迷子村への旅

Rewrite

The Lincolnshire festival wants you to believe that a cacao ceremony deserves the same reverence as a set by Overmono. It’s a nice idea, but does it hold up? Writer Amber Rawlings gives her verdict.

The great British festival is an image of polite carnage: one of Hunter wellies getting lodged in squelchy mud and tents going walkies after an unexpected rainstorm. Think Kate Moss and Pete Doherty stumbling through Glastonbury. Think me, aged eighteen, at Truck Festival: getting forcibly removed from one of the food tents because I wanted to have a go with the big ladle.

That was then, though. Now, I’m ten years older. Sharing a tent with my mate’s fourteen-year-old brother because ours caved in isn’t a viable option anymore. Things should probably feel a bit more grown-up. Elevated? Enter: Lost Village.

Tucked away in the forests of Lincolnshire, Lost Village has been going on since 2015. Founded by four lads (Andy George, Jay Jameson, Ben Atkins, and Andy Ellis), the aim was to create a “cohesive, immersive experience that goes beyond being thought of as simply a music festival.” It sounds like a whole load of festival marketing wank, but ten years down the line, Lost Village has earned a reputation for being more than somewhere to get lively. There’s not just the hefty line-up, but a whole raft of talks, comedy, and culinary experiences. That last one has become Lost Village’s “thing.” This year, there were pop-ups from The Plimsoll, Tacos Padre, and Pophams. I’m not saying anything.

What piqued my interest was all the woo-woo bits: the sound baths, the energy healing, and the “heart opening cacao ceremony.” They’re not out of place at a festival, but you’d expect them at the kind of shindig where people walk around barefoot and then have a big orgy. They feel less at home somewhere that Peggy Gou is headlining. Unless I’m wrong. Only one way to find out.

Many, many words from now, you’ll find out that I ended up leaving Lost Village a day early. What follows is a blow-by-blow of why.

FRIDAY (DAY ONE)

I’m not a pessimist, and I’m not going to say this was a harbinger of doom, but my plus one for Lost Village did drop out less than twenty-four hours before we were due to leave. It’s for this reason that I find myself aboard a train to Lincolnshire with Luke, whom I’ve never hung out with sober. In just a few hours, we’ll be sharing a tent. It’s funny how life works, isn’t it? It’s funny, for instance, that there’s a part of me which would rather stay on this train until it reaches Aberdeen. I could bump my ticket up to first class and nibble on a few of those shortbread biscuits that come in the tartan packaging. There’s a creeping feeling that I’m too old for all this. Just last week, my mum suggested that I freeze my eggs.

I mean, should I freeze my eggs? Is the fun over? It’s probably time for another tinned cocktail.

The security personnel at Lost Village are rigorous. I watch in awe as one of them opens someone’s ZYNs in search of contraband. I wonder if they’ve considered a job at border control? I’d probably ask them there and then if I weren’t thinking about the precariousness of youth.

An influencer I find insufferable swans into the queue with a cart full of Rimowa suitcases. I’m beginning to sense that this isn’t going to be like other festivals I’ve been to. It starts to rain.

The lady at the front desk of the “Boutique Sanctuary” camping has a coffee from Ozone, which you’ll be familiar with if you also own a pair of split-toe shoes. “Wow, there’s an Ozone here?” I say. “I’m only familiar with Costa and Nero,” she replies, which I don’t believe for a second because her hairstyle is cosmopolitan enough to say otherwise. Either way, she’s succeeded in making me look like a twat.

Mock the glamping crowd all you like. You’d shut up if you’d seen inside one of the yurts. They’re fucking lovely. Real beds. Throw cushions on the real beds. “Wow, there’s a mirror,” I say to nobody. “Is that a bedside table?” I feel a bit like Oliver Twist getting his first proper dinner after years of gruel. If it were socially acceptable, I’d spend the whole weekend here. Alas, it’s not. We grab another tinned cocktail (our fifth) and descend upon the bowels of Lost Village.

