Last Thursday Hay and I took the motorhome to Great Yarmouth in order to attend a Prog Rock festival. I was attracted by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown (he's 82 now and has a reputation for either setting himself on fire and people having to douse the flames with beer, or stripping naked and being deported from foreign climes), Iron Butterfly (the original band members are all dead, but they had a cast of hundreds over the years, so perm any 4 from 100) and Soft Machine.
Some were relatively new bands that were following the Prog Rock genre - complex music, weird signature changes, the admixture of classical or jazz and a theme. Very serious and worthy.
Click the above to enlarge the schedule.
The organisers take over the holiday camp, but the acts allegedly don't see much profit from the event. For new bands it's a chance to be seen; for older bands it's more a chance of selling some merchandise.
We'd paid £150 each for the tickets, although I could tell Hay wasn't as keen as me to attend (she's a tad too young to appreciate Prog Rock, although Pink Floyd were considered Prog and she likes them). Hay's sister and husband went too in their motorhome, but they camped out at the venue; however, they had to move 3 times - once because of a muddy pitch, again because of no electricity and a third time because they'd take someone else's pitch and they were a bit precious about it, despite only 40% of the motorhome pitches having been sold. Hay, in her wisdom, tried to find somewhere cheaper to stay, and we ended up an hour walk or 18 minute bike ride distant in Caister, which is a bit of a dump (however, the campsite was quiet, the showers were superb and we were 5 minutes from a good swimming beach).
After a walk on the beach in Caister we decided to bike it to the venue, but it was like trying to cross the M25 at rush hour and we abandoned the attempt with a few hundred yards to go - it was simply too dangerous, it was getting dark and we had no bike lights (bad planning). We came across 4 elderly, long haired, beer-bellied, American Prog Rock fans on foot who told us to ignore them, as they were merely trying to kill themselves in the traffic.
Well, that was the Arthur Brown gig scratched on the first night. According to my brother-in-law it was a good act; however, because of the H&S regs, Arthur couldn't don his colander doused in methanol and made use of coloured paper streamers to represent fire. Because he's a drummer, my brother-in-law blagged his way into an after gig party and didn't get back to his motorhome till 2.30 Saturday morning.
The next day (Friday), we thought we'd give the festival a miss and cycle out 10 miles into the countryside on our bikes - and we loved every minute of it. What a contrast at Horsey; a large boating lake connected to the Broads, a turbine wind pump (windmill to you and me) and basking seals at Horsey Gap. I managed to get some decent video footage. I've learned not to make the videos too long and to cut between interesting bits.
Hay went for a swim at Horsey Gap and, for a minute, I thought I'd be famous for being the first person to obtain drone footage of a 59 year old woman being savaged and eaten alive by seals, but no such luck - I was let down by the seals merely being inquisitive and not aggressive. I did tell Hay to poke them a bit, but she couldn't have heard me.
Additionally, Hay had to do an unexpected Zoom training course from 5:30 to 7:30 (she'd been missed off the email list), so Friday evening attendance had to be scrapped too.
We enjoyed ourselves so much that we're going to buy the festival tickets again next year, but give the acts a miss and head into the Norfolk Broads, or possibly somewhere at the other end of the country. I can see it becoming an annual pilgrimage. I must say though, I would safely state that I would never, ever consider a holiday in Great Yarmouth or Caister.
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