by Neil Rowland
Only four miles remaining to Lime Tree Hill, if James’ map references are correct. I’m out of radio communication. No sign of the French nose slugging its way along the lanes in hot pursuit. But I’ve no reason to question his lore. Checking off the charts, taking my bearings from landmarks, I find that I’m bang on target. Then again so was Apollo 13. I can’t fly too low for fear of turbulence around buildings and of the buildings themselves. You have to be foolhardy to fly today - even to get your girl out of a fix.
The festival site comes into view as I pass over the next hill. This is where I drove earlier and was turned back by the cops, with fist fights breaking out in the fields. At a lower altitude I can see the broken lines of hippie convoys. The land is rushing under my feet; my heart is in my mouth. Is that why I keep it shut these days? I force myself to keep calm. There’s an amazing incentive to keep calm. I can hear Wickham, my consultant, jabbering again, like the Old Testament God:
“Avoid situations of extreme stress. Learn to take life sedately. Don’t overtax yourself,” he urged.
Does Wickham have any ideas how to get this balloon down safely?
“Change your ways. Make sacrifices in your life style.”
Don’t enjoy my sports, stop listening to music, give up sex, abandon my roustabouts? I didn’t take any notice.
Within another mile I notice the contours of Lime Tree Hill. This ancient landmark emerges through metallic sunset hues.
The balloon is sweeping over the top of woodland in a green rush. The craft swings out lee side and finds cool currents. In this context cool does not mean hot. Man, I can’t claim to be fully in control. I’m flying by the seat of my pants. It’s like plucking guitar strings with loose teeth. I can distinguish police columns and further snarl-ups of hippie and traveller vehicles, as well as the weekenders and pleasure seekers trying to join in. In the further distance I notice the music festival itself has got underway. A screech of white noise, a shaken blanket of wiry sound, greets my ears at this height. Man, I’m serving myself up to them like Captain Ahab to Moby Dick. I peer down from my basket to see police running and waving their arms at me. The balloon and I are breaking their checkpoint. They are demanding that I come down and report to them; offering my details. They couldn’t have anticipated some guy arriving by hot air balloon. They may believe I’m a hippie crazy enough to attempt this. Now that’s what I call a love of music.
Nairn’s strategy is working like a dream. The law of lift has beaten the constabulary. I’m having a good trip so far. The big nosed car may be left far behind, so hopefully James will avoid a police interview himself; circle the festival site and find our rendezvous reference for later.
“Ahoy there coppers!” I call down. “How high’s your conviction rate? Ha, ha!”
If they notice my awesome movements, they can’t hear me. They merely stop to observe the antics of some lunatic balloonist. I’m well beyond their reach. A new dimension comes into play and leaves them baffled.
The sound of freeform noise grips my eardrums like the incisors of a Rottweiler. My phantasmal machine continues to drift and tug towards the musical tempest ahead. My feet surf over the roofs of hippy charabancs like the slippers of an Arabian prince on his magic carpet. Then, while I’m fearful of crash landing into their mobile homes, the wind drops for a spell, into a type of mid-ocean lull. This leaves the Ancient Mariner dangling in his rigging; his paranoia fully dramatized.
The young savages hail me with waves and squeals from below. I have become a major attraction. Why do people always react in this way to a balloon? Big deal, this is how I chill out in my free time. Angela must have noticed me in the sky too. Aware of commotion, she would have looked up, and realised I was coming to save her. I assume she would get away and try to reach me, so that I can lift her out of that gangster’s dubious clutches. We deliberately chose an aerostat with a bold and colourful design, so that Angie couldn’t miss me. She’s always kept us guessing. Your own imagination is most shocking. Some days you had better keep the theatre dark.
Meanwhile I continue to drift over the village, pursued by a horde of children and yapping dogs beneath. I reach for my bottle of aspirins. Not only to keep my blood from freezing. The cardiac patient more or less keeps afloat on warfarin and aspirins.
Like the hyperbole of fantasy, the huge aerostat floats over the landscape.
You can make your dreams come true, but often the nightmares take over.
My glorious balloon descends - no use burning more fuel - finding warmer faster currents. I’m uncomfortably near to the ground and, skimming at knots, a violent encounter with youth culture is imminent. These perils are confirmed when I come out into the festival area. I’m headed directly above the action, with rock groups thrashing, kids throwing themselves about in ecstasy, primal hunters fuelled by their magic mushrooms. My craft always follows the breeze and there’s nothing I can do to change direction. At one point I am no more than ten feet above their heads in the arena. Hairy is the word that comes to mind here.
They believe that my arrival is a deliberate stunt, as part of the entertainment. But I’m not the Trojan horse I’m just the matchstick man. Many of them jump up trying to touch the basket. A carpet of astonished and delighted faces unrolls beneath me, as if I am sailing on a sea and leaving a wake behind me. People raise their arms to greet my journey, as the balloon is a beautiful dream to them. I continue to peer over the side of the basket at them, up here, on Desolation Row. It isn’t necessary to drop any tabs of acid in this life.
