The music got a little brighter, the sky a little richer, the lawn a little sweeter, the laughter a little more mine.
The bar at a Hawkwind gig always sets the tone. At the tender ages of 45 and 46 we are, apart from a couple of Carnaby Street dandies, the youngest in the place by quite some way. And with our sensible hair and middle-aged man-from-M&S attire we are the straightest too. Queuing at the bar we’re surrounded by a sea of dreadlocks and pony tails, leather and denim, pierced noses eyebrows and lips, sequinned dresses and platform biker boots, male pattern baldness and blue rinses; all on people at least a decade older than us.
Butterflies on shoulders, daisies on hips; every woman here sported the kind of tattoo that wouldn’t punish her in her fifties. The men weren’t much different; a bit of sleeve work here and there, proudly on show in the summer sun, but nothing that couldn’t be hidden by a clean white shirt on Monday morning.
The smell of skunk mingled with wood smoke, sea salt and sun block.