As I light up a cigarette in the back seat of the car, a conversation I barely understand unfolds in the front. My friend Paolo speaks French and has been doing most of the socialising since we arrived yesterday. It’s our second day at La Route Du Rock Festival and we are getting familiar with how it works. Pro tip number one: don’t rely blindly on the shuttle service, hitchhike instead. That’s how we reached Saint-Malo this morning.

Our lift back to the festival area is Bernard, whose chain smoking suggests he has had enough of driving. I grasp he has been travelling from Paris and this is not his first time at the festival, I think. Whatever he is saying, the conversation sounds more focused than mere small talk. Paolo translates:

“Apparently there’s an afterparty at the campsite, some big tent called Macumba.”

It seems like we’ll be looking for it later on.

Day One: Assimilation

Even if we had known about it, yesterday we wouldn’t have been able to endure an afterparty. I arrived in St. Malo at 7am, after a sleepless night on a vile ferry seat; Paolo made his way there on a 24-hour bus ride from Italy.

Perhaps a reflection of my weakened spirits, the city looked rather gloomy at first. The grey morning light made colours as uniform as the austere buildings tidily aligned as if standing to attention, protected by thick city walls. I thought I was approaching a military base, or a huge boarding school; some place where people wear uniforms.
But as I drew nearer, the buildings’ facades revealed interesting details and oddities, while the old town looked less impenetrable seen through the gates I walked by.

I entered the town to the smell of coffee and freshly-baked bread…

I reached a vantage point off the main gate: in low tide, the beach stretched far along the coast and wide into the sea, sparsely dotted by the footprints of dog walkers and early morning runners. I entered the town to the smell of coffee and freshly-baked bread, as shops were opening and bars were setting up. While waiting for my espresso, I was already feeling more at ease with the surroundings.

After Paolo joined me, the shuttle took us to the main festival area, Fort Saint-Père, 10 kilometres south of Saint-Malo. It’s a roughly 30-minute ride, stopping at the city centre, the train station and a big shopping centre.

The campsite was still half empty when we arrived. We hesitated between a spot in the open field, where the sun-flooded tent would turn into a sauna the morning after, and a shady patch along the fence, a likely late-night urinal. We opted for the open field. After pitching our tent, the sunny weather was a good-enough reason to postpone the nap I was in great need of, and by lunch time we were back in Saint-Malo.

We hesitated between a spot in the open field, where the sun-flooded tent would turn into a sauna the morning after, and a shady patch along the fence, a likely late-night urinal.

The small stage at the beach, La Plage ARTE, hosts the afternoon gigs. We had a beer there while the tide slowly came in and covered a trail linking the beach to a small island. The French guys next to us, Paolo told me, mentioned without regret the dreadful weather of the previous year. As a first-timer who was getting into the mood of the festival, I started wondering what I should expect from the upcoming three days: were most attendees regulars like them, or casual goers? Was it a mostly-French, or an international crowd? Was the festival more about the party, or the quality of the music? Naturally, I could only wait and see for myself.

On the way back we stopped by the shopping centre, but soon after wished we hadn’t: a long queue lined up at the shuttle stop, the first bus passed by already full, and the vague information provided by the only steward on site was rather discouraging. It didn’t look like we’d make it in time for PJ Harvey’s show. The following shuttle let a handful of people on and pulled off to the piercing screaming of a girl’s foot being caught in the closing door. Not a good omen.
We asked the hesitant steward for information and almost resorted to walking to the campsite. But either he took a liking to us or was really confused, as he counted us in the first bunch who were to board the following bus, leaving behind others who had been waiting much longer. Nobody complained.

We stopped quickly by the tent, had a couple of beers, and headed for the entrance. Booze is not allowed in the festival area, but the atmosphere seemed relaxed enough to try and smuggle in a moderate amount.

The solemn attack of PJ Harvey’s ‘Chain Of Keys’ resounded from behind the fences. Pity we missed that one, we agreed, but it could have gone much worse. The rest of her show was as powerful as her latest album ‘The Hope Six Demolition Project’, the darkly-dressed band supporting her like bishops and rooks shielding the black queen on a chessboard. I couldn’t have hoped for a better start.

Not as thrilling were Car Seat Headrest, whose sound struck me as the tired version of something I had listened to before. Then IDLES hooked me back in, staging an adrenaline-fuelled punk show loaded with rage and urgency.

Pro tip number two: draw a 50cl bottle of clandestine whiskey during Helena Hauff’s hammering techno and you’ll make plenty of friends, no matter how cheap the whiskey.

The acts kept ping-ponging between the two stages facing each other, offering muscular and overall compelling performances. Pro tip number two: draw a 50cl bottle of clandestine whiskey during Helena Hauff’s hammering techno and you’ll make plenty of friends, no matter how cheap the whiskey. Still, my last couple of hours went on mostly out of inertia.

On the way to the tent, Paolo and I concluded there must be an afterparty somewhere, but the thought of going to look for it didn’t even cross our minds. I was still longing for the sleep I had hoped for some 15 hours earlier.

Day Two: The Beach

On Saturday morning, a solo traveller named Arianne was enjoying the last days of a road trip she had taken across France. At the time we woke up, she must have been driving somewhere in the region east of where we were, roughly one hour away.

We showered off our mild hangovers and decided to go again to Saint-Malo beach, thus dropping tacitly our previous, committed plans to visit the nearby Mont Saint-Michelle, Cancale or Dinan.

Once again, the shuttle stop was a disheartening sight. There were enough people waiting to fill up at least three buses. We skipped the queue again, this time to make our way on foot along the main road. It goes without saying that the first car to pass by as we pulled our thumbs out was Arianne’s, bored after many hours of solo driving. The turn signal blinked, arguably marking the luckiest hitchhike attempt ever.

After travelling for a couple of weeks, La Route Du Rock was Arianne’s last stop before heading back to the south of France, where she was from. Hers was a bit of a soul-searching journey, or at least that’s what my poor understanding of French made out. I tried English and Italian, both of which she spoke a little. She hadn’t come to the festival to see any particular band, she said, as her taste in alternative rock was rather broad.

“But I bet you guys don’t wanna hear this,” she noted, skipping Céline Dion’s soulful voice coming out the radio.

The beach was more packed than the day before, and the sky brighter. I sported my trunks and walked towards the sea, already knowing that I wouldn’t go much further than toe-testing the water. Which was indeed freezing, but standing a few minutes on the shore was still rewarding: some bathers were plunging into the tidal pool from a diving board, while others seemed to be as keen on going for a swim as I was; further back, people started gathering by the stage. Such a pleasant mix of festival and seaside vibes made me glad we hadn’t gone off playing the tourists.

I headed back and suggested making for the stage, where Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith was about to play. Paolo agreed, and so did Arianne. By the time we stood up and shook our towels, however, she was gone, not even leaving behind a vanishing cloud of smoke. How had she disappeared so abruptly? We climbed on a rock next to the stage and stood there a while, clearly visible from the crowd.

