Rewrite
Chasing a digital detox in the Croatian countryside, Ben Tibbits quests to Bear Stone Festival for a few days of psychedelia, spirituality, and lots of swimming.
I am in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. I’m a long way from home. It’s scorching hot. I’ve run out of water. I’ve barely eaten all day. I have no phone signal. England’s World Cup knockout match against DR Congo has just started. The latter is naturally my main concern.
Let’s rewind a little. Summer is swinging like the 60s. I’ve broken new ground in the decades-long rivalry by befriending Argentina’s current artistic pinnacle; I’ve found some otherworldly understanding of birded animals in a satanic storm; I’ve caused mischief in Mexico City while attending that small event some call the World Cup. Next up? I’m getting psychedelic in the Baltics.
Now, a small, niche festival headlined, in the majority, by men with scraggly, unwashed hip-length hair whose music could’ve easily been written in the 1970s isn’t necessarily a representation of my cultural disposition. But what I’ve deciphered from spending half of my life across the past 30 or so months moulding into whatever scenario so benefits the current story is that I’m an eager surveyor. An observational visitor. A hedonistic sponge.
And so the idea of spending a handful of days in early July at Bear Stone Festival – a heavy rock festival just outside of Slunj in Croatia – evoked from me a sense of curiosity. The chance to do something that I have never done before, or would ever likely do if I were not in my current job. So, you know. I’m adaptable; I like King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard. Let’s see what happens.
As the capital city of the country, you’d expect Zagreb Airport to be a little bigger and to have a bit more character. But maybe I’m just ignorant and British. Maybe airports don’t need personality. The heat hits me as soon as I leave the air-conditioned building and enter the large car park. I’m looking for a coach, my only directions being a cartooned map. I should probably clean my glasses.
The most Croatian-looking man I’ve ever seen is standing outside the coach smoking a cigarette as I finally find it. I’m thankfully allowed to enter, and gratefully greet the publicist who has invited me on this adventure. We catch up as the coach leaves the pleasant Zagreb and embark deep into the countryside. England’s Last 32 game against DR Congo is set to begin in around three hours, and the coach ride is apparently around two, two and a half hours. It should be perfect timing!
But wait – the driver stops. More festival goers to pick up. I’m getting antsy. We stop again after an hour – a cigarette break. We pause again near the festival grounds for other attendees to pick up accreditation. Time bleeds, phone service evaporates.
We’re dropped off by the festival gates. For most attendees, it’s a camping festival, but the journalists are invited to stay in apartments in Slunj, Bear Stone’s nearby town, a 20 minute drive away. We’re meant to be getting a lift from Marin, the festival’s founder and a Slunj native. But, standing for 10 or 15 minutes, there’s still no sign of him.
The sun is burning. A security guard is sitting at the entrance, but he doesn’t speak much English. He has a radio, and we ask if he can try to get a hold of Marin. He’s confused. “Bent?” he keeps repeating, mishearing my name. “Bent? Bent?”
Eventually, a small car hurtles round the corner and down a hill towards us, and a smiling Marin winds down the window. “Where were you?” he exclaims with a tinge of concern. I still don’t really know what happened, but it seems we were dropped off at the wrong place, or we got off a stop too early. Whatever, irrelevant now. Only one thing is important for the next few hours. Marin is supposed to be driving me to the apartment I’ll be staying at, but instead takes me straight to the best bar to watch the game in. And so, alone, suitcase in tow, the match into its second half, I burst into the unknown.
It’s a smoky, saloon-like spot. Men sit in dark corners with cigarettes in the corners of their mouths. There’s an interactive dartboard. England are losing 1-0 to DRC. Fuck.
I order a lager, eyes firmly fixed on the screen. I go to pay with contactless on my phone, but of course, that’s not possible; it’s cash only. I convince the bartender to allow me the beer, and I’ll pay later. I find an outside seating area, receiving plenty of sideways looks from the locals – fair enough, with my blatant foreignness and suitcase attire.
