---- PHASE 1 ----

 

My boots are out in the rain but I am too hung-over to retrieve them to the relative dryness of the tent.

 

Since my recent return from New Zealand, where weather patterns tend to settle for days if not weeks, it is not the first time I have been caught out by the seemingly arbitrary justice of Scottish summer downpours.  Through my throbbing, desiccated cerebrum I realise, as my boots fill with cold rain water, my only alternative footwear is a pair of luminous blue crocks (another hang-over from a country with a more agreeable climate).  

 

Social paranoia creeps up my spine as I contemplate the disapproving looks my crocks may attract from the Stonehaven Sea Cadet Corps, who run the make-shift campsite with a benevolent iron fist.  

 

It is a peculiar feature of Scottish culture that those over the age of sixty assume a god-given right to dish out a combination of cantankerism and black humour to those under thirty.  It is a tradition I grudgingly respect and indeed look forward to exercising myself one day, although in my current hung-over state I have deep misgivings about this eccentricity of my homeland.  

 

I was brutally reminded of it upon my arrival to the campsite the day previous.  Having no hard cash on me to pay for my pitch I was initially refused entry, and only a concerted effort of pleading and promising to make good upon my debt in the morning - this god-forsaken morning - had earned me grudging permission to camp.  

 

I fumble for my wallet and realise I have succeeded in returning from the pub with £4.62, far short of the £10 needed to make good on my debt.  I dread the inevitable confrontation with the venerable Cadet Corps leaders.  The rain continues to patter on the roof of my tent.  

 

As if in answer to my seemingly hung-over paranoia the sharp end of an umbrella raps on the canvas near my head.  A disembodied and decidedly cantankerous male voice calls out:

 

"You alive in there son? It sounds like someone's dying in that tent!"

 

I un-stick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and shamefully realise my unseen protagonist is making reference to my hung-over snoring.  

 

"Yes...But only just!"

 

I reply, lamely attempting to diffuse the situation with a poor stab at humour.

 

"You hung-over in there"

 

It is a statement, not a question.

 

"Yes"

 

"Would you like me to bring you some water?"

 

I glance at my empty drink bottle which I had foolishly neglected to re-fill post yesterday's excesses.

 

"Yes Please"

 

"Only when you come up with the cash for your pitch!"

 

The sound of footsteps recedes from the tent.  The peculiar relationship between the youth and the elderly of Scotland was bleakly illustrated on a sodden morning in Stonehaven's festival campsite.  I look at my phone for the time.  8.30am.  Four hours since I got to bed.  It was going to be a challenging morning.  

 

---- PHASE 2 ----

 

Standing naked under an ice cold shower I forlornly watch as my blue crocks drift away on a tide of water spreading under the shower curtain and are sucked into the drain beyond.  I dare not retrieve them for to do so would mean exposing myself to a number of festival goers in the adjacent changing rooms.  Ever since my High School rugby days I have struggled to come to grips with the loose etiquette of communal changing and showering facilities.

 

---- PHASE 3 ----

 

Blue crocks back on my feet I face the bureaucracy of getting breakfast from the Stonehaven Sea Cadets.  I have been issued with a bingo ticket with my order written on it from the "admin tent", which I have to present to three harassed ladies struggling to meet the sudden influx of demand for greasy food by a bedraggled queue of hung-over folkies.  Finally a full Scottish breakfast, diluted with lashings of Scottish rainwater, draws battle lines with my unremitting hangover.  

 

I am ready to face the second day of the Stonehaven Folk Festival.

 

---- DISCLAIMER ----

 

While I have emphasised the rougher elements of the Stonehaven Folk Festival's campsite for comic effect, I would like to point out that over the course of the weekend the Cadet Corps did a sterling job of accommodating the needs of the assembled folkies, often with limited resources and ingenuity.  On the last day they even managed to get the showers hot, for which I will be eternally grateful.  Stonehaven Folk Festival is a great event and, despite my bleak depiction here, well worth the trip.  

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