Festivals are a big deal in the UK. You cannot really say you have had a summer unless you have roughed it with a pair of wellies and some camping gear in some green field in the countryside for the weekend and come back disheveled and needing a scrub down. Shambala was a cacophony of glitter, secret gardens, swamp creatures, pyrotechnic dragons and glowing tulips. You could go for a communal yoga session or charlston class in the morning, head for a permaculture gathering or art workshop in the afternoon, watch a movie or a band or go on fun-fair rides in the evening. I came across fire-spitting horses, shaman rituals, gypsy caravans, friendly Polish faeries, cowboys and indians, glow-in-the-dark earthworm costumes, burning effigies and unicorns. The odd disgusting campsite did however spoil the mood (British festival goers are notorious for leaving everything behind at festivals, these organisers had some scruples however and had a recycling scheme in place, but still could not motivate everyone to clean after themselves), a seeming normality for first-world folk to throw things away after one weekend-use. Nothing like this atrocity though. Mental note: NEVER go to Reading Festival. EVER.
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