I’m talking to myself without fully realising it. England seems to barely be having a sniff. We can’t get knocked out with such a whimper, surely? Big Tommy Tuchel, he’s supposed to be our saviour?
And then, Harry Kane. I jump out of my seat with such excitement and vigour that the entire bar turns at me in fright. I just laugh – partly with relief, partly due to the oddity of the situation. Some of the locals laugh with me. Or at me. I must look like such a caricature.
And then, Harry Kane again. What a finish. This time – more self-conscious – I let out a whimper rather than a shout. Phew. Win secured, saved from robbing the gaff by my cash-sporting publicist, we enjoy a few more drinks for the win. It’s barely 9 pm, but when we eventually try to find some dinner, everything is closed. It’s a small town, and the food options aren’t exactly extensive. The weather has turned to inclemency; the lightning and thunder is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Rain is coming, so I seek out my apartment and hit the hay.
In the light of day, the place is really quite nice. I do some work before heading out to finally find lunch. What the town lacks in late-opening restaurants, it makes up for in its unique charm – each house is distinct from itself, one of a kind, with many seemingly still in construction, built by the people who’ll go on to live in them. The main square boasts a police station, a small church and a few cafe/bars (filled with policemen drinking coffee and chatting). One of them at least serves food, so I finally tackle my hunger and prepare for the festival’s genesis.
The rest of the press party and I jump in a van and head to the grounds. Marin, friendly, polite, helpful, clearly knowledgeable about the music he’s booking, greets us. He hands out wristbands and food and drink tokens, and gives us a tour of the site. It’s small, with three stages (The Mill, The Jam and The Stone is order of size), all of which seem carefully planned to fit within a fairly modest area of land – which he owns – hidden within a valley, with little but nature and wildlife around for miles on end. The centrepiece is a gorgeous body of water – a nook of the Mrežnica River – turquoise in tone, clear and beautifully vacant, urging you to enter its depths, listening to the music while bathing in its cool elegance.
Large sculptural stone heads accompany The Jam Stage, as well as countless hammocks littered around the tree-heavy area. Across a small bed of water, market stalls lead up to a smaller covered The Mill Stage. Today, Thursday, is a warm-up day before the much larger Friday and Saturday line-ups, and the site is utterly tranquil. There’s a group of musicians casually improvising as we wander around – finding particular interest in the CBD stand.
As soon as it feels adequately polite, I strip off and dive into the water. It’s cold, not much different in temperature to the English Channel, but after a while you get used to the chill, and it becomes deeply regenerative. I look around at the stunning canyon – unburdened by the distractions that internet or mobile service can bring. I feel at peace. There’s little to worry about here.
The guests match the relaxed energy. There’s plenty of Croatians here among the couple of thousand on site, as well as groups of Germans, French, English, etc. It does feel very white (too many dreadlocks to reflect this), in majority male, and very straight. But everyone is kind and affable. There’s no bad behaviour, no taking things out of hand, no aggression, nor excessive drug taking.
As a musical genre, there aren’t many whose fans are more passionate than those of heavy rock and metal. They’ll stitch patches onto denim jackets of their favourite band’s logo – which I’m informed is called a battle jacket. There’s a deep-seated love for the artists that goes beyond a viral dance, co-signing, and parasocialism. It transcends the realms of digitalism. It’s utterly refreshing.
I’m not going to go into great detail about every band on the line-up – of which there’s no overlap, which is tastefully done so the real fans can check out all the acts on offer. If you are deeply interested in the vast array of the bill, you should read this. But I’ll touch on my favourites
The final band of the first night, whom I enjoy amid a tight, ardent crowd, is Travo, a Portuguese quartet whom I previously crossed paths with at Square Festival. Zonked out rock that’s electrifying and heady while raising your blood pressure, it’s well worth pushing through the fatigue for.
The next day begins with coffee on the apartment balcony, some emails, and the search for a decent lunch spot. Me and a few of the other journos and I source a location down by the town’s famed Rastoke waterfalls, which has an eclectic and far-flung menu that spans bear, boar and suckling pig. With my performative pescatarianism to bare in mind (pardon the pun), I stick with a delicious trout salad, washed down by a local beer.