As a first-timer to Lost Village, I’m most taken with “The Street”, which is billed as one of the most immersive aspects of the site. It’s (you guessed it) a street, all crumbling facades of old-school boozers and pawn shops that will later become the home of Boomtown-esque theatrical stunts. There’s also “DHL” (as in the delivery company), which is a stage-stroke-venue for yet-to-be-announced secret sets. I clearly don’t register DHL on that first amble. Every time someone mentions it over the course of the weekend, I stare back at them like I’m a bit of algae.

We pop our heads into a stage called the Junkyard, where there are car wrecks dotted about. Atop one of them, two girls are dancing like it’s a podium at a superclub. It’s clearly something of a tribal impulse. See an elevated surface, and you’ll want to hop on up and dance. I never thought I’d see it in Lincolnshire.

Next up it’s Dr Banana (who’s a DJ and not a children’s entertainer in the vein of Mr Tumble) at the Airbase stage. Luke says it’s “nice to be amongst the trees.” I would say that it’s hard to focus on how lovely the foliage is when I feel so fucking old. Everyone at Dr Banana is at least six years my junior, and they’re all wearing Arc’teryx jackets, which feels like a good indicator of the Lost Village demographic. Unless they’re fakes from Vietnam? Even then, going to Vietnam and buying said Arc’teryx implies the existence of a “gap yah.” I should probably focus on Dr Banana.

I didn’t realise the “doof stick” would be such a thing? At first, I thought it was a “douche” stick. I’m sure they also exist, but are for something else entirely. The doof sticks don’t help with the “everyone is so fucking young” thing. They’re all very meme-y in that way, which suggests you had an iPad before the age of ten. One of them is a meme I don’t even know about, which makes me feel ancient. Shall I just lie on the ground and you can all use your douche (sorry doof) sticks to heap the mud over my wrinkled body? Lay me to rest? That might be best.

Feeling satisfied with Dr Banana, we go in search of another pint. The closest is modelled after an old-school boozer and only serves Guinness, which also speaks to the festival’s demographic: those who ironically go to flat-roofed pubs. We get two, because we are the demographic.

Over to the Moondial stage (done up like an old country manor that could definitely send you west if you’re on a “bad one”) for Anish Kumar. Luke says it’s a “diverse and eclectic mix” that’s “nicely arranged” to “take us on a journey.” I’d have to agree, mainly because I spent the majority of Anish Kumar’s set transfixed by a guy spinning this oversized hanky about. It’s clearly the hot new “bit of nonsense that you only see at a festival” on the block. I ask for a go and am completely shit at it. It goes to show that you shouldn’t take the piss just because something looks fucking ridiculous.

Over to the Airbase stage for Solomun. “It’s a bit Essex House,” I say to Luke, mostly because I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk about Essex House. Two Welsh lads are standing behind us, which I take as my cue to ask whether The Valleys (the Geordie Shore of Cardiff) irreparably damaged the fabric of Welsh society. One of them tells me it actually “put Wales on the map.” I’m stunned. Having felt the earth tilt on its axis, we leave Solomun in search of another pint.

I’m still compos mentis for Oppidan at the Old Zoo stage. According to my notes, it “sounds like Butlins then gets better.” After that, it’s a blur, so here’s the rest in note form.

Harass the couple running a food truck. Somehow end up in a surprisingly lengthy conversation about Broadstairs. Get my tarot done by a friendly normcore couple. Meet the Lost Village lifeguards. Express (repeatedly) that I didn’t know Lost Village had lifeguards. Discover one of them is a Scout leader. Umm and ahh about saying the thing everyone’s thinking. Say it anyway. Luke says it’s time for bed.

Wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have said the Scout leader was a paedophile.