The current moves me. I don’t crash into the stage or those stacks of speakers and bins. I pass fully over the flying hair of those four guys on stage. Long hair looks as incredible to me now as the thought of deep pockets. The band is definitely whipping up a storm, whoever they are. Finally I ebb towards the shore of this wild scene. Angela couldn’t overlook me. Ironically the festival is safer than the narcotic charms of Jakes. The guy needles me.
I need to decide on a landing point. I dampen the burner unit, cut off fuel, preparing to kiss grass. The craft is descending responsively to below tree top level. Speed increases as it sweeps down: land slants menacingly towards me. It’s coming into the area that James intended. That’s good news. But the landing isn’t.
Obviously it’s dangerous. It’s essential to pull on the ‘parachute’ at this moment, to deflate the envelope. In preparing for ground zero I get a grip on handles inside the basket, bend my knees into a strong posture. In moments the basket comes into juddering contact with the slanted field. The basket rips over on its side and drags me over the lumpy and stony earth. This isn’t a beautiful experience. I’m going to get a shock as well as cuts and bruises. I don’t want too many of these experiences. But my ticker’s still working and that’s the most important thing.
Rough landings are a typical indignity with this sport. You can understand why Lizzie preferred an armchair. I stay where I am after impact, perfectly still for a while. Check out the potential damage, deep breathing, checking on my ventricles left and right. Ballooning equipment is strewn around, as I wait for the inner mechanism to regulate. I cradle my knees against nausea, while the colourful balloon envelope deflates around me, like an enormous piece of gift wrap. So what happened to the gift? I’m completely still even while the universe continues to spin.
Staggering up, brushing myself down, there are no hippies or cops in view. Not even an irate farmer with a shotgun cocked. The craft drifted about a half mile away from the actual festival. That’s a good hiking distance for a guy in my condition. The distance will safeguard my equipment, which I quickly conceal, ready for a return journey. I can’t be too fussy about losing gear. There are more troubling issues to look at. Such as where is Angela at this time? Why isn’t she striding out to join me?
Where are you at this moment ‘Queen’ Elizabeth, when I need you most?
Chapter 33<
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By all appearances I’m the biggest taxpayer in the area. But I’m not the only middle-aged fossil. I look like a member of the Caravan Club on the roam for a shower block and a supermarket. The street plan of the festival has the complication of a Middle Ages town. I notice that a good portion of the citizens are in the fourth flush of life. In contrast to me they have never stopped being hippies or alternative, in terms of dress and lifestyle. They haven’t compromised ever. This wouldn’t recommend them to the affections of my former wife. I even bump into hippie grandparents. They’re busy looking after hippie grandchildren.
Not that I’m rigged out in my dress suit, you should understand. I was hip enough to dress down for this jig. Problem is that I could never dress down far enough. Definitely not, if Angela is going to recognise me, or take me seriously. No matter how disorientated, I shouldn’t lose context with fashion sense. I have to admit that I’m out of touch with the youth culture scene.
I fall back on my idea of Bob Dylan exploring the lanes and alleys of a North African coastal city. He was a solitary man in that period; he was down to his faded embroidered jeans, with a soft cotton shirt billowing in the dry and spiced air. There was a lost and confused expression as he looked back over a shoulder. Man, I can see where that feeling came from.
The festival doesn’t radiate a hostile or aggressive vibe. Despite a police cordon and intimidation around the site, there’s a peaceful and cheerful vibe. They could have suspected me of working undercover - an under-kaftan man - if anybody saw me stepping out of that balloon. Even if I am smart-casual or even bourgeois-rock ‘n’ roll, nobody hassles me around here. No one confronts me about what I am doing here. They leave me to my own cloud: which isn’t cloud nine. But can I make out where I’m going to?
There’s a rainbow of tie-dye on show; a revival of the whole show of hippie display and paraphernalia; some ironic some straight-up. I’m too hung up about Angie’s immediate safety and future to have my fortune told. Certainly I will need a clairvoyant to locate her. Elizabeth’s supernatural pretensions would fail me here.
After that I intend to burn my way out of here. Before Angie swallows more uppers and downers and gets laid by some guy as wide as the Bristol Channel. All I can say is that Daddy’s coming in with the tide. My only concern is to steer her away from danger, before Jakes gets ticked and blackens her eyes, for all his outlaw charisma and good looks.
A police helicopter clatters over our heads. This could be a response to my high jinks in the aerostat. Man, I’m just trying to find a direction home for Angie. The hope of finding her becomes more ridiculous by the moment - as distant as that helicopter. I waste limited time and energy by losing orientation. I trudge through crowds of rough humanity. I caught up with Luke in a riot, yet can’t always fall back on coincidence. There must be tens of thousands of souls about the area. I know that I don’t really belong here. I’m out of character.
But I can’t allow that girl to escape from us, even if she is some kind of artist. Rebellious daughters aren’t easy to bring back. Or should I understand that she has her own life? This concept frightens us, as it is very different to what we experienced, but should we intervene? She’s put another crack into my thermometer.