“In case she is looking for us…”

We re-planned the afternoon and realised it was getting late. No doubt Arianne’s had been pleasant company, but we were also counting on the lift back. The crowds entering the walls of Saint-Malo lead the way. Then a group of people dispersed revealing a familiar black-haired girl, who was also leaving. We couldn’t help but call to her, her awkward reaction falling somewhere between surprised and bothered.

She said she’d got lost, but more likely she had decided she needed some alone time. In any case, she nicely agreed to give us another lift and dropped us by the shopping centre. There we met (the aforementioned) Bernard, who told us about Macumba and is now taking us to the campsite.

Where is Macumba?

At the parking lot, Bernard gets out the car with a triumphant “Now I’m ready to drink!”, to which we toast heartily. Later, when we stumble upon him inside the campsite, he looks oddly lost, moving around slowly and warily; half an hour and he passes by again, this time headed confidently somewhere with a snappy stride and nervous look. Not that any of this makes him an unreliable source, I suppose.

We reach the main stage a few songs in to Parquet Courts’ show. Pro tip number three: no matter how dense the crowd, there is always a safe passage to the left leading right in front of the stage. We have some food while chatting with a group of English guys. The girl next to me says in her northern accent that she can’t wait to see Temples. Later, when they do play, I see her chatting with a friend by perhaps the only spot from which the stage is not visible. Her expectations must not have been met.

Indeed their performance is much alike Car Seat Headrest’s, while The Jesus And Mary Chain have me throw my empty plastic glass as a sign of appreciation. Pro tip number four: search the proximity of the stage at the end of each gig, as empty plastic glasses have some value if returned to the stalls.

By the time the music is over we are not exactly in the best shape. Still, we are determined to find the afterparty. Several people around us mention ‘Macumba’, dispersing our subtle disbelief about its very existence. Rather, the mythological aura hovering around the tribal-sounding tent grows larger and larger.

Several people around us mention ‘Macumba’… the mythological aura hovering around the tribal-sounding tent grows larger and larger.

The main path winding across the campsite feels too obvious, so we cut through the crammed stretch of tents. Surely Macumba must be in a remote corner somewhere. We wobble in the darkness while trying to dodge the tent pegs scattered all over, our ears strained to catch even the faintest echo of music.

Nothing. Considering that the concerts have just finished, the whole area seems all too quiet. The far end of the campsite, the toilet area, doesn’t seem like the place we are looking for. We take a different route through the field. Finally, we hear some music coming from a tall, cone-shaped tent. But as we get closer, the low volume is not that of an afterparty.

The whiskey in our trusty bottle is now running as low as my energy levels, which have been further lowered by the fruitless search. I’m not sure what Paolo’s intentions are, but I give up. I find our tent and fall asleep to the cryptic silence of the campsite.

Day 3: Afternoon naps vs. Sunday football

On day three the hangover is always harsher, and the air mattress flatter. As I try and fail to get some more sleep, a proper bed is a 72 hour-distant memory. Paolo has been up for some time. He says yesterday night he had another walk around, but ended up getting lost. It took him a while to find his way to the tent.

“These guys have been up drinking all night,” he says, hinting at the group of tents next to ours. “If they don’t know where Macumba is, who does?”

Maybe this afterparty is but a myth after all.

Saint-Malo feels too far today, so we reach the nearby village of Châteauneuf-d’Ille-et-Vilaine on foot. Over lunch, I complain about my stamina. It seems like I can no longer take two drinking nights in a row without them revealing merciless signs of ageing. Who thought the 30s would strike this hard?

“Tonight we might as well take it easier”, I say, inconsistently holding the first beer of the day.

The smiley cashier at the grocery store lets us charge our phones while we look for a cash machine in the surroundings. We find the local football ground instead, a good spot for an afternoon nap.

The ongoing match doesn’t look like a professional one, but the opposing fronts of supporters, though few in numbers, are too lively for a simple Sunday kickabout. Two people watching from behind the goal tell us it’s the first round of the Coupe de France, which is open to amateur clubs too. Theoretically, one of these teams could go all the way to the final stages and play Paris Saint Germain, Lyon or Monaco. The home team scores as we join their side; then the other does. We don’t know the score, but spirits are getting heated.

Well into the second half, one of the linesmen fails to call a five metre-wide offside which cries out for justice, and it’s another one for the away team. I expect no less than a pitch invasion, but things don’t escalate beyond resounding unrest among the local fans. At the final whistle we find out it’s a draw. We also find out that the two linesmen were picked from the teams’ staff, so one of them must have been on the right side when he decided to turn a blind eye earlier on. It will be either overtime or penalty shootouts, the referee seems to be undecided himself. We leave without knowing the final score, but surely amateur football beats afternoon naps hands down.

One Last Night…

We collect the phones from the grocery store and are unintentionally joined by two Frenchmen along the way. One of them looks all but sober. He speaks cheerfully and fervently in broken English, his red wine-inflated breath making him come across as less friendly than he’s trying to be. Implicitly, he ridicules my earlier concerns about stamina and age: roughly ten years older, he doesn’t seem to be having any trouble partying. We get rid of them at the entrance to the campsite, where they approach the security staff with the same enthusiasm as when they approached us before.

Later, the lineup follows along the lines of the other nights, Angel Olsen, Mac DeMarco and Interpol being among the most-awaited artists. La Route Du Rock Summer Edition 2017 hit an almost impeccable series of performances, where miscues were only scattered exceptions. Nor were there many sensational highlights, in all honesty, which is the only flaw I can think of. But overall the festival exceeded my expectations, striking an ideal balance between party vibes and quality music.

We consider skipping the last concert, but since we have come this far… Plus the smuggling technique has worked once again, so we have a few more toasts during the Tales of Us’ closing show. Then I drag myself to the tent, where I reluctantly set the alarm for 7am.

When I wake up, the long journey back to London is anything but an appealing scenario. Still I try to ignore the headache and turn on autopilot. I attempt a farewell, only to get from Paolo an undefined muttering. That’s exactly what I’d do if I could sleep a few hours longer. We’ll speak later over the phone.

It has been a grand three days and I’ll surely keep an eye on the festival’s lineup next year, but now it’s not the right time to think about that. Now I only want to focus on what separates me from a real bed, step by step: shuttle, ferry boat, coach, tube.

The sun already beams down and some people are still messing about by a big tent. As I get closer, I can’t tell the music coming from there apart from the droning in my head. What’s that now? A guy turns off the speakers and shouts: “Macumba c’est finì!” No way. How could we not find it? I keep walking. A girl’s hoarse laughter resounds. Macumba is over. Until next time.

La Route Du Rock launched in 1991 in Saint Malo, Brittany, and since 2006 is held twice a year. The summer edition 2017 was attended by 28,000 people. The next edition will take place between 16th and 19th August 2018 and then again in February and August 2019.