We’re back at the festival in the mid-to-late afternoon, and there’s only one thing on my mind – I’m straight back into the water for a swim. I know to expect the coldness and so acclimatise quicker, and enjoy a lengthy paddle around the open waters, watching other attendees dive in and even chatting to some passing kayakers.
The first act I check out is Wyatt E., which is intoxicating stuff. Donning outfits straight out of a bad trip with a consuming doom rock core with Arabic embellishments, the Belgian group are enigmatic, immersive and utterly thrilling. Somewhere between Angine de Poitrine and Glass Beams.
The first act on the freshly opened The Stone stage is Daevar, a German outfit whose set is unfortunately cut short as some kind of technical difficulty occurs a third of the way through their set. Still, the vocalist and bassist Pardis Latifi is charismatic throughout the difficulty and finds a way to keep the energy high. There’s a conga where the moshpit should be, built in part of a bunch of middle-aged blokes assumedly on a stag do wearing shirts with their groom’s beaming face and some cartoon flamingos on. It’s quite sweet. There is also a man dressed in a classic Georgian-era wig and regal apparel. It’s perhaps a touch excessive, but each to their own.
The sound returns just in time for Daevar to play one more song. Then I grab a bit of grub – which is excellent, I may add; there are only a few stalls, but the options are pretty great – before hearing the next band. Planet Of Zeus isn’t my cup of tea. Too noisy, a bit cringe (lots of “rock on” and the like). Guitar hero core. And so instead I retreat to the safety of the nearby hammocks.
In lies a paradise unto itself. I feel like I’m in a cocoon. Utmost comfort. One of the other journos even falls asleep. It’s pure bliss and an absolutely unbelievable idea. All festivals should have a hammock corner.
A little down the line, we discover we can go backstage, and so watch the headlining band from a unique, BTS view. Uncle Acid And The Deadbeats were my most hotly tipped act of the festival, the one that I’d been advised to check out by several people beforehand. Turns out, the day before at Danish festival Roskilde, the band had had a run-in with Wonderland cover stars Gorillaz. Oops.
Apparently, UCATD had their set cut short, though accounts of the incident vary. Still, the clear angst that the Cambridge band have for this set makes for a thrilling watch. I’ve never seen a drummer sweat and spit so much, which is quite a visceral experience. The band do very much rock, though, the fella with the sticks especially, definitely a level above everything else I’ve seen so far.
It’s now after midnight and into the night program back on The Mill Stage. Here, I witness something so bizarre and esoteric I’m still not sure if it was real. I stumble upon the aptly named Skier & Yeti, which is, well…a man dressed in skiing gear, using a pantheon of different skis (which one can only assume are self-made) as instruments, specifically the guitar and the bass guitar. Accompanying the ski man is, well… a yeti. Or a man dressed as a yeti. I really don’t know anymore.
The yeti is, without hyperbole, one of the tightest, most expressive drummers I’ve ever seen, and plays with a coolness befitting his wintry posterior. I’m blown away. The ski man is using a loop pedal and a pitch shifter to construct wild off-kilter sonic palettes around the yeti’s immaculate rhythms. It’s mind-blowing stuff, honestly. For the grand finale, another member joins the stage with a snow machine. I’m hysterical and having a whale of a time.
There’s a sort of DnB (if the D stands for Doom and the B for Bloody hell that’s loud) act to finish up the night, and our ride back to Slunj is waiting. We arrive just in time to see Cape Verde’s admirable but eventually heartbreaking extra time loss to the Argentines, before calling it a night.
The next day – a final on the Bear Stone site for me – begins slowly. My temporary housemate and I take a walk to a small nearby supermarket, and cook up a storm for lunch. A pesto, tomato pasta with courgette and butter beans. The afternoon is spent enjoying the sun and the stillness of Slunj.
