Nearly a decade later.

What does one say about a place where so much is just indescribable? Where reality is temporarily suspended, where day becomes night, fiends become friends and the *whumph* of bass is never too far to walk to.

 What does one feel for a place that is temporary, yet 9 years on some parts are identical? A place with the strictest of rules is only that of access to the unruled mischief.

What does one remember of a weekend that passes far too quickly? Where it feels like just last week when one steps through the arch to the same familiar smells, the same sights, the same faces even.

What does one say about the regular pilgrimage to a forest full of lunatics, nine years on. I choose to remember the stand out moments



The survey questions at the station, smelly hands, the accountants who "do not" come here, Solomon CheapTaxi and his bills to pay.where are you? Which gate, that gate, airport style pat downs, convenient timing,same old spot, space saving, neighbour friending, more space defending from cheeky little monkeys, Geoffrey the best frog ever, whiteboard nonsense, backwards g, a fork? no a frog YES!, chairs but no tent, the world's biggest fecking gazebo, he doesn't speak irish and yes that is ok, shit tents, deadly tents, not one sign of alan, bane words - Dr Evil sounds, finally releasing geoffrey, no seriously where are you?legal advice, Stupid signs, tent reallocation, grass,cans, settle, bounce alive to the realisation that it is here, it is real; in the least real of senses, same familiar faces, lacking certain ones. Bags with certain wristbands,filled full of fun, sourcing, finding,onwards to the centre,tank up, Mo-fucking-jitos (always pronounce the J), Shaking Alabama,Roots, mindfield arguments, old enemies, old faces, same old loss of a thought generation, tank up, take off, the XX sprints, push to the front, same old faces, clasping arms, goosebumps, more flights, up Up UP,clasped hands, texting the world, communicating, time irrelevant, catching eyes, one last salute, the end of the world, the end of the music, 3 years on in the exact same place, 3 years on in a totally different space. A circle hug, a speech (why the speech) time spent pondering, an ill advised conversation, a conversation anyway. Said struggling through buzzing ears and burnt old words. Cold, struggle to sleep earlier than ever, day one dies, and slips into day two. Faces change. Morning time is a struggle, brightness and sunshine pushes through. Roundabout walkies, figure at the fence. "Oh wait, I'll find it inside, it must be in there somewhere", quick check, WIN!, its a huge gazebo!, wait where is the gazebo, air conditioning system, introductions, glitter moustache, a corkonian young wonder, "she'd get it",spirals explained, masks on us all, a sweat sodden dance to a subtracting drumbeat, the new generation of Radio, famous photography, unbidden faces,Wild Beasts,and overhead wordless explosions, blank stares, the Cure, a fall, a snap, a stretching Ted, a long wait in pain, the Friday in Love vibe dissipates, the cure ironic when they took so long to arrive, back home, oh jesus, more spiral metaphors, this time unfinished as it hits and takes me the fuck away. No Grimes, no Galaxies above, some Orbiting guys in funny glasses but those dark dudes in Paris represent the memories, sessioning fiends, struggle through the haze, ARE YOU OK?, into the forest, bounce alive to the now shuttered beats across the river. 5am shut downs seem so quiet to the old fiends.Painful awakenings, smoothies are the only way out, one soul lost to the cells, proud as punch at his escape, bounce awake to the sounds, lunatics have taken over the asylum, loadsa rolls, relive the nonsense, get up, stand up, tank up, dance. the heart of the grotto provides the shelter,Chips, early john, an indian society of cyclists, home to a quiz, a gallon tank, a transformer, a climbing lightbulb thief who was not Gaddaffi, hiding and joining, then inwards to the last spirals, only whisps of killers, a missed Elbow and the end of the end. Through the deepening cold, to Mmoths, to the heart of the session. Too much. Too late. Too early. Too cold. To sleep. Dawn comes early and the community is already escaping. Threadbare tents, spaces forming in the melting sites. Goodbyes, clasped hands. Onwards to a world less mythical.

Good session friends, good friends session.

361 more sleeps. It looks a little different, it sounds a little different, it feels a little different. An entire decade on. An entire decade gone. Like they said the second time, we'll always be together, together in Electric Dreams.