道の果てへの旅

Rewrite

It’s the End of the Road. Finding a summer highlight in the bucolic English countryside, it’s a joyous, musically astounding, if wistful, final festival hurrah for Ben Tibbits.

Singalongs, Sentimentality, and Sun-Kissed Swansongs: A Trip To End of The Road

September crawls in. August – as Sylvia Plath defined it, “the odd uneven time” – has closed its weary, wistful eyes. The skies are darkening. The last embers of the fire are petering away into powdery ash. It’s the closing track of American Football’s self-titled debut album.

To confront what awaits is now unavoidable; the end of the road is here. Well, nearly. And literally. There’s time for one more adventure. This old dog ain’t about to forget.

Day One

Dragging my terribly packed belongings – distributed poorly across four uneven smaller bags rather than a succinct larger piece or two like my quietly smug +1 has managed – I’m sprinting up an escalator at Waterloo Tube station, two stairs at a time.

There’s no real excuse for me to miss the train, bar the fact that I’m a terrible timekeeper. The sun has passed its highest point, and so we feel it apt to purchase (well, he buys as I’m late) a cheeky four-pack of beers for the two-hour-or-so train down to Salisbury from London. Throughout our carriage, there’s a fizzle of excitement. Most people seem to be heading south for the same reason as us.

A summer swansong. A fresh experience. A weekend at one of Britain’s most expertly curated, undeniably communal, and critically adored festivals. If you haven’t understood what I’m talking about by now, maybe my wordplay isn’t as clever as it intends to be.

We arrive in Arcadia. There are around 20 minutes until a coach arrives to drive me, my pal, and 40 or so other ecstatic punters onto the sacred grounds of Larmer Tree Gardens near Blandford Forum. In that 20 minutes, a difficult mission must be attempted. A superstore Sainsbury’s sits eight minutes walk away. There, crates of beer and boxes of wine await purchase. Also fruit, tinned food, cereal bars. Some survival essentials if we’re going to make it out of the next five days with some inkling of mental and physical well-being.

One of us must wait with the bags at the station. The other must venture out into the cobbled streets of this British thorp. I rise to the occasion.

But wait! I’m not wearing my glasses. When I finally arrive at the gigantic supermarket, I’m scrambling around like a whisked egg. The checkout queue is long. The lady threatens to ID me. I’m 28 years old, I promise through gritted teeth. She smacks my stomach playfully as confirmation that she believes me.

Now carrying a huge IKEA bag with enough drink to kill a small horse, I check the clock. I’m defeated. The shuttle will be there in two minutes, and I’ve only just left Sainsbury’s. Still, I walk as fast as my tired legs will allow me. And luck is on my side – the shuttles are running late. I join my pal in the queue. The group behind us are playing 20 questions. I think the answer is Dick & Dom. They are still guessing Jeremy’s (Clarkson, Paxton, etc.). I was right.

A 40-minute-or-so shuttle bus ride is spent surveying the mind-blowingly competitive line-up. There must be 30 or more acts that I really want to see. That’s never happened – not even at Glastonbury.

Off the coach. On foot. Walking towards the entrance. With the additional weight of the IKEA bag of booze, we’re struggling. Forward is the only way. We arrive at the gates and are met with unfortunate news. The box office is the other way. We should have really read the media pack. But never fear! The kind workers allow us to leave our stuff behind a fence and stroll up without the burden of our belongings. We even take a road beer for the walk – lovely stuff.

Wristbands secured. We’ve been extra blessed – thanks to the festival’s wonderful publicist – with a boutique Vintent already up and awaiting us. We’re talking: two cosy pods with mattresses better than most hotel rooms, located on either side of a communal space with a desk, a light, a rug. It’s nicer than most of the flats I’ve lived in since moving to London. You can stand up here; it’s so tall and spacious. AND there are nice showers and toilets less than 100 feet away. It’s safe to say – for two boys who have previously shown up at camping festivals with one roll mat, no sleeping bag and a pack of dried-out wet wipes between us – we are very grateful for the additional comfort.

We lightly unpack, and before long we are heading into the full festival grounds to begin. There’s a palpable buzz in the air. It’s the 20th anniversary of End of the Road, but my inaugural encounter. Last year, I attended Green Man in the Welsh countryside, its closest contemporary in vibe and line-up. I loved it, but felt that the evening program could have been more comprehensive, and that – as a plucky then 27-year-old letting loose – there were perhaps a few too many families for my personal liking. End of the Road immediately feels to have sanded off those slight criticisms.

Every encounter we have within the first few hours feels like it’s with someone of a similar mindset. Everyone is beering and cheering, amped up about the four nights of kooky fun ahead. Occupying grassy fields and a woody garden with some fancy ol’ buildings in between, half of the site isn’t open until tomorrow – Friday, the first full day of music – but it’s already full of surprises and nuances. Crazy golf, huge pieces of idiosyncratic hand-built art made in collaboration with rising creatives, zany bars to get acquainted in, fluorescently lit trees.