We head back to the festival and I – you guessed it – went for a swim. After sunbathing to dry off, I head over to the stall. By this point I’ve gone fully hippy (I’m already pretty much a hippy, but this has tipped me over the edge), and get chatting to a mystical lady at one of the market stalls. Snježana is her name, an empress of spirituality. She sells me a pyramid-shaped crystal that provides good energy. Laugh all you want – it’s working so far.
Onto some music, I check out Austin TV. Within a song, they’re my standout act of the festival. Masked, maverick, Mexican. All my favourite things. Post-rock grooves and a true underdog story, I’m shouting about these lot to anyone who will listen for the foreseeable future.
Next up is Elder, who we take in from the backstage spot. Somewhat of a legacy act, it’s not necessarily that I’d choose to listen to, but I can appreciate the excellent musicianship all the same. And last but not least, Altin Gün. Now this is groovy as hell, psychedelic, potent, danceable. I lose myself in it and the set flies by.
The night show has some guys playing saxophone to each other, which is quite fun, but by this point I’m pretty spent. I say goodbye to the gorgeous water that I’ll miss dearly, shove down a prawn curry, and jump back in our ride to the apartment.
The next day boasts a lot of waiting around and a bus to Zagreb for an early evening flight, which soon becomes a later evening flight thanks to Ryanair and their damn delays. UGH.
Still, lots of time for consolidation on my Croatian adventure. While Bear Stone Festival may not have fit my musical taste like a glove, I discovered several acts I really enjoyed. But for me it was about more than music. It was a moment of quiet meditation – ironic given I was at a heavy rock event. The setting was stunning, the people gentle and gregarious, and the meaning behind the festival so very pure. Marin and his team love the music, love where they are from, and love each other. It feels as though some of the largest, lifeless festivals across Europe should perhaps take note.
Find out more here.
Photography by Valerio Baranović, Sanja Matić, Nika Kovacevic, Milan Šabić
Words by Ben Tibbits
in HTML format, including tags, to make it appealing and easy to read for Japanese-speaking readers aged 20 to 40 interested in fashion. Organize the content with appropriate headings and subheadings (h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6), translating all text, including headings, into Japanese. Retain any existing
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Chasing a digital detox in the Croatian countryside, Ben Tibbits quests to Bear Stone Festival for a few days of psychedelia, spirituality, and lots of swimming.
I am in the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere. I’m a long way from home. It’s scorching hot. I’ve run out of water. I’ve barely eaten all day. I have no phone signal. England’s World Cup knockout match against DR Congo has just started. The latter is naturally my main concern.
Let’s rewind a little. Summer is swinging like the 60s. I’ve broken new ground in the decades-long rivalry by befriending Argentina’s current artistic pinnacle; I’ve found some otherworldly understanding of birded animals in a satanic storm; I’ve caused mischief in Mexico City while attending that small event some call the World Cup. Next up? I’m getting psychedelic in the Baltics.
Now, a small, niche festival headlined, in the majority, by men with scraggly, unwashed hip-length hair whose music could’ve easily been written in the 1970s isn’t necessarily a representation of my cultural disposition. But what I’ve deciphered from spending half of my life across the past 30 or so months moulding into whatever scenario so benefits the current story is that I’m an eager surveyor. An observational visitor. A hedonistic sponge.
And so the idea of spending a handful of days in early July at Bear Stone Festival – a heavy rock festival just outside of Slunj in Croatia – evoked from me a sense of curiosity. The chance to do something that I have never done before, or would ever likely do if I were not in my current job. So, you know. I’m adaptable; I like King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard. Let’s see what happens.
As the capital city of the country, you’d expect Zagreb Airport to be a little bigger and to have a bit more character. But maybe I’m just ignorant and British. Maybe airports don’t need personality. The heat hits me as soon as I leave the air-conditioned building and enter the large car park. I’m looking for a coach, my only directions being a cartooned map. I should probably clean my glasses.
The most Croatian-looking man I’ve ever seen is standing outside the coach smoking a cigarette as I finally find it. I’m thankfully allowed to enter, and gratefully greet the publicist who has invited me on this adventure. We catch up as the coach leaves the pleasant Zagreb and embark deep into the countryside. England’s Last 32 game against DR Congo is set to begin in around three hours, and the coach ride is apparently around two, two and a half hours. It should be perfect timing!