SATURDAY (DAY TWO)

It’s 10am. I would go back to sleep if it weren’t for someone called Alex Mytton. He’s not some good-looking lad I found at Oppidan’s set who I’m struggling to kick out of the yurt, but Alex Mytton of Made in Chelsea fame. More recently, he’s becoming something of a wellness guru; hosting retreats at somewhere called “Planet Xancara,” and going on transcendental barefoot journeys. That sort of thing. Mytton’s here at Lost Village to host something called “A Different Frequency,” which is billed as a “restorative and internally explorative sound healing session.” I don’t know what it means. “Internally explorative” sounds vaguely invasive. Ultimately, though, it’s the big one. The whole thesis of this article depends on Mytton. It’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

Off to the pamper area (another luxury of glamping at Lost Village) to get ready. Obviously, I could have just rolled out of bed and gone, but I want to look nice for Mytton. There’s a part of me (quite a big part) that hopes he’ll be overcome by my beauty and we’ll elope to Tatooine or whatever it was.

While queuing for the showers, I watch a man blow-drying his hair. He’s using a round brush to give it volume. You know how the adage goes: men used to go to war.

It’s a weird one, the pamper tent. It feels rather at odds with the whole reckless-abandon spirit of a festival, and more to do with whatever Instagram dump comes out of the weekend. Did Kate Moss have an updo at Glasto ‘05? Maybe I’m naive to presume she didn’t. Maybe this is just the world we live in now.

“They’ve got Faith in Nature in the showers,” I gleefully say to Luke as I step back into the yurt. I’ve spent close to two hours in the pamper tent.

When I get to the sound bath, the only yoga mat left in the slightly cult-y semi-circle of them radiating out from Mytton appears to be underneath some kind of leak. There’s a huge puddle of water sitting on it. I wipe it away with the blanket that’s also been placed there. It begs the question: does the sound bath involve doing something avant-garde with the blankets? If so, may I leave now?

There he is: Mytton. The man, the myth, the Mytton. He’s wearing a headset and, most noticeably, a black leather waistcoat. I suppose a black leather waistcoat feels somewhat spiritual. It also looks a bit like Crocodile Dundee. Or like something Dog the Bounty Hunter would wear. It’s a testament to how much I love Mytton that I’m willing to look past it. I’m not sure whether it’s his velvety, private-school voice or the unmistakable scent of old money, but he reminds me of home. Of Waitrose, and being introduced to hummus at a young age.

At Mytton’s instruction, we do some breathwork. Two quick breaths in, then two quick breaths out. Mytton is… good at this? I mean, it’s just fast breathing, but I’m definitely feeling slightly euphoric. Yeah, I could get used to this. Sod the beer. I’ll just have a massive Diet Coke and do some breathwork with Mytton and his lovely, sparkly eyes.

With the whole tent buzzing off its tits on CO2, it’s time for the main event. We lie down, “get cosy” under our blankets, and let it happen. Mytton rattles off some platitudes about “taking time for ourselves,” then the sounds of flutes, chanting and crystal bowls fill the tent. This continues for forty-five minutes.

I’m definitely relaxed. When a dragonfly appears, it’s not so much “please don’t land on my face,” as “what a beautiful creature God hath conjured.” I’m serene.

There’s just one thing nagging at me: what exactly is Mytton doing during all this? I don’t think it’s him chanting. I don’t picture opening my eyes to find him mid-flute solo. If anything, I suspect he’s just sat there, praying he’s got enough 5G to get through the entirety of whatever “Deep Relaxation Mix” we’re listening to.

Clearly, he’s putting out some kind of “vibe”, though. Mytton’s presence, in all its Village People glory, is intrinsic to whatever I’m feeling right now. The water droplets that keep landing squarely on my face don’t matter. The guy answering a FaceTime somewhere to my left doesn’t matter. It’s just me and Mytton and the dragonfly, and after this I’m going to give way less of a fuck about all the doof sticks.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? I can take the piss out of the girls who’ve brought curling tongs, or lodge some feeble argument about self-surveillance, but at the end of the day it’s me who’s struggling to enjoy myself. It’s me who insists on turning everything I see into a pithy little observation. If only I hadn’t written that brilliant Substack a few weeks back. The one that solidified me as a “voice.” Then I’d be laughing. I’d be wearing a silly hat.