Ps. this is not the first time Urban Travel Blog has enjoyed a little fiesta time in France. Check out what happened when we attended the Dinard Film Festival, also in Brittany.

About Andrea Gambaro

Andrea Gambaro is a London-based travel writer who's interested in music, arts, local cultures, urban life and the history of Mediterranean countries. His work has appeared on Travel Mag and Roads & Kingdoms. You can follow him on Twitter.

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Politics may divide us but during the Dinard British Film Festival at least, Britain and Europe still share a special relationship.

Walking through the quaint streets of Dinard, Brittany, patisseries on my left, crêperies on my right, I felt strangely anxious. “Am I welcome here now? Are the French going to hold me personally responsible for the Brexit vote?” These were my paranoid thoughts as I scanned the lunch menus of various cafés and bistros.

I felt strangely anxious. “Am I welcome here now? Are the French going to hold me personally responsible for the Brexit vote?”

But then I turned a corner and noticed row upon row of bunting hung between the buildings. There were French flags alternating with Union Jacks. I was delighted: unlike the majority of the British voters, the French Connection with the UK remained.

During the 19^th century many British aristocrats fell in love with the small beachside resort of Dinard and decided to fill the town with stylish Victorian villas, which, alongside the iconic blue and white beach huts, create an unmistakably ‘British seaside’ atmosphere. The Blackpool of Brittany, you could say, just with elegant ice cream stands in place of the battered sausage vendors.

The Dinard British Film Festival was launched in 1989 in an attempt to revive the region’s ties with the UK and connect filmmakers and cinephiles from both sides of the Channel. In the decade following the festival’s inception British film production doubled. We all know that correlation does not necessarily equal cause, but the festival website is proud to publish that factoid.

My weekend adventure began in Portsmouth harbour on a Friday night. Having boarded the ‘Bretagne’ ferry, I joined a team of writers in the piano bar for a fabulously colourful cocktail that Del Boy himself would have been proud to quaff.

The Dinard British Film Festival was launched in 1989 in an attempt to revive the region’s ties with the UK and connect filmmakers and cinephiles from both sides of the Channel.

Later on in the evening one of the Brittany Ferry representatives, who kindly helped organise my trip, quipped: “Unlike flights – with all the queues, awful food and security checks – I always think that your holiday starts the moment you step onto the boat.”

A PR quote perhaps, but having just enjoyed an accomplished seafood buffet starter, a plate of poached sole and a greedy selection from the dessert stand, alongside a few glasses of red, I must say I was certainly getting into the holiday spirit.

After a sound sleep in my cabin, I got up early the next morning for a Full English Breakfast onboard before we docked in the port town of St. Malo. We were just in time for a glorious sunrise. Why do I only have the discipline to get up in time for these when travelling?

Driving into the elegant resort town of Dinard I’m sure many passengers on board were mentally preparing themselves for a day of serious film watching. I, on the other hand, couldn’t take my eyes away from the Côte d’Émeraude and was already plotting to sneak out of the cinemas at some point for a swim.

I couldn’t take my eyes away from the Côte d’Émeraude and was already plotting to sneak out of the cinemas at some point for a swim.

Once our bags were checked into the deluxe Hotel Emeraude, the film buffs from the ferry congregated in the press area for a Q&A session with some indie actors and directors.

I headed for the short film selection, which included a beautiful story about a handsome typographer with a stutter, an insight into the unrelenting stresses of those who answer 999 calls and a painfully poignant two-scene film about the funeral of a girl who once made a mix-tape. The latter almost had me in tears, though it was only about 90 seconds long.

By one o’clock in the afternoon, at which point during a music festival I’d probably have just about dragged myself out from a sauna-like tent and joined the queue for a portaloo, I had already entered a new country, watched 10 films and was now sat in a busy French bistro awaiting an Orangina and a Croque-Madame – I felt this order may help ingratiate me with my French hosts, after all Orangina is to the French what Irn-Bru is to the Scottish.

By one o’clock in the afternoon I had already entered a new country, watched 10 films and was now sat in a busy French bistro awaiting an Orangina and a Croque-Madame.

Next up was the highlight of my festival: a hideous but hilarious film about a pregnant woman whose unborn baby (voiced by the actress who played Moaning Myrtle in the Harry Potter films) has an aggressive desire to brutally murder a series of men whom she holds responsible for the death of her father.

Alice Lowe, who wrote, directed and starred in Prevenge, introduced the macabre film by saying: “I was 7-8 months pregnant during filming, and the bump you’re about to see in this film, is actually that baby over there.” *points to baby*.

I couldn’t help but wonder how her daughter will feel about being cast as a twisted serial-killer-in-the-womb when she grows up, but I’m really glad Lowe wasn’t afraid to find out. Festivals, whatever the genre, are great for broadening your horizons and I’ll certainly follow Lowe’s future work – though, unlike say a juggling workshop at Glastonbury or a ping-pong tournament at Boomtown, I hope not to experience anything I witnessed back at home.

As the viewers poured out of the cinema arena – most towards a screening of the eventual Golden Hitchcock Jury Grand Prize winner Sing Street – I sensed my chance and made a beeline for the beach.

True to its ‘British seaside’ reputation, the prospect of entering the sea got less and less appealing with every step towards the shore. And there were many steps: Dinard enjoys the largest tidal range in the whole of Europe, so what earlier looked like the sandpit for the triple-jump now seemed more like the steeplechase, complete with mound-of-seaweed hurdles and rock pool puddles.

Dinard enjoys the largest tidal range in the whole of Europe, so what earlier looked like the sandpit for the triple-jump now seemed more like the steeplechase, complete with mound-of-seaweed hurdles and rock pool puddles.

To my surprise though, the water wasn’t too cold and bobbing about in the shallows I had the chance to take in the grandeur of the town’s architecture. There were lavish Victorian villas on the hill and imposing palatial hotels and interesting curved modernist apartment blocks overlooking the beach.

Back in the hotel room, trying to match a pair of hiking boots with some pinstripe trousers and a patterned shirt, I noticed that a large crowd of photographers had formed outside. Oh the glamour! A ring-fenced red carpet had been laid out and a freestanding white board, emblazoned with the Dinard Film Festival logo, was stationed in the middle.

Feeling a little too much like Jeff from Hitchcock’s Rear Window, I ditched the voyeuristic approach and left my room to join the baying crowds below.

My first red carpet experience was every bit as odd as I thought it would be. It was, essentially, a load of people I didn’t know, looking vaguely important, milling about outside, trying to take pictures of another load of people I didn’t know, who looked vaguely stylish and were milling about outside on a crimson carpet.

A blogger I’d met on the ferry cornered Roger Allam and got an Instagram snap with him. Seemingly energised by the interaction, she then helped us front our way into the red carpet drinks reception, where we sat on our own sipping complimentary Bucks Fizz from pink flutes.