But wait – the driver stops. More festival goers to pick up. I’m getting antsy. We stop again after an hour – a cigarette break. We pause again near the festival grounds for other attendees to pick up accreditation. Time bleeds, phone service evaporates.
We’re dropped off by the festival gates. For most attendees, it’s a camping festival, but the journalists are invited to stay in apartments in Slunj, Bear Stone’s nearby town, a 20 minute drive away. We’re meant to be getting a lift from Marin, the festival’s founder and a Slunj native. But, standing for 10 or 15 minutes, there’s still no sign of him.
The sun is burning. A security guard is sitting at the entrance, but he doesn’t speak much English. He has a radio, and we ask if he can try to get a hold of Marin. He’s confused. “Bent?” he keeps repeating, mishearing my name. “Bent? Bent?”
Eventually, a small car hurtles round the corner and down a hill towards us, and a smiling Marin winds down the window. “Where were you?” he exclaims with a tinge of concern. I still don’t really know what happened, but it seems we were dropped off at the wrong place, or we got off a stop too early. Whatever, irrelevant now. Only one thing is important for the next few hours. Marin is supposed to be driving me to the apartment I’ll be staying at, but instead takes me straight to the best bar to watch the game in. And so, alone, suitcase in tow, the match into its second half, I burst into the unknown.
It’s a smoky, saloon-like spot. Men sit in dark corners with cigarettes in the corners of their mouths. There’s an interactive dartboard. England are losing 1-0 to DRC. Fuck.
I order a lager, eyes firmly fixed on the screen. I go to pay with contactless on my phone, but of course, that’s not possible; it’s cash only. I convince the bartender to allow me the beer, and I’ll pay later. I find an outside seating area, receiving plenty of sideways looks from the locals – fair enough, with my blatant foreignness and suitcase attire.
I’m talking to myself without fully realising it. England seems to barely be having a sniff. We can’t get knocked out with such a whimper, surely? Big Tommy Tuchel, he’s supposed to be our saviour?
And then, Harry Kane. I jump out of my seat with such excitement and vigour that the entire bar turns at me in fright. I just laugh – partly with relief, partly due to the oddity of the situation. Some of the locals laugh with me. Or at me. I must look like such a caricature.
And then, Harry Kane again. What a finish. This time – more self-conscious – I let out a whimper rather than a shout. Phew. Win secured, saved from robbing the gaff by my cash-sporting publicist, we enjoy a few more drinks for the win. It’s barely 9 pm, but when we eventually try to find some dinner, everything is closed. It’s a small town, and the food options aren’t exactly extensive. The weather has turned to inclemency; the lightning and thunder is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Rain is coming, so I seek out my apartment and hit the hay.
In the light of day, the place is really quite nice. I do some work before heading out to finally find lunch. What the town lacks in late-opening restaurants, it makes up for in its unique charm – each house is distinct from itself, one of a kind, with many seemingly still in construction, built by the people who’ll go on to live in them. The main square boasts a police station, a small church and a few cafe/bars (filled with policemen drinking coffee and chatting). One of them at least serves food, so I finally tackle my hunger and prepare for the festival’s genesis.
The rest of the press party and I jump in a van and head to the grounds. Marin, friendly, polite, helpful, clearly knowledgeable about the music he’s booking, greets us. He hands out wristbands and food and drink tokens, and gives us a tour of the site. It’s small, with three stages (The Mill, The Jam and The Stone is order of size), all of which seem carefully planned to fit within a fairly modest area of land – which he owns – hidden within a valley, with little but nature and wildlife around for miles on end. The centrepiece is a gorgeous body of water – a nook of the Mrežnica River – turquoise in tone, clear and beautifully vacant, urging you to enter its depths, listening to the music while bathing in its cool elegance.