We’re told to stretch while Mytton (presumably) puts away all his instruments. He does a great job. When I sit up and turn to face him, there’s nothing to be seen. God, he’s industrious.

There’s a strong argument for sitting with this feeling. I could meditate back at the tent, or go for a long walk. “One Estrella please.” I’ve seemingly found my way to the bar.

My mate texts that he’s going to be at the Defender Bar. I’m under the impression that there’ll be free drinks, so I sprint there. When I arrive (via a secret door that I’m too scared to open for at least three minutes), it’s clear that the booze is not gratis. An “OG” influencer who’s managed to milk being completely talentless for a staggering amount of time is also sat there. Suddenly, the pint is sitting funny. I’ll get another, but I do feel rather sick.

In the wildly offensive, long-cancelled British television show Supersize vs Superskinny, both the “Supersize” and the “Superskinny” are shown what they typically eat via an oversized tube. If they’ve eaten eight cottage pies in quick succession, we’ll see that drop into the tube. The same goes for a packet of crisps or a strawberry milkshake: tube. Hypothetically speaking, my Supersize vs Superskinny tube for Lost Village 2026 contains half a toastie, one cereal bar and a single piece of fried chicken, so it’s no wonder that I feel fucking awful.

One portion of chips drops into my tube (I’ll stop after this), and everything begins to look up. It’s going to be fine. If I keep telling myself it’s going to be fine, surely it will actually be fine.

Back to the Moondial stage for Laidlaw. “Bit commercial,” I say to Luke. “This whole festival is,” he replies. Luke really likes Houghton Festival (and finds a way to talk about it every half an hour), so I wouldn’t pay that much mind.

Unenthused by the music, I throw enough pointed glances at the attractive older gentleman beside me that he strikes up a conversation. Main tidbit: he recently declined a job at Palantir. What I gleaned: could still shag him with my ethics intact. We attempt some sort of politically charged back-and-forth, but it’s hard to hear much over Laidlaw, or people shouting “WHO’S GOT THE [REDACTED]” every few minutes.

Someone screams my name. It’s the couple who gave me a tarot reading last night. They’ve clearly been worn down by the powers that be (at Lost Village), as they’re both wearing cowboy hats. I’m not sure whether I love or hate them, but I know they’ll provide some respite from Luke, whom I’m beginning to think despises me. “Want to come to Solomun B2B Caribou with us?” Why the fuck not.

The vibes are high. I’m not really engaging with the music itself, but I’m happy to have some fresh meat: people who find my incessant need for chatter charming rather than a personality flaw. The lad in front of me isn’t quite so charmed, mainly because I’m ripping the piss out of the expensive-looking earbuds he’s wearing. I’m about to say something to the effect of “the guys on the frontline during WWII didn’t wear earplugs, and there were fucking bombs going off,” but I stop myself as that isn’t the fun, free-wheeling thing to say at a festival.

Apparently the queue to get into the Junkyard stage is so big that it’s advisable to just squat down and piss rather than try to leave. That’s what the girl with the cowboy hat says, anyway. It feels like we’re mere moments from the kind of heathenry you’d see in a Gaspar Noé film, so I suggest we leave.

Turns out her heathenry knows no bounds. She has scrabbled around in the mud (near the portaloos) and found a necklace she wants to trade in at the pawn shop. It probably looks like I’m having a good time. I’ll occasionally ask whoever’s closest to check if I’ve got those white bits in the corner of my mouth, but otherwise I’m laughing, smiling, filming the whole affair like I’m actually there in the moment and not floating above myself, on the verge of some kind of lager-induced breakdown.