After typically tasty three-course French seafood dinner (which overran the last film of the evening) we headed to the cinema for an after party.

What was initially a mildly stuffy congregation of sitting down French speaking wine sippers in stylish clothing, instantly transformed into a pretty decent party the moment the DJ took to the stage.

Now I’m not saying that DJ Wake spinning an incongruous selection of songs from movie soundtracks in the plush Bar du Palais des Arts can compete with Radiohead on the Pyramid Stage, The Cure on the main stage at Bestival, or even an unknown Afrobeat act on a small rostrum behind the beer tent at four o’clock in the morning at Shambala. But, he did manage to get the French wine sippers and the British festival writers dancing together – something that looked very unlikely when we first arrived at the ‘after party.’

After mingling with some actors and actresses we strolled across the beach back to our hotel for some rest.

Boutique film festivals such as Dinard offer a totally different experience to the revelry of a weekend music festival. But in their ability to inspire, entertain and bring cultures together, all festivals share some very important similarities.

As the ‘Bretagne’ set sail from St. Malo the next morning, I peered out of the porthole in my cabin and watched the scenic harbour get smaller and smaller as we drifted further and further away from the continent.

Boutique film festivals such as Dinard offer a totally different experience to the revelry of a weekend music festival. But in their ability to inspire, entertain and bring cultures together, all festivals share some very important similarities.

Josh was invited on a trip to the Dinard Film Festival by Brittany Ferries, who run several routes from the UK to both France and the North of Spain. The festival takes place at the end of September each year and for Dinard travel info you can consult the town’s official website (in French). Love festivals? Check out more of our festive adventures…

About Josh Ferry Woodard

Josh Ferry Woodard is a freelance travel writer based in London. You can find his work on sites such as Reader's Digest, Huffington Post, Roads & Kingdoms, Slate, Paste, Spotted By Locals & many more.

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To prepare for Las Fallas, I asked seasoned Valencians to describe what I should be bracing myself for. The first person looked down, put his hand on his forehead and muttered: “Well, it’s… urgh… just wait and see.”

It didn’t matter how many people I asked, I always seemed to get the same response. Why did the mention of Fallas (aka Las Falles in the local Valencian dialect) start making people shake like shell-shocked war veterans? Should I be scared? What could possibly happen in this festival that makes it so indescribable?

Why did the mention of Fallas start making people shake like shell-shocked war veterans? …What could possibly happen in this festival that makes it so indescribable?

What Does Fallas Mean?

The word “fallas” has its origins in the Latin word fax meaning torch, and today refers to not only the name of the festival, but also the name of the neighbourhood social clubs and the giant sculptures which these associations build. As you wander through Valencia looking at the different sculptures, hopping between street parties and barging your way through the parades, it’s clear that the Valencians have taken ‘repping your postcode’ very seriously.

What Happens During Las Fallas?

The build-up goes on for weeks, but events really start to kick off on the Tuesday with the closing ceremony of the Ninot Exhibition. A ninot is a smaller, individual papier mache sculpture that forms part of the larger falla monument. Fallas groups, equipped with brass band, banners and confetti bombs, march to the City of Arts and Science to find out which of the 700 ninots would be declared the winner. Some of the ninots included political satire, social commentary, warnings about the impact of technological advancement and discussions of national identify. This model comments on recent political turmoil with newer parties disrupting the long-standing dominance of the Partido Popular (PP) and Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE).

The winning ninot in 2016 was from the fallas ‘Almirante Cadarso’ by artist Manolo Algarra. The ninot formed part of a wider piece called ‘Festum Bacchus’ which paid homage to the life cycle of wine production.

As for the 699 unworthy ninots… They have three days of life until they are paraded through the city and then set ablaze during an eye-catching event called La Cremà (the Burning)

As for the 699 unworthy ninots, they are sentenced to death by fire. They have three days of life until they are paraded through the city and then set ablaze during an eye-catching event called La Cremà (the Burning) – one that takes place on the 19th March each year.

It is this aspect of the festival that seems the most puzzling. Why on earth would you burn a sculpture that has taken a year’s worth of time, energy and money? Much of this can be explained by finding out about the origins of Las Fallas, but I have my own ideas about why this tradition has continued.

The knowledge that these great 3D satirical cartoons will soon be reduced to ash truly makes you absorb and appreciate everything about them.

The sculptures are great because they tap into present national and global consciousness – not because of their aesthetic or monetary value. Next year will bring new stories, controversies and issues to discuss. Keeping the old ones would be like stock-piling last year’s newspapers. The knowledge that these great 3D satirical cartoons will soon be reduced to ash truly makes you absorb and appreciate everything about them. You know they won’t be around to enjoy later.

Appreciating the here and now cuts to the heart of what Fallas is about. At one of the daily mascletas (a terrifying, ground-shaking display of fireworks in the main Ayuntamiento square that takes place at 2pm every day), I decided to take some photos. It’s already a well voiced – yet increasingly valuable – notion, that viewing such an event through a lens can dramatically reduce your appreciation of what is going on, which was my experience. The Valencians see the mascletas as music that is to be felt and experienced as the soundwaves reverberate through your body – photos do not do the event justice and the camera should stay away.

Basic Instincts: Feasting & (Bull)Fighting

The festival appeals to our primal instincts: to blow stuff up, to stare at things burning, to dance, to feast on meat and to stuff our face with doughy chocolatey goodness. Stalls are set up everywhere offering traditional Valencian snacks – churros (long, crispy deep-fried dough) and buñuelos (a fried dough ball made with pumpkin).

Bullfighting becomes active once more during Fallas [although isn’t technically part of the celebration… see Comments section for clarification]. Advocates, including Ernest Hemingway in his time, argue that bullfighting also taps into this primal instinct – the only place you can witness the intensity of life and death first hand. Or as I overheard one of Hemingway’s compatriots walking into the Plaza de Toros eloquently put it: “I just wanna see this bull die.”

Animal rights activists aside (who usually stage a protest outside the bullfighting arena), I can’t think of many festivals that appeal to such a wide range of people. Conservatives gather to champion tradition – the sport, language, cuisine and attire of Valencia. Liberals champion progressive thinking through protest and satire. Tourists gaze in awe at the pyrotechnics on display. Spanish kids are allowed to stay up even later than normal and chug as much melted chocolate as they like. Catholics contribute spectacular flower offerings to the Virgen de los Desamparados at the city’s cathedral. Teenage boys get to impress groups of girls by throwing fireworks at them before offering swigs from their giant bottles of “Fanta”. Health and safety-drilled Britons can shake off the chains of social convention, buy a 5 euro ‘infant special’ pack of fireworks and set them off outside restaurants and cafes. Fallas is a festival that can be whatever you want it to be. It’s mischievous, chaotic, spectacular and encapsulates the joie de vivre spirit that all great celebrations should.

Teenage boys get to impress groups of girls by throwing fireworks at them before offering swigs from their giant bottles of “Fanta”.