Large sculptural stone heads accompany The Jam Stage, as well as countless hammocks littered around the tree-heavy area. Across a small bed of water, market stalls lead up to a smaller covered The Mill Stage. Today, Thursday, is a warm-up day before the much larger Friday and Saturday line-ups, and the site is utterly tranquil. There’s a group of musicians casually improvising as we wander around – finding particular interest in the CBD stand.
As soon as it feels adequately polite, I strip off and dive into the water. It’s cold, not much different in temperature to the English Channel, but after a while you get used to the chill, and it becomes deeply regenerative. I look around at the stunning canyon – unburdened by the distractions that internet or mobile service can bring. I feel at peace. There’s little to worry about here.
The guests match the relaxed energy. There’s plenty of Croatians here among the couple of thousand on site, as well as groups of Germans, French, English, etc. It does feel very white (too many dreadlocks to reflect this), in majority male, and very straight. But everyone is kind and affable. There’s no bad behaviour, no taking things out of hand, no aggression, nor excessive drug taking.
As a musical genre, there aren’t many whose fans are more passionate than those of heavy rock and metal. They’ll stitch patches onto denim jackets of their favourite band’s logo – which I’m informed is called a battle jacket. There’s a deep-seated love for the artists that goes beyond a viral dance, co-signing, and parasocialism. It transcends the realms of digitalism. It’s utterly refreshing.
I’m not going to go into great detail about every band on the line-up – of which there’s no overlap, which is tastefully done so the real fans can check out all the acts on offer. If you are deeply interested in the vast array of the bill, you should read this. But I’ll touch on my favourites
The final band of the first night, whom I enjoy amid a tight, ardent crowd, is Travo, a Portuguese quartet whom I previously crossed paths with at Square Festival. Zonked out rock that’s electrifying and heady while raising your blood pressure, it’s well worth pushing through the fatigue for.
The next day begins with coffee on the apartment balcony, some emails, and the search for a decent lunch spot. Me and a few of the other journos and I source a location down by the town’s famed Rastoke waterfalls, which has an eclectic and far-flung menu that spans bear, boar and suckling pig. With my performative pescatarianism to bare in mind (pardon the pun), I stick with a delicious trout salad, washed down by a local beer.
We’re back at the festival in the mid-to-late afternoon, and there’s only one thing on my mind – I’m straight back into the water for a swim. I know to expect the coldness and so acclimatise quicker, and enjoy a lengthy paddle around the open waters, watching other attendees dive in and even chatting to some passing kayakers.
The first act I check out is Wyatt E., which is intoxicating stuff. Donning outfits straight out of a bad trip with a consuming doom rock core with Arabic embellishments, the Belgian group are enigmatic, immersive and utterly thrilling. Somewhere between Angine de Poitrine and Glass Beams.
The first act on the freshly opened The Stone stage is Daevar, a German outfit whose set is unfortunately cut short as some kind of technical difficulty occurs a third of the way through their set. Still, the vocalist and bassist Pardis Latifi is charismatic throughout the difficulty and finds a way to keep the energy high. There’s a conga where the moshpit should be, built in part of a bunch of middle-aged blokes assumedly on a stag do wearing shirts with their groom’s beaming face and some cartoon flamingos on. It’s quite sweet. There is also a man dressed in a classic Georgian-era wig and regal apparel. It’s perhaps a touch excessive, but each to their own.
The sound returns just in time for Daevar to play one more song. Then I grab a bit of grub – which is excellent, I may add; there are only a few stalls, but the options are pretty great – before hearing the next band. Planet Of Zeus isn’t my cup of tea. Too noisy, a bit cringe (lots of “rock on” and the like). Guitar hero core. And so instead I retreat to the safety of the nearby hammocks.
In lies a paradise unto itself. I feel like I’m in a cocoon. Utmost comfort. One of the other journos even falls asleep. It’s pure bliss and an absolutely unbelievable idea. All festivals should have a hammock corner.
A little down the line, we discover we can go backstage, and so watch the headlining band from a unique, BTS view. Uncle Acid And The Deadbeats were my most hotly tipped act of the festival, the one that I’d been advised to check out by several people beforehand. Turns out, the day before at Danish festival Roskilde, the band had had a run-in with Wonderland cover stars Gorillaz. Oops.