It’s about time we locked into some music. First up is a band I’ve heard positive things about – green star, a London-based four-piece with a new EP on the way next month, held in the Folly, a smaller tented venue. The band is very heady and escapist, distortion-heavy shoegaze. The mix isn’t great, but the tunes hit nicely.

We dip out and about and get a few drinks down before heading back to the same place an hour or so later for the Northern masked maverick Pollyfromthedirt. Trouble is, there’s now a huge queue outside the tent. Queuing is one of my least favourite things in life, but spirits are high, and it moves thankfully swiftly. We catch the back half of Polly’s set – more stripped-back than previous times I’ve seen him live, but equally as endearing and characterful.

The sun has gone down, and the opening day headliner awaits. If you’ve been keeping up with my adventures this summer, you’ll have read about several of my exploits standing in front of the mighty Geese. Never seen them in a headline slot, though. Can they step up to the plate?

They kick off with some slower, ambling tracks. Now that there are thousands of people standing in formation at the main stage, the Woods stage, the crowd feels older. We are rather far back and try and (as politely as possible, of course) etch our way forward. Wherever we go, there seems to be a tall middle-aged bloke standing in front, blocking the view with his arms crossed. The set picks up pace after a quarter of the time though, and before long we’re absolutely flying. It’s anthem upon anthem. I’m screaming the words back. There are pockets of clear disciples scattered throughout the crowd doing the same. The encore of just Trinidad is mind-blowing. The best band on the planet right now? I wouldn’t say no. The sound is also worth applauding – it’s the best I’ve heard them engineered.

There’s not much else on tonight in terms of music, so we find a quiet corner lit up by fluorescent lights, smoke and chat shit until tiredness draws in. We make the stroll back to camp and nestle down in our five-star tent for a good night’s sleep.

Day Two

After a completely uninterrupted night’s sleep, I’m up relatively early the next morning, grabbing a coffee at the boutique cafe, as well as an egg and hash brown bap. Yum! Next, I have the best festival shower of my life, put on my festival gear, realise I left my toothbrush in the shower cubicle, wait outside until someone finishes up their own pampering, and sheepishly ask them if there’s a toothbrush in there, letting out a little yelp of relief when there is.

Stella can cracked, we kick off nice and early in the bigger tented stage – the Big Top – with 1000 Rabbits, an idiosyncratic five-piece recently joining the likes of Sampha and FKA twigs on the label Young. You can see why they are so highly thought of – poignant songwriting and complex compositions that are impossible to predict, finishing completely different to where they begin.

We then begin a chain reaction of running into friends or friends of friends. It’s wild, literally three different groups of people within ten minutes. Turns out we know plenty of people here. With the last of those groups, a journo mate and his crew, we check out Ty Segal’s secret set at The Garden stage, a newly opened area that is simply gorgeous. It’s like a National Trust property holding a music festival. Wild. Ty and the band aren’t half bad either.

We do a quick tent pit stop to grab some beers, and then meet up with some more heads for Silver Gore. The duo make weird and whimsical pop, and brings a decent crowd to the Garden Stage in the mid-afternoon sun. We’re right next door to the following activity – a welcome press drinks in the patio area outside a quaint little hut. Free booze only means one thing – kicking things up a notch. The wine’s flowing, the conversation’s singing. I am a socialite.

A little woozy, we strip off from the wider press party and find ourselves in a games area in the forest. There’s all sorts of goodness here: a basketball hoop, tenpin bowling, chess boards, and that game where you try and throw small bean bags into a hole. Most significantly, though, a table tennis table. Now one thing about me, dear reader, is that not only do I absolutely LOVE table tennis, I am also very good at it. Mainly because they foolishly put a bunch of tables in the playground of my secondary school when I was 13 or 14. I failed my French GCSE because of them. I can still hear my teacher screaming ‘Benedict’ from her classroom window as a friend, and I played late into the afternoon after school had finished. I was supposed to be doing my speaking exam, but I forgot in the heat of the game. She never forgave me. Sorry, Ms Radinez, but all roads lead to this point – I’m like an elegant swan with a paddle in hand. I demolish all in my path.

I finish up my Olympic-level exhibition to catch Angine De Poitrine. The anonymous instrumental duo thrive through the oddity of their attire, vocoder chanting and the weird triangle signals they throw up now and then. They have come a long way from a sticky-floored venue in Montréal around nine months prior. Now they have an enviable early evening set on the main stage at one of the UK’s finest festivals. A lot can change in a year. Their set of Dada-Pythagorean-Cubist Mantra rock (their words) is sublime, with a sizable mosh pit, intricate instrumental work, and an increasingly cultish relationship between crowd and artist.