The festival has faced some criticism due to the sheer amount of money it takes to light up the sky almost non-stop for a month, but it seems that this celebration of life, culture and identity is something that will not be compromised. It celebrates everything that’s great about being human. Just make sure you plan nothing for the day after as an intense period of silence, sleep and therapy is certainly required to offset this amount of indulgence.

Tips For Attending

Book your accommodation in advance! As you might imagine, to attend this riotous celebration you should reserve early to secure a room, or face being disappointed.

Bring earplugs. Each day at 2pm in Plaza de Ayuntamiento the aforementioned mascleta releases more than 100 kilos of gunpowder and 120 decibels of sound. Meanwhile most districts take part in La Despertà, or “the wake-up call” at around 8am. This involves fireworks and marching bands loudly heralding another day of celebrations.

Prepare to relax your standards of personal space and health and safety. Huge jostling crowds and kids letting off firecrackers under your nose are par for the course.

Dress for comfort, especially when it comes to footwear. You will be doing a lot of walking, and possibly dancing!

Book at least a day or two of recovery time before you plan on heading back to work. If you haven’t figured it out yet, the festival is one long noisy party, with little opportunity for sleep.

Arrive a couple of days beforehand, or stay after, to see the rest of the city. The City of Arts & Sciences, the Turia Gardens and the Old Town are all must-sees.

Las Falles takes place between the 15th and 19th March every year. In 2017, the 19th is a Sunday. If you’re planning on going be sure to check out our Valencia weekend guide, as well as our favourite places to eat paella in the city.

And whilst we’re on the subject of crazy fiestas why not check out our first hand reports from Pamplona’s Running of the Bulls and California’s Burning Man festival?

About Sam Howe

Having taught English around the world, as well as making the most of those long summer holidays, teaching has become Sam's passport to travel. Currently based in Valencia, he enjoys writing about food, sport, politics and his latest travel adventures.

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Vilnius’ Capital Days festival finds the city in fine fettle. The broad pedestrianised Gedimino Prospektas – the main shopping street that leads all the way to the city’s startling ice-white Cathedral – is abuzz with traffic that slows down to admire street exhibitions of pop art, or else pulls to the kerb for grilled sausages and beers, drinking in the last of the day’s glorious September sunlight along with the ale. Amongst that traffic, Lineta, Virgis and I are hurrying along to the Veiksmai stage to catch a concert by Solo Ansamblis, a local band that are playing as part of the festivities.

“I’m jealous of you being a tourist here in Vilnius,” says Lineta… “The city is alive again!

“I’m jealous of you being a tourist here in Vilnius,” says Lineta, clearly enjoying the hustle and bustle on the street. “The city is alive again! In summer time Vilnius is empty – only tourists are going around, nothing is happening. The real fun begins from 1st September, when the Capital Days start. All the students come back, all the workers are returning from their holidays – the city is again how it is supposed to be, with everybody who belongs here.”

The Capital Days Festival (Sostines Dienos in Lithuanian) is a three day event with art, workshops and entertainment, but most of all music. Six stages line the Gedimino Prospektas, continuing into Bernadinai Gardens, with the main stage occupying none other than Cathedral Square. Taking place at the start of the September the festival symbolises the start of the cultural year, after the summer hiatus, and offers a spotlight for homegrown Lithuanian bands to showcase themselves, with a sprinkling of international stars thrown in for good measure. All of the concerts are free.

If I was nervous that Lithuania’s “local bands” would share a standard with sixth form school boys belting out rock covers during Rag Week, then it didn’t take long for Solo Ansamblis to assuage my fears.

If I was nervous that Lithuania’s “local bands” would share a standard with sixth form school boys belting out rock covers during Rag Week, then it didn’t take long for Solo Ansamblis to assuage my fears. Their brooding industrial beats overlaid with guitars (played by extravagantly quiffed hipsters) wouldn’t sound (or look) out of place at Barcelona’s notoriously hip Primavera Sound festival and I soon find myself doing my best emo-nod along to the rhythm.

A few years ago, I might not have been so lucky to hear this type of music, as Virgis explains. “There were always talented [Lithuanian] artists, but they were more in the underground – only a few were in the big stages. On the big stage and on TV everything was dominated by mainstream pop music. I mean music made with little talent, that is mostly marketed, mostly commercial. But now it’s changing. There are so many talented people using the Internet and social media to reach people that these bands are growing from the underground… they are getting invited everywhere, music festivals, everything. As a result the Lithuanian public are changing their taste and they start to understand what is good music as well.”

“There are so many talented people using the Internet and social media to reach people that these bands are growing from the underground… the Lithuanian public are changing their taste and they start to understand what is good music as well.”

If Virgis is more interested in contemporary music trends, Lineta is more attentive on the subject of fashion. “Everyone is looking so nice,” she exclaims, after running the rule on the crowd’s clothing choices. “In Vilnius in downtown you can see just nice people. They look very fashionable, especially the young people, and whenever I’m in the centre I feel like I’m Vogue magazine pages – everybody is so stylish and I love it. Maybe we cannot win a competition with London or Milan,” she concedes, “but anyway we have really good taste of style.”

As Solo Ansamblis wrap up it’s time to head down to Cathedral Square for the main concerts of the night, starting with Beissoul & Einius, a bombastic electro duo whose Kate Bush-esque dance moves in a Macklemore thrift shop style fur coat caught my attention as much as the music. These were followed by the internationally renowned German electro outfit Digitalism, who funky dance-friendly beats proved a great way to round off the programme for the night.

I joined my travelling partner in crime Pierre Le Van from Voyage Forever at Kablys, an out-of-town nightspot where walls of speakers pound out dark techno and drum’n’bass in curtained off rooms full of wide-eyed party animals…

After Digitalism it was time for Lineta and Virgis to go home and, whilst it was nothing to do with the festival, my journalistic integrity behoves me to mention that I did not go to bed… but rather I joined my travelling partner in crime Pierre Le Van from Voyage Forever at Kablys, an out-of-town nightspot where walls of speakers pound out dark techno and drum’n’bass in curtained off rooms full of wide-eyed party animals. After several hours of drinking, dancing and chatting to girls literally half my age, I stumbled home with the happy reassurance that Vilnius’ nightlife was just as entertaining as when I was last here…

The next day there was time for dinner and drinks in the uberhip courtyard of Mano Kiemas before Pierre, myself, Lineta, Virgis and other assorted Lithuanian friends made our way back to Cathedral Square this time for a concert by none other than Andrius Mamontovas. As people sang and swayed along, cheered, clapped and held lighters in the air, Lineta briefed me on the importance of this semi-mythical musician.

“They had such a strong voice, they made such a big difference, everybody, my parents, my grandparents, everybody knows them… it wasn’t about a political agenda, it was about the voice that said you should do something.”