Apparently, UCATD had their set cut short, though accounts of the incident vary. Still, the clear angst that the Cambridge band have for this set makes for a thrilling watch. I’ve never seen a drummer sweat and spit so much, which is quite a visceral experience. The band do very much rock, though, the fella with the sticks especially, definitely a level above everything else I’ve seen so far.
It’s now after midnight and into the night program back on The Mill Stage. Here, I witness something so bizarre and esoteric I’m still not sure if it was real. I stumble upon the aptly named Skier & Yeti, which is, well…a man dressed in skiing gear, using a pantheon of different skis (which one can only assume are self-made) as instruments, specifically the guitar and the bass guitar. Accompanying the ski man is, well… a yeti. Or a man dressed as a yeti. I really don’t know anymore.
The yeti is, without hyperbole, one of the tightest, most expressive drummers I’ve ever seen, and plays with a coolness befitting his wintry posterior. I’m blown away. The ski man is using a loop pedal and a pitch shifter to construct wild off-kilter sonic palettes around the yeti’s immaculate rhythms. It’s mind-blowing stuff, honestly. For the grand finale, another member joins the stage with a snow machine. I’m hysterical and having a whale of a time.
There’s a sort of DnB (if the D stands for Doom and the B for Bloody hell that’s loud) act to finish up the night, and our ride back to Slunj is waiting. We arrive just in time to see Cape Verde’s admirable but eventually heartbreaking extra time loss to the Argentines, before calling it a night.
The next day – a final on the Bear Stone site for me – begins slowly. My temporary housemate and I take a walk to a small nearby supermarket, and cook up a storm for lunch. A pesto, tomato pasta with courgette and butter beans. The afternoon is spent enjoying the sun and the stillness of Slunj.
We head back to the festival and I – you guessed it – went for a swim. After sunbathing to dry off, I head over to the stall. By this point I’ve gone fully hippy (I’m already pretty much a hippy, but this has tipped me over the edge), and get chatting to a mystical lady at one of the market stalls. Snježana is her name, an empress of spirituality. She sells me a pyramid-shaped crystal that provides good energy. Laugh all you want – it’s working so far.
Onto some music, I check out Austin TV. Within a song, they’re my standout act of the festival. Masked, maverick, Mexican. All my favourite things. Post-rock grooves and a true underdog story, I’m shouting about these lot to anyone who will listen for the foreseeable future.
Next up is Elder, who we take in from the backstage spot. Somewhat of a legacy act, it’s not necessarily that I’d choose to listen to, but I can appreciate the excellent musicianship all the same. And last but not least, Altin Gün. Now this is groovy as hell, psychedelic, potent, danceable. I lose myself in it and the set flies by.
The night show has some guys playing saxophone to each other, which is quite fun, but by this point I’m pretty spent. I say goodbye to the gorgeous water that I’ll miss dearly, shove down a prawn curry, and jump back in our ride to the apartment.
The next day boasts a lot of waiting around and a bus to Zagreb for an early evening flight, which soon becomes a later evening flight thanks to Ryanair and their damn delays. UGH.
Still, lots of time for consolidation on my Croatian adventure. While Bear Stone Festival may not have fit my musical taste like a glove, I discovered several acts I really enjoyed. But for me it was about more than music. It was a moment of quiet meditation – ironic given I was at a heavy rock event. The setting was stunning, the people gentle and gregarious, and the meaning behind the festival so very pure. Marin and his team love the music, love where they are from, and love each other. It feels as though some of the largest, lifeless festivals across Europe should perhaps take note.
Find out more here.
Photography by Valerio Baranović, Sanja Matić, Nika Kovacevic, Milan Šabić
Words by Ben Tibbits
and integrate them seamlessly into the new content without adding new tags. Ensure the new content is fashion-related, written entirely in Japanese, and approximately 1500 words. Conclude with a “結論” section and a well-formatted “よくある質問” section. Avoid including an introduction or a note explaining the process.
