravers and scamming scousers make up a Gen X tribal gathering – drumming, whooping, and jeering the sunup, in a near forgotten memory of sunrise from the mid-90’s.
In the dewy dawn of this early morning, it’s just me, the crow, the sheep, the birds, and the teenage rebellion faction awake; as the half-a-slice-of-G&T-lemon moon hangs in the blue sky like a bad hangover omen. Shivering in the shadows, I go in search of a brew.
The sun is at its midday zenith now, baking through the streaky whisps of cloud. A silence has fallen on the campsite as a light breeze runs through the meadows. Even the birds have retreated for shade.
The Christian encampment down the pathway have stopped the pilgrimage to the eco loo, seeking instead the shade of their cloned canvas bell tents, which are circled in a cowboy ring for prayer and occasional lilting blast of Dire Straits.
I breathe in the solitude of nature, a piece of peace, lost in the grip of the novel I am leafing through – as Shug dishes out some deviant Glaswegian romance to Agnes on a deathly, dark, damp squib of a Blackpool night for the lovers – in the mesmerising ‘Shuggie Bain’.
Long evening shadows encroach on site as I cast an idle eye round this generational tribal gathering: loved-up family mix-ups, fresh out of Lockdown; rattled city slickers out for a natural bite of wilderness pie; and amiable hosts from the coast soak up the charming New Forest vibrations. And, as the sun bids a fond farewell, so the fires break out across the campsite.
The logs in the pit of fire are firing, cracking, and fizzing – smoke blowing furiously in all directions – as we rub our stinging eyes and feed the bottomless lava beast on this night of nights.
The orange flames flicker and dance against the dark shadows of the faces gathered round this burning ring of fire. And raising a silent toast to Johnny Cash and the gods of marshmallow excess, I uncork another hopeful bottle of jammy red.
For more, please subscribe to the ‘Script on Repeat’ here