Bead Barmy

In this deep midwinter it’s lovely to turn our thoughts to sunnier days and faraway places, but travellers beware!

There’s a beading accident waiting to happen on every trip! In this sorry tale of bead and travelling woes, names have been changed to protect the foolish…

Guilty Pleasures

Now I for one have taken guilty pleasure from hanging a bauble from every dangly bit and draping myself from head to foot in jewels but there is a time and a place – weddings, bar mitzvahs etc. However, sometimes minimalism is the only way to go. Actually, it’s not so much about the wearing but more specifically the packing and transporting of beads and the glorious creations we make with them.

Two glaring examples of beads and their part in our downfall spring to mind. Both involve the annual pilgrimage of my friends and I to Glastonbury Festival and the frankly ridiculous things that we do!

A Sharp Intake of Breath

The first comes from someone I’ve been mates with for thirty four years. Sal and I have been to Glastonbury together every year it’s been on since 1989, so it’s fair to say she is a veteran of the festival. You can translate this as ’someone who really should know better’.

A couple of years ago Sal travelled all the way from the West of Ireland to my house in Brighton to prepare for our trip. God alone knows how she managed to come that far as the weight allowance on the flight is equivalent to a bag of feathers! Anyway, she arrived on my doorstep cussing about the enormous weight she was carrying and how she was never going to make it through the weekend, blah blah blah.

“Empty your rucksack, there must be something non-essential” I said, trying to take control of the situation as I had visions of me giving a back-strained Sal piggybacks around the site. Out it all came, sleeping bag, tent, and loo roll – fair enough, all items relatively essential! Three pairs of jeans (questionable), then fourteen vest tops. I hope you are all taking a sharp intake of breath out there in cyber-land.

“When on earth are you going to find use for fourteen vest tops in five days in a field?” I squeaked slightly hysterically. Sal conceded that this was in fact a tad excessive and we pared them down to five – one for each day.

This, however, was only the beginning. The main culprit was yet to be released from the bulging tardis. Out came a bag the size of a small baby containing enough necklaces, bracelets and other bodily adornments to stock a branch of Claires Accessories several times over. In a field in Somerset where you’re more likely to be sporting a cagoule and wellies than a little black dress and strappy sandals, there really isn’t much opportunity to wear more than one or two items of jewellery let alone a bagful.

Added to this, the dismantling of your attire late at night or in the early hours in a cramped two-man tent is arduous enough without adding to the torture. Potential Glastonbury virgins, read and learn. Sal had as much of a pain free festival as anyone can have, when traipsing across fields for five days, after realising her folly and taking only the essentials.

The Beaded-Trousered Philanthropist

Unlike my next companion, who actually made it on to site with near disastrous consequences. Chloe had visited the festival several times but not for a while due to work commitments and lack of money. However, this particular year she had scraped together both the readies and a cunning plan. She decided she would make loads of jewellery to take onsite to flog and supplement her good time.

I had my reservations. The main one being that I’d rather starve for the duration to save money than waste a second of precious time on anything close to resembling work. Chloe, ever the optimist, said it would be fun and help contribute to the vibe! Just lay your blanket and your wares on the ground in a nice spot. Chat to the revellers, spread some more good cheer and offload the odd pendant while you’re at it. When she put it that way it didn’t sound too bad really.

Nevertheless, any sway in my opinion was halted when I met Chloe at the festival gates and she was armed with none other than a shopping trolley filled to the brim with handmade jewellery. Not the sort you trail round the supermarket with, although that would have been hard enough. I’m talking about the ones you used to see many a shopper dragging behind them in the 1970’s. The handy carriers were usually made of canvas, generally in some sort of lurid tartan design, with a handle to pull, all perched on two flimsy, plastic wheels. Perfectly adequate for a trip to the Co-op but not to the Somme!

Listen Up Non-Believers!

A note here to the doubters before I continue. Contrary to modern folklore, torrential downpours don’t happen every time. Ask anybody who’s been more than once (or twice!)

However, this was one of the unfortunate rainy years and many of you will know that the festival is held on a dairy farm. Therefore, with approximately one hundred and fifty thousand people trampling on the already soft ground it takes precisely five minutes to turn into a quagmire.

On this particular year the heavens opened as we took our first steps over the threshold. A few feet in, the aforementioned trolley was caked in sticky mud. Yards in, one of the overworked wheels left itself behind in the sticky mess. We ended up carrying the trolley between us, the mile or so away to our regular camping spot. All of this was, of course, done in the famous Glastonbury spirit helped by the odd alcoholic beverage on the way.

Happily, after that first day the weather did clear and the sun shone for the rest of the festival. Funnily enough though, Chloe decided that she’d rather starve than waste a second of precious time on anything resembling work! Thus proving the point that minimalist packing and bijoux jewellery is the way to go. I rest my ever so small case.