Take me home, Crickhowell roads?

Life’s a journey, and every so often, you find that special place where you can pull over, take a deep breath and refuel your soul.

My preferred refuelling station? It’s tucked away in the folds of Bannau Brycheiniog and opens its doors only once a year. I’m talking about none other than that shimmering jewel in Wales’ cultural crown, the Green Man festival.

Take me back, already? I’ve been back in the daily grind for 13 days, yet reminders of that magical weekend cling to me – literally. I’m still discovering (eco) glitter particles in the most unexpected places. And I cherish every speck, each one a portal back to those precious mountain moments.

If I were to sketch out my idea of utopia, Green Man would undoubtedly serve as my blueprint. There’s so much to love about life in the hills, even if it is just for a few days every year.

There are the breathtaking mountain views on the scenic drive to the festival, for a start, a reminder of how much natural beauty we have on our doorstep. As a child of the Eastern valleys, I feel instantly at home as soon as I encounter sheep casually ambling across the windswept roads, paying the traffic no heed. 

Then there’s the way I lose all phone signal and mobile data as soon as I hit Crickhowell. There aren’t many places on earth that offer such limited connectivity to the outside world anymore, so I’d like to thank my network provider and implore them never to fix it. I love putting my phone away and pretending it’s 1992 for the weekend. Real conversations! Making lists of things to Google when I get home! Bumping into friends by fate and not design, like our parents used to! 

Then there’s the joy of going free-range for the weekend. Wandering barefoot and feeling connected to the earth underfoot. Dipping weary feet in the river Usk. Stretching out on the grass without having to be anywhere and taking delight in squelching around in wellies like a toddler. It’s a reminder of the joy of just BEING. 

I say this every year, but 2023 was my favourite Green Man ever. From dancing in the pouring rain to cosmic free jazz magicians The Comet Is Coming to revelling in the oestrogen-fest that was Self Esteem’s stunning Saturday night headline set, the entire weekend shimmered with magic, joy and possibility.

Because what are festivals, if not playgrounds for adults? They are one of the few places where it’s acceptable to wear fairy wings, drink before midday and dance in a mud bath. Little wonder that more over-50s are going to festivals now than they did in their youth, according to research. Never mind the teenagers – we grown-ups need the respite because, well, adulting is HARD. 

Back to my utopia blueprint, and this year’s event was a beacon of inclusivity. 

In a festival first, there was an equal gender split across all the acts and stages this year, with female acts headlining on Saturday and Sunday nights. One of many highlights was Australian band Amyl and The Sniffers, fronted by the mulleted Amy Taylor. Imagine the hyperactive Aussie lovechild of Debbie Harry and Iggy Pop in BDSM gear, and you’ll be halfway there. 

Their high-energy set – punctuated by the kind of profanity that would bring my nan out in a cold sweat – was further improved by the brilliant British Sign Language interpreter charged with bringing the music to life for deaf and hearing-impaired people. There were many interpreters on stage over the weekend, each responsible for conveying not only song lyrics but the spirit and personality of the artists and bands, too – no mean feat. Apparently, interpreters spend two to three weeks learning each song and often get the set lists so late they must learn the entire back catalogue of the artists they’re assigned to. The sheer amount of preparation that goes into each BSL performance is mind-boggling. Just watching them was exhausting. What a thoroughly brilliant thing. 

And then there’s the giant leap for festivalkind that are female urinals. Sorry-not-sorry if you’re enjoying breakfast while you read this, but the injustice of men being able to spend a swift penny in urinals while women must queue for ages for portaloo cubicles has burned me to my core for years. But no longer! Thanks to a partnership with charity Peequal, women could use female squat urinals (not to be confused with she-wees) for quick open-air wees this year. The amount of grateful women thanking the volunteers who staffed these toilets is a testament to the demand for more equitable o-pee-tunities.

Another thing that struck me in the year Bannau Brycheiniog National Park reverted to its Welsh name is just how much Welsh language could be heard and enjoyed around the site. 

(To the lovely family camping opposite me who left a “Siwrne saff” – safe journey home – note on my camping chair on Monday morning, diolch!).

Festivals are places to lose yourself in the rhythms, revelry and rain showers. But Green Man? It’s so much more. It stitches together past and present, melding together culture, music and science in the warm embrace of the Welsh landscape, language and artistic tradition. It’s a refuge where we can return to simplicity, feel the earth’s pulse and cherish connections old and new. 

As I packed up my gear and meandered slowly through the mountain roads and back down the A470 to the real world, the whispered medley of the weekend lingered, echoing both a farewell and an invitation. 

So, until next year, Green Man. When all being well, I’ll heed your siren call and revel in your verdant, communal catharsis once more.