“During the Soviet Union this guy was creating our spirit, saying that we should do something and fight for our independence. He had a band called Foje, which is so important to us that we study their music at school. They had such a strong voice, they made such a big difference, everybody, my parents, my grandparents, everybody knows them. The difference was because of his lyrics, it wasn’t about a political agenda, it was about the voice that said you should do something. When you listen to his music and you understand what he means to us, you are transported to such a special mood, you are dreaming and you are just remembering all these times”

As we dance, sing and joke and drink an overly strong mix of rum and coke from a seemingly never-ending bottle, it’s hard to imagine life here in Lithuania before the collapse of the Iron Curtain. Those difficult years did however give rise to a special form of creativity, explains Virgis. “Our independence was peacefully fought for one or two years. There were meetings of people, and different kind of events, including concerts and music festivals. Soviet police would try to stop them somehow, but there were bureaucratic ways how to avoid them… for example Western music like hard rock was forbidden, so what they did was they created music so that it sounded like a parody, with sarcastic lyrics. They wanted to hold a music event that was on ‘the allowed list’, so they said to the authorities ‘it’s a parody of the west.’ It’s actually very interesting to listen to those songs, because they all sound a bit funny. It’s a very peculiar thing because all songs from that period have some irony and sarcasm – but also a lot of metaphors. For example everyone knew that when they sing about zombies, they were singing about Russian soldiers. But in that way they could sing and they could perform publicly.”

“It’s a very peculiar thing because all songs from that period have some irony and sarcasm – but also a lot of metaphors. For example everyone knew that when they sing about zombies, they were singing about Russian soldiers.”

After Mamontovas signs off with a crowd-pleasing finish, the night is still relatively young. A short drive away in an old factory complex, there is another music festival running concurrently with Capital Days called the Loftas Fest. You need tickets for the main acts, but I’m assured that plenty will be going on in and around the complex for us to check out, so we hop in a taxi. Well all except Pierre, who rather overdid it the night before.

If Capital Days is mildly geared towards the mainstream, Loftas is about as hipster as it gets. Around the industrial complex various art installations are on display, from mannequins perched on wheelie bins to dangling light cables, this would be a fun place to explore, with or without a fiesta going on. After refuelling at the street food trucks, we find ourselves drawn towards the circus tent, erected in the middle of the zone, which surprises us by housing an actual circus (I was sure it was going to be ironic!). And so we settle down to watch flamethrowers, knife wielders, clowns and acrobats do their thing. Once the show is over, we seek out some music and chance upon a garage-esque opening, where a DJ is spinning twisted electronica at the bottom of a concrete slope. We take the chance to use the luminous chalk provided to draw pictures on the wall. Finally we decide to follow the throngs as they head into one of the zone’s larger buildings and descend into a James Bond villain’s lair of subterranean passages that finally lead to sweaty, cramped and airless stage. I’m glad we do though, as the Russian DJ – Oligarkh – accompanied by two maniacal drummers, proves to be a musical highlight of the night, creating an intense mosh pit of energy in this musty cavern of a room.

After refuelling at the street food trucks, we find ourselves drawn towards the circus tent, erected in the middle of the zone, which surprises us by housing an actual circus…

By now we’re pretty much done with the festival, but I’ve heard about this club I want to check out and so I persuade Virgus and Lineta to accompany me to Opium back in the centre. The atmosphere is electric, but it turns out that whilst my mind is willing, my body is out of battery. Besides as a sober, nearly 40-something, average Joe I feel distinctly out of place amongst the elegantly-wasted, intimidatingly-tall Lithuanian elite party people. It’s time to retire to my comfy chambers at the Artis hotel and I leave the more spritely Virgus and Lineta on the dancefloor.

It’s been an epic couple of days, but it ain’t quite over yet. My Lithuanian buddies need the night off – it’s now Sunday after all – but thankfully Pierre has recovered from his Friday night exertions, so we brave the rain and head to Cathedral Square once more for the Capital Days closing concert: Jazzanova. Understandably, given the weather, the crowd is a small fraction of the Friday and Saturday night turnout and Pierre and I decide to stand back, observing the concert from a distance in the dry spot under the eaves of the Cathedral. However a few songs in, seduced by the lively energy of the band, we decide to muck in under the rain, stomping our feet to electro-jazz rhythms right up to the festival’s finale. It was the least that Capital Days deserved.

Duncan’s trip to Vilnius was kindly assisted by Go Vilnius together with the four star Artis Hotel, which is perfectly situated just a few minutes from Gedimino Prospektas and the Cathedral Square (with pool and saunas for detoxing). All views are his own. Click here for more stories on the lovely Lithuanian capital.

About Duncan Rhodes

Duncan is the Editor-in-Chief of Urban Travel Blog, a born and bred city slicker who loves urban adventure, street art, killer bars and late night hotspots. More about Duncan here.

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The post Vilnius Capital Days: Rockin’ The City appeared first on Urban Travel Blog.

The organisers of Sziget festival describe it as “an electronically amplified, warped amusement park that has nothing to do with reality”. Now, I’m a massive fan of: loud things; fun things; and weird things, so this sounded like my kind of party. But did Sziget live up to its mission statement?

When I stepped off the metro, the first impressions didn’t bode well – we were greeted by an Audi showroom and a few high rise block of flats as if we were in the Croydon of Hungary, with not much sign that Eastern Europe’s biggest festival was in full flow a few hundred yards away on the Danube river. Those notions quickly perished as I followed the throngs across to Óbudai-sziget (“Old Buda Island”) where I began to realise the impressive scale of Sziget.

The festival takes up the whole of island, ie. about 266 acres of land, with around 400,000 revellers coming in total throughout the whole week (the capacity on any one day is around 85,000). Unlike most festivals there is proper tarmac roads circling the main area, which was a relief on the first night as even my flimsy Converse could deal with the low levels of mud present. In fact the whole site is much better set up for coping with mud than many festivals (yes Glastonbury, I’m looking at you), with wellies a rare, rather than ubiquitous, sight. Camping also looked a lot more comfortable than many other festivals I have been to, as the tents are shaded by the trees, saving you from the sweaty headache from hell at sunrise… although I have to admit that, like many other “Szitizens” I cheated and stayed in a hotel in nearby Budapest. And here I should offer a word of advice: if you don’t want to piss off your hotelier remove your muddy Converse outside.

The variety of Szitizens is pretty remarkable. Obviously there are a lot of Hungarians, but the party-crazy Dutch bring around 30,000 people each year, whilst I noticed that there were a sizeable amount of Germans and British too in 2014 (come to think of it, virtually every nation in Europe seemed well represented). The average age is early or mid-20s – but even as a 30-something reporter I found enough other “veterans” to not feel like the oldest dude in town. Fancy dress was not as big a feature as at other festivals I’ve been to, which was probably due to a lot of day trippers from Budapest not wanting to get the train home dressed as a Gothic mermaid…

There is a really decent range of bars at the festival (which is a good thing as you cannot bring your own drink), serving up staple beers, ciders and pretty much every cocktail you could possibly think of (there is a whole bar dedicated to Jack Daniels). But in Hungary of course there is only one rocket fuel that the locals will recommend… palinka! We were fortunate enough to have a tasting session of some of the best palinka the country had to offer at the Gotohungary tent, but less privileged festival-goers will find more affordable stuff everywhere, even at the burger stalls. After trying the raspberry, plum, grape and lemon variety on my first night I was quickly able to cast off my post-30 gravitas and throw some serious shapes to Macklemore’s Thrift Store at the maign stage.