We’re then straight into the tent for the effortless effervescence and parking lot grooves of Adult DVD. The second time I’ve caught them this summer, following my rather random excursion to Truck Festival, and they are even better here in a busy Big Top tent. Progressive compositions, one of the swaggiest frontmen around, absolutely massive tunes. These guys are the real deal. I’m merry, and the dancing moves are kicking.

A quick stop at the tent later, and we’re back at Big Top for Model / Actriz. These guys are very cool, very zeitgeist-y, a recent Wonderland print fixture. It’s a bit of a genre mish-mash, sort of indie sleaze like while being rooted in something more electronic and experimental. It’s impressive stuff.

Next, the old dog, the moonlight by the river, my kind of woman. Mr Mac DeMarco is a God amongst men and the goofiest fella you’ll ever have headline a festival. It’s a flawless set of classics and newer cuts, with laughs, heart and a climactic ripping off of his T-shirt. I have a grin plastered across my face the whole time.

The night is flowing now. Where EotR’s contemporaries trail off as the clock approaches midnight, there’s a sense in the air that the night is just getting started here. There’s plenty to be doing. We head back to the games area for some more ping pong; while it was mostly children and families here earlier, the mood has now shifted. It’s damn lively now. We play with a variety of characters. A bloke with a wizard’s cape and stath who speaks in riddles lurks around. On reflection, I’m not entirely sure if he was real. I can only hope.

We then check out the genre-defiant Ela Minus before trying and failing to meet different groups of friends due to the rather impossible lack of phone signal. We settle for a secret set at Folly, the last of the night, and are overjoyed to find that the act in question is Man/Woman/Chainsaw. The hotly tipped sextet’s 45-minute set flies by, culminating in their recent debut album’s best and biggest tune, “Cannonball”.

And like that, it’s time to head to bed down for the night after a long but incredible day of bouncing around and seeing a rainbow of excellent tunes. There are still two full days to go as well, cor.

Day Three

The next morning starts a lot slower than the previous. After getting caffeinated, we’re straight into the festival grounds. I’ve got an interview. After getting lost and stumbling into previously unlocked corners of the festival map multiple times, I find my way to the Boat Stage and share a rejuvenating half hour with the wonderful Jordan Patterson. Interview coming soon…

Waving goodbye to Jordan, I mosey on over to meet my +1 at Spanish Horses. Newly signed to So Young Records, they are a band with a clean slate, with only one track officially released so far: the new single “Hey Man (Hey Man!)”. And yet pull in a substantial crowd at Big Top. I only catch 10 or 15 minutes, but I very much enjoy what I do hear.

We then saunter over to Folly for Maddie Ashman. Another relatively new artist, I’d heard a couple of tracks from her and admired the ambition. But nothing could prepare me for the set. Compositionally mesmerising, technically thrilling, emotionally vast, the Goldsmiths polymath is simply sensational. One of the best things of the weekend, and the summer period.

Back at Big Top, RIP Magic offers strong electro punk energy before we sneak off to a little slice of paradise. Now, if there’s one thing to know about me – other than that I am excellent at table tennis and can most likely drink you under the table – it’s that I’ve developed an insatiable infatuation with saunas. It’s a recent but uncompromising passion, after moving into a gated community which has one within its included facilities.

So when kindly offered the opportunity to spend an hour in the temporary on-site ‘The Spa @‘, I was utterly delighted. And what a time it is – welcomed by ex-army man and all-round top bloke Tom and his lovely daughter, whose name I’ve misplaced, we dive right into the sauna’s charm, dipping in and out into the provided cold plunge bath a handful of times. By our slot’s completion and a refreshing shower later, I feel fresher than I have in weeks. An infallible miracle.

Rejuvenated just in time for the evening to kick into gear, we spring over to Folly for Shallowater. The Texan slowcore three piece are intoxicating and affecting, masters of their influence with progression and purpose in their song constructions. Then, we’re back in Big Top for Just Mustard, who bring slick and cerebral post-punk to the table.

Before long, we’re getting a good spot for tonight’s headliner. Pulp, the intellectual’s pick for best band in Britpop, have had quite the resurgence in the past 18 months, thanks in large to their excellent 2025 comeback album, More. And today Jarvis Cocker and co – fans of the festival – dig deep into their discography, taking a trip down memory lane, playing tracks that haven’t been performed in decades at some points, as well as obvious but well-needed dips into the classics. Jarvis even presents a slideshow of images throughout. It’s warm, nostalgic and elegantly done.

But shock and horror! My pesky +1 isn’t satisfied with the banquet of Pulp, and also wants a slice of something a little more left-field. Earl Sweatshirt and MIKE – both of whom I’m also a huge fan of – are playing their collaborative set at the same time as the Sheffield band on the main stage.