Did Angie miss my arrival? How could she? My entrance was more colourful than the national folk culture of Uzbekistan. The idea was that we were going to find each other. So what’s the big draw of that dope fiend? No sign of her here. How could there be? I have to keep some irony between me and the stage. Another rock band is going out of its collective heads on those boards. They send tidal waves of skull-splitting feedback ricocheting about the surrounding hills, to roars of approval from the audience. Man, I doubt if the wildlife shares their enthusiasm.
Hard rock, metal or thrash, isn’t Angie’s scene. Her musical tastes orient around songs and dance style: often artificial heartbeats.
da dah, da dah, da dah, da dah
When she’s at home with me she laps up Sixties and contemporary pop and rock. We coincide there. I don’t know which tribe or youth movement she belongs too in this era. I have faith she’ll keep to the edges of extremes, if not exactly completely out of danger.
There’s a big market day atmosphere at the festival; a buzzing trade in everything; food and clothes, pots and pans, face paints and body piercing, bootleg music and incense sticks: not just narcotics. This place reminds me of the West Country gypsy fairs of my childhood. That’s back on the planet Zog of course. The summer of love’s been through a hard frost since then. Don’t know if we’ll see the flowers bloom again.
Temporarily the search for my daughter is abandoned. I decide to hang out for a while, to get my head around the situation. All that stress and sport has made me hungry and I snap up two ‘veggie-burgers’ at one of the food stalls. Not sure what kind of vegetables went into this concoction - or herbs. My meal is served up by an alarming girl in a leather bra. She thinks that I’m the startling misfit. I feel no nearer to the situation between Jakes and my daughter. There’s a grungy guy selling pots of home brew from a plastic bucket in the back of his camper. A few mugs of pokey tackle help to calm me down. All great minds drink alike.
If you can get your head around it there’s plenty of good weed. I sit on a cushion on the top of a box and watch the sun set behind woods. Lime Tree Hill is crowned by a spectacular cloud formation. Like God blushing. What’s he embarrassed about? Plenty to choose from, I guess.
This ancient, resonant area of England has a mystical beauty and powerful draw. While this flaming western sky is developing I experience a strong connection to place: I go through the experience of my hazardous balloon flight. That’s where I feel most fulfilled. I can imagine myself up there still, caught by the powerful forces of those elusive elements. There’s a mystery in that, which still makes sense.
As I sieve the swampy beer I grow conscious of an observant presence. There’s a crawling sensation where the guillotine should come down. I realise that a festival-goer is studying me, although I don’t immediately turn to find out who. Anyway I’m occupied in my head, trying to ignore pictures of Angie with that fastidious thug. You’ve got to stay cool, I tell myself, because you don’t know what kind of psycho is wandering the fields.
I’m not used to attending music festivals alone, as always I’d be in company with Liz and, very soon after, Angie strapped to my back or to Lizzie’s back. It was even known for Corrina and me to camp out - albeit in relative luxury - at the Whig Wham world music weekend last summer. But there’s nothing more dismal than being solitary at a festival. Looking like Jean-Paul Sartre on a package holiday. All I can do is stare ahead, rubbing my grey stubble, running fingers through phantom floppy-fringe. Well, I’m glad that somebody’s taken an interest in my existence. Otherwise I could have melted back down into the ground like an old mushroom.
The curious bystander is a distinctive girl. I’ve been chasing after beautiful girls all my life - why pause now? She stands there watching me from the edge of the trees. Lovely as a deer, though not as shy. She’s got a whippet dog on a string, that’s all eyes and sexual organs, skinny and bent backed. Maybe the unfortunate mutt has a heart condition, though it must be a natural look. This girl’s an absolute stunner, I realise, even if she’s tortured her hair up into ratty plaits, dyed green and red. She’s decorated her face with painted circles, in the fashion of Native Americans or Stone Age People; or even Joni Mitchell escaping into the wilderness to escape fame and fortune. She has a silver ring through one nostril. So who is this warrior queen?
Her native dress is too thin for the chilly evening conditions. Really Native Americans would run for their lives. She weighs my mood and presence carefully; she tries to place me in her universe. Exactly like a deer scenting seductive danger. Then her curiosity becomes too much for her. She has to check out this peculiar beast caught in the trap.
“Looking sorry fo
r yourself,” she declares.
My gaze back is ancient in origin. “Am I?”
“Not enjoying yourself then?”
I grin unhappily towards her. “Not especially.”
“What’s wrong with you then?”
“Feeling like one in a billion chance,” I comment. Defensively I cradle the pewter of bog water.
The girl approaches on soft feet - leading the whippet - and circles around me, amidst clouds of frozen breath. She takes in all my freakish and unexpected contours. The pooch switches his glance between her and me, a thin tongue hanging out, showing studded canines. Maybe he’s been drinking some of this beer too.
“It’s a beautiful sunset though, isn’t it,” I observe.
She follows my gaze heavenwards for a moment. “Awesome, mate.” We share a West Country twang.
“Can you tell me something?” I call.
“What’s that? What can I tell you, mate?”
“I’m just curious. Do you believe in any kind of afterlife? By any chance?”
“No chance, just this one,” she replies.
“Only asking.”
“But I completely believe in this one,” she emphasises. She takes a firmer stance.
“Right, thanks girl. Crazy idea really isn’t it.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” she says.
“Many rooms in the mansion?”