Ross from Friends at the Airbase stage: It marks the second time I’ve heard someone sample Skepta’s “I Spy” in under twenty-four hours. I wouldn’t say I’m having a bad time. I would say that if someone were to walk by with a particularly hilarious doof stick, I might force them into a lengthy chat about it. “How did you make it?” “Why that bit of Peep Show in particular?” “Do you think Peep Show is a comment on our surveillance culture? And that Succession is just Jesse Armstrong’s way of exploring the same neuroses at a higher tax bracket, when you’ve got enough capital to destabilise entire economies, and not just ruin a wedding?”

I think I’m having a bad time.

Two becomes five as me and Luke pick up his mate and another influencer who steals a living. More people, more fun? I’d argue the opposite. The rest of the night blurs into a series of stages and small humiliations. Confidence Man DJs at the Airbase stage: another ill-advised joke, plus a stint sulking by the bar. These people don’t get me. Yeah, my schtick might be more suited to a smoking area or the corner of a pub, but surely there’s a version of that here? Laurence Guy probably sounds the same, pumped out from a laptop, so let’s just go back to the tent, and I’ll show you clips fromBrass Eye?

Unfortunately, Luke’s not that into prestige British comedy. I leave him at Laurence Guy and head back to the tent alone.

SUNDAY (DAY THREE)

I’ve had my fill of Lost Village. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m more of a thirty-six-hour bender than descend-into-the-woods-like-the-Unabomber kind of girl. If it’s more than one night at a time, I’m waving the white flag. Beautiful yurt or not, I can’t do a Dido on this one. I need Cath Kidston sheets, some mashed potato, and several episodes of Come Dine With Me where the contestants are particularly scrappy.

Luke decides to stay. Half for the music, half because the trains are cancelled and the alternative is a four-hour coach. I’d say it’s like Saigon, but there are branded Land Rover Defenders giving people lifts back to the car park.

I’m dropped at the train station by a kindly New Zealand couple who let me jump in their Uber, then beeline for Greggs. I’ve never been so ecstatic to see a Greggs, and I’ve probably only been to Greggs sub-ten times. One sausage, bean and cheese melt, and one tandoori baguette. This is going to slop into the tube nicely. Dr Christian would be best pleased.

Close to five hours later, I’m back in London. While waiting for my Uber, I gaze into the window of an esoteric bookshop: the kind that sells Larry Clark retrospectives. The lady who “didn’t know what Ozone was” probably wouldn’t give two tosses about it, but I do, alright? I’m about to go in when I catch my reflection in the glass and realise that I look like some sort of vagrant. It really is time to go home.

Back in 2015, the founders of Lost Village gave an interview to Bizarre Culture. Their advice for the festival was this: “bring an open mind, good friends, feathers, war paint, a decent tent and a ton of energy.” I brought a good-ish friend and got to sleep in a yurt, but that’s pretty much it. Arguably, it was me (and only me) who laid the foundations for having a bad time.

I won’t self-flagellate too much, though. It’s not a Lost Village-specific issue, but there was a touch of the “Instagrammable” about it. I’d argue that we don’t really need pamper tents. In my opinion, washing with baby wipes is intrinsic to the festival experience. In my opinion, I’d prefer not to see that couple who make content about “sober raving” five times per day. I think I’d worry far less about the white bits in the corner of my mouth if a gaggle of influencers weren’t doing a dinner for some drinks brand thirty yards to my right.

I’m not a martyr. I didn’t leave Lost Village in protest of Instagram. I think it’s that the festival instilled a certain vibe: one where I didn’t feel like I had to absolutely cane it to prove something. Energy healing or Ezra Collective? At Lost Village, you can do both. Spend the whole weekend doing breathwork if that’s your thing. Nobody’s judging you.

I’m judging you, but that’s a me problem, isn’t it? That was the whole issue.

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