And so we uproot our spot with the group we’ve latched on to, worm our way out towards Earl and MIKE, head-bob for 15 minutes as the pair put on a hell of a show themselves, before dipping back. We miraculously find the group, even though they were near the front and rather far in. As we arrive, they’re finishing “This Is Hardcore”. When we left, they’d just played “Babies”. They are doing a largely chronological set. So you know what that means? We missed “Common People”. I’ll die with this regret.

After Pulp, the mood is high, but we need a sit-down, so we head to the Talking Heads stage for some comedy. We see the amusing Molly McGuinness and the hilarious Frankie Monroe, before switching the mood with Kelly Lee Owens back at Big Top. It’s a typically terrific set from the Welsh DJ. Time dissipates, hips jiggle. At one point, three groups of people who we know congregate at the same place serendipitously. Introductions are made, hugs are hugged, daps are dapped. It’s beautiful.

As Kelly finishes, there are rumours of a PVA secret set in Folly, a group we’d missed early but really wanted to see. So we head there and lock in. We’re pretty messy by this point, which helps, but the melodic, synth-heavy sonics are hypnotic and mesmerising. I’m glued to the spot, Ella Harris’ glistening, entrancing vocals drawing me in. Another one of my favourite sets of the weekend.

At this point, the official music has stopped and the night has descended into madness. An elderly couple is calculating the circumference of trees with measuring tape. Mythical figures in cloaks and all manner of hats are floating about. Somehow I acquire a water pistol filled with Hennessy and cause chaos, squirting it into people’s mouths with varying degrees of success. It’s the early hours before the hedonism finally wears off, and I need a lie-down.

Day Four

The next day is really rather difficult to begin with. Sleep has been minimal. But we must endeavour on! The climactic day. We shower, grab some food and settle in with The Cindy’s, who I didn’t know much about before but are really strong, classic-ish rock, with great songwriting and live presence.

We take a stopgap back at the tent to tidy and pack, as we’re out early the next morning, before I’m once again looking for the right location to do an interview. This time it’s the mercurial james K – interview also incoming; hold your horses.

I finish up the chat and head to the Big Top for mark william lewis, someone I’m constantly tipping for success. No one does longing better than the A24 Music-signed folk singer-songwriter: deep, emotional vocals, wistful harmonica, visceral lyricism – it’s perfect Sunday afternoon festival attire.

Next, it’s Piss at Folly. Another act I’ve now seen a handful of times, and every occasion is better and more impactful than the last. I prefer not to say much about them; rather, I encourage you to see them at the nearest opportunity. I leave with teary eyes and an expanded mind.

Returning to Big Top, it’s another perfectly timed slot in the early evening slot for james K. Trip-hoppy experimental pop with wild visuals and a glass-shatteringly beautiful vocal? I’m entranced in her.

And then – Sophia Stel. Alongside PVA and Maddie Ashman, this is the round-off of my top trio of sets of the weekend. I realise I know every word, and belt it back to her. The Vancouver native and Wonderland alum is gorgeously awkward. The most endearing new pop star on the planet, in my humble opinion. Bring on the debut album.

Back to Folly, we see some Rostam, which is delicate and divine folky Americana, in the most, before once again settling at Woods stage for the final headliner. I’d honestly drop it all for CMAT – she is everything. A glorious experience as ever, perhaps the strongest of the countless times of seeing her, which she informs will be the last time she’ll be playing in the UK for two years. Gutting. The way she speaks about the festival is so revealing as well. She’s not the first artist to confess their love to End of the Road, and that’s very telling of the impact of this place. And a sentiment I completely agree with.

We dance the night away at the boat, hitting bed finally around 3am. Saying goodbye to our new festival family is quite emotional. Melancholy sets in as I close my eyes for a few hours.

Day Five

I’m shaken awake by my best mate and told I’ve got fifteen minutes until we need to go. It’s around 7am. We make it to our coach and subsequently onto the train. God, I feel like death. I like Waterloo a lot less on this sombre Monday morning.

On the Northern Line to Embankment and then the District Line east to Bow. I listen to EURO-COUNTRY and try to clear my brain fog to think clearly.

Festivals lessen ego. They make you realise and accept who and what you are in this mess of a world. None more so than End of the Road. I genuinely feel like I leave the weekend a better person. I am one of many, a mere observer of existence, a celebrator of art, and an advocate for change.

In this age of lip-sync content creators, authoritarianist pretenders, and intruding algorithms; of superficiality, judgement and misinformation. Those of us who see beyond our phone screens, who know there is more to life than the division it brings, must stick together and ride the tides united. Places like End of the Road allow you to realise you are not alone. That beneath the suffocating gloom there is goodness. And there always will be, as long as we stand as one.

You’ll want to be there next year.

Words – Ben Tibbits

Photography – Chris Juarez, Burak Cingi, Rachel Juarez Carr, Ethan Jones

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