If you are going to stay for the whole festival you are going to need the palinka to see you through. It is a week-long extravaganza with big acts spread from early on in the week (Blink 182 & Deadmau5 in 2014) through to the weekend (the Prodigy and Calvin Harris). I was impressed that the majority of the campers I spoke to had stayed for the whole week and didn’t show any signs of flagging by the Sunday. This energy was epitomised by the daily main stage “Fight” with a different theme, from beach balls & bubbles, to the “it seemed fun at the time” Indian paint bombs.

Beyond the main stage we managed to find lots of other things that really give the festival a more varied feel. A particular highlight was the hidden away Sziget beach, where you can listen to Balearic House on the banks of the Danube and watch the sunset with a cocktail in hand (or go for after dark chilled vibe). As you’d expect there a few killer dance stages too, with the imposing Colosseum and the queerified Magic Mirrors the pick of the bunch. During the day you can explore the artists field, delve into the fluorescent labyrinth that is the Luminarium, or do all manner of things in the sky – bungee jump, chair swing, a sky-bar and the iconic Sziget wheel to name but a few. But what I found rather odd was that there were a few things that reminded you that “reality” was just around the corner, for example a set of football pitches (the first time I have seen festival goers wearing shin pads and boots), and perhaps more ominously a McDonalds outlet.

So, as I was swaying homewards bleary-eyed (having had my ear drums pounded with the most earth-shattering bass from the main stage… when did Calvin Harris turn from dweeby Scot to euro-dance demi-god?!), just as I was passing the Audi garage, I came up with what seemed at the time a profound insight: the closer a festival is to a city, the harder it is to feel you have escaped modern life.

This philosophical proclamation came to me when I compared my experience at Sziget to two other super-big festivals I have visited in recent years: Glastonbury, the granddaddy of rock festivals set in the rural valleys of England, which has a much more hippy free-spirit feel, and Burning Man, set out in the glaring sun of the Nevada desert, which is on a whole other level. Compared to these two far-out fiestas, Sziget, with its touches of commercialism and daily life happening right outside, doesn’t – and simply can’t – bring you as far away from reality as they do.

But – and it is a massive BUT – Sziget has the beautiful silver lining of being located right next door to one of Europe’s best cities. And if you buy the Sziget-Budapest CITYPASS for example you can take full advantage of all the capital’s clubs, restaurants and culture, as you get free access to all public transport, plus free entry to one of the world-famous spas.

So if I was going to rephrase the festival’s mission statement to reflect what I felt it achieved, it would be “an electronically amplified, warped amusement park that has something to do with reality, but this isn’t necessarily a bad thing”. Not quite as catchy, but that’s reality for you.

Ben was invited to Budapest and shown around by the Sziget festival organisers, Gotohungary.com and the excellently-bearded local guide, Andrasz. Whilst in the Hungarian capital he also reviewed the city’s best rooftop bars and spent 60 minutes trying to escape from an Exit Room…

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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If you have already travelled to the Hungarian capital, you will likely agree with my fellow Urban Travel Blogger Stuart Wadsworth that “Budapest is a city which demands your attention“, thanks to its delicious mix of old world elegance and rough-edged contemporary culture. Combine these year-round staple attractions with a heavy dose of eclectic DJs and bands, and shake vigorously with deals at the best pubs, cafés and restaurants in town, and you’ll be close to imagining the cocktail of experiences that make up the Budapest Essentials festival.

Budapest Essentials is an epic four day fiesta that takes place across the city (mainly on the “Pest” rather than “Buda” side of the river) in early June each year. You buy a wristband that gives you access to gigs, day tours, entry to the famous baths, and discounts at local bars and restaurants. Unlike many city festivals there is no ring-fenced areas where events are held, rather it happens throughout the city itself, encouraging you to take advantage of the vast array of day and night-time activities at your own pace. One local bar manager taking part in the event described the festival as “co-opetition”; cooperation and competition by small Budapest businesses that allows them to be greater than the sum of their parts for one weekend: for the benefit of themselves, the city and the festival goers.

Below are some of the personal highlights I experienced during the Essentials festival 2014, many of which in fact are on offer any time of the year. (For even more info, the festival’s official website has a mega montage video of what went down in twenty fourteen, and is of course also the best place to check out what will be happening in 2015 and subsequent years).

Exploring the City

An ever-increasing phenomenon in Budapest is worn-out architectural gems being reclaimed by the youthful city population, rather than being left to rot away unloved. The most obvious example is the trend for ruin pubs, which has been going on for well over a decade now, but there are also even more creative uses. For example Paloma has transformed the courtyard and first floor of Wagner house into a centre of contemporary arts and craft, where you can buy everything from handmade leather belts to vintage wedding planning or pop-art cushions, and was one of my favourite spots for a leisurely browse.

A more run-down, anarchic, creative commune centre is Muszi – you will have to find the decrepit door on Blaha Lujza, and make your way upstairs to the rag-doll combination of café, theatre, fusbol and even barbers! Budapest has also pioneered a new trend for “Escape Games” with the city’s ramshackle buildings an ideal location for spending the most thrilling hour of your life (full article coming soon on Urban Travel Blog… subscribe if you don’t want to miss it!).

Gastronomic Gratification

I found that the Jewish Quarter’s ramshackle streets, brimming with cafes and restaurants, was a great place to start a culinary expedition. Macesz Huszar offers a trip back in time to a 1950s Jewish grandma’s front room, serving up a plethora of traditional bean and stew dishes (although I’m not sure grandma would have served the gherkin and eggs pictured below in such a phallic manner!).

The Hungarian wines on offer at Innio are well worth trying, where the tasting menu expertly matches local Rieslings, Chardonnays and Sauternes with the savoury dishes. If you are down near the Danube try Kiosk for modern European food served in a vast bare-bricked warehouse with seating overlooking the river, or munch on some world-renowned gateaux at Gerbeaud patisserie.

Budapest is renowned for its ruin “garden” pubs (kerts), many of which have entertained more than one Urban Travel Blogger in the past. Since the editor penned this feature article on the ruin bars there have been a couple of developments to the scene. Just opened in 2014 is Farm, where the owner Jack has created a more refined, less “ruined”, kert that operates a sustainable ethos – all of the tasty tapas are sourced from local, organic ingredients and there is even a farmers’ market in the courtyard on Sunday mornings. The kerts have also branched out from being just pubs to nightclubs too, with Otkert pumping out crowdpleasers in its courtyard until the wee hours. Szimpla, the original and largest ruin pubs, is still a must-see for pub aficionados, as it has not lost any of its decrepit nook-and-cranny charm, even if it has now been discovered by stag parties as well as locals.

