We left Melbourne at 8am yesterday morning. We arrived at the Splendour in the Grass gate at 11pm. We set up camp and were walking the festival grounds by midnight. (Word in the campsite this morning is that they closed the gates last night at 2:30am in an effort to stem the eternal traffic jam). We'll talk about this later.
The Splendour site looks good. Very different from the Belongil fields grounds. Rather than an entry point at the Byron Bay site that gives way to three distinct large oval spaces, Woodford is a snaking, labyrinth like layout, with undulating woods, horseshoe shaped roads and no distinct horizon line. Also, there's a dam with a boat in it, a "nightclub" on its bank and tables and chairs that has been dubbed Ibeefa. And another with a bar positioned in the middle of a water feature, called the "Pontoon Bar". Looks nice but a mudbath/water accident waiting to happen (no fences). In fact the whole place has that Ewok-village/Thai garden vibe. Gorgeous and intricate, but with the prospect of posing difficulties to 25,000 people climbing over each other to see The Strokes.
The stages here are set seemingly randomly on first impression. The main amphitheatre is waaaaaaay up the top of the map with what looks like a five minute walk through bushland to get there. The Mix Up tent is sandwhiched between food stalls and Ibeefa, whilst the GW McLennan stage sits at one end of the Pontoon Bar dam, only two paths of a few metres wide leading to and from it. Dicey. On the other hand, the Chicken Satay cone at 12:30pm this morning was world class.
So. Today we awake to blue skies, condensation dripping from the roof of our steamy campervan and furious banging on the door. This is because we're stationed at the end of a lovely cul de sac in a giant van. Turns out the people who had arranged the tent next to us - and we're absent last night, presumably watching a DJ or breeding - had driven BACK TO BRISBANE to get more camping gear. That they intended on putting where we've parked. Cue hammering on the door and a wobbly whine yelling at us to move, backing up the request with "Fuck, it's fucking nine o'clock anyway, who's sleeping?". After one of our crew expertly averts further nastiness, the new campsite expands to include a dozen or so fake tan adverts gabbling around a pumping CD player. Which brought on this exchange: "What's on CD number 4?" "Oh CD number 4 is ni**abeatz". Yep.
And now? Shower has occurred, breakfast awaits. And possibly a punch on. Oh and the prospect of all the booze at the bars here being mid-strength. The horror.