Music & Nightlife

Budapest Essentials really comes to life at night, with a smorgasbord of gigs and DJ sets dotted around the city. You are given a map as well as the website to help you plan your nights and squeeze in as much as possible. Below is a selection from UTB’s Saturday night, and it’s also worth checking out our post on the Top Five Rooftop Bars in Budapest (coming soon!).

Our Saturday evening started in the outdoor ampthitheatre at Aquarium nightclub, where our vivacious guide Dora tipped us off about a secret gig by the teenage troubadour George Ezra. Gorgeous George is most famous for his number 1 hit “Budapest” which he performed to a rapturous reception to his adoring fans, many of whom had joined him on an epic bus tour from the UK to Budapest (a city he admitted he had not been to despite the name of his chart topping song!). Not quite Frank Sinatra performing New York New York in Times Square, but a special moment all the same.

After George’s gentle crooning it was time to head somewhere a bit more upbeat, so we hopped onto the tram to the imposing Grand Central Market Hall. By day it is the largest indoor market in Budapest, but this night was transformed into the stage of an earth-shaking dubstep DJ set from the Gorillaz. Some canny market stalls were still open, selling over-sized vegetables as makeshift glo-sticks to the pumped up crowd.

Having moshed until our bones could take no more we met our guides at Hello Baby, where the club has a great outdoor yard that transforms into a latin-infused dancefloor after a few rounds of Hungary’s palinka (fruit brandy). And finally back to Aquarium, where the night was rounded off by a pumping set by 2ManyDJ’s. By this time there was only myself and a 50-year-old German doctor in philosophy left standing from our party, proof that age is no barrier to letting your hair down (even if you are both more follically challenged than your younger days…)

The next morning reminded me that being young isn’t all in the mind, as the body has to deal with the consequences of a youthful spirit. Fortunately two things brought me back to life: firstly the incomparable buffet breakfast served at the Nemzeti Hotel; and secondly the life-giving waters of Szechenyi Baths, which easily warrant the 10/10 rating awarded in our special feature on Budapest’s most famous baths.

All-in-all, if you are looking to discover one of the most dynamic cities in the world, combined with the excitement of a festival, minus the camping, then put Budapest Essentials in your diary for 2015.

Urban Travel Blog’s trip was kindly organised by the Hungarian Tourist Board in partnership with Budapest Underguide.

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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“A-CORDA, A-CORDA, A-CORDA!!!!” I am fast asleep in my hammock, in the imagined safety of a family home in Olinda’s old town, when the aggregated clamour of fifteen or so of the most twisted and evil human beings I have ever encountered, together with the incessant banging of their drums, gives me the rudest awakening of my life thus far.

There’s been a conspiracy. My host, Rick, already active at this preternatural hour of the day, has – like a modern-day Tarpeia – unlocked the front door and allowed this troop of tumultuous vagabonds to tip toe inside our stronghold. Gleefully filing down the corridor to the dining hall, where several of us were sleeping, it was my unlucky lugholes they selected to stand next to, before unleashing the full fury of their infernal dawn racket upon their unconscious victims.

A corda (two words) is Portuguese for “the rope”, and the chief participants of this bloco, a multi-human cockerel crowing for the start of the day’s festivities, do indeed chain themselves together with twine as they maraud through the morning streets. However acorda (one word) means “wake up!”, and the rope definitely plays second fiddle to the group’s self-appointed mission to wake every potential reveller up in Olinda and get the party started…. whether they like it or not.

Mud, Sweat and Beers

If you can’t beat them join them, as the old adage goes. And so it is that at 9am already (when I’m usually fast asleep dreaming that Arsenal have signed me at right back as a replacement for Bacary Sagna, or that my parents finally bought me Optimus Prime for Christmas), myself Pedro, Sabrina and several of Pedro’s friends have gathered in the morning sunshine outside the Mosteiro Sao Bento, beer in hand. We’ve heard about a Bloco de Lama or “mud bloco” whereby participants get covered in mud, but as even Pedro – born and bred in Recife – has never made it this early to Olinda, we’re not quite sure to expect. Suddenly there’s a commotion to our right and all of the idling bystanders rush over to where a paddling pool has appeared as if by magic. We move over to see what the deal is, and sure enough the pool has been filled with a sickly looking yellow mud: no one needs any encouragement as the first few revellers on the scene eagerly clamber in and start splashing themselves and those around them. But of course, once the first person has slipped and fallen and got head-to-toe covered in gunk, the precedent is set for full submergence and before you know it the pool resembles a slippery game of twister as limbs writhe and splash in their eagerness to get coated with the ochre slime. As the pool is only about four metres square there’s a rugby scrum around the perimeter as the youngsters hustle to get in and get dirty. Dropping my bag with camera and wallet outside, I stumble in and gleefully take a face first dive. Yes it’s engineered and pointless, but it’s also incredibly fun.

It’s hard to be in a bad mood when you’re surrounded by hundreds of hipsters caked in mud, and once we’ve undergone our baptism of mire, it’s high time to crack open a beer and take some photos to load up on our Facebook accounts. Too late I remember the snorkelling gear I bought specifically for the mud dive, but I put it on anyway for the cameras. Others are wearing bathrobes and shower caps for similar comic effect. The atmosphere is great.

By definition a bloco means a march around the block, something we’ve almost forgotten by the time the band starts up and a Bacchanalian legion of half naked, half sludge-coated – and half drunk – party animals starts its procession around Olinda’s beautiful colonial streets. Onlookers can’t help but smile at the sight, and we the mud-bathers are happy to be the centre of attention as we march, dance and drink!

Whilst most of the crowd seem to be coping well with the day’s exertions, I’ve had to switch from beers to Smirnoff Ices which, in the cruel Brazilian heat, somehow aren’t rehydrating me as much as I thought they might. Meanwhile I begin to suspect that any sun protection the wet mud might have offered my sensitive, Northern-hemispheric skin no longer applies now that the dirt is baked dry and flaking off my body. Not only that, but I’ve gone from being surrounded by friends to being alone, as Pedro, Sabrina and the others are lost somewhere in the melee. All things considered, I decide I’ve had enough fun for one morning and that it’s time to beat a tactical retreat and maybe sneak in a nap and a bite to eat back at Rick’s house…

The Kissing Game

Despite a romantic encounter at the end of the Royal Parachutist bloco a few nights earlier, it’s safe to say that overall Brazilian girls have been distinctly underwhelmed by my, let’s call them “idiosyncratic”, charms. Perhaps that’s why when a cute girl checks me out on the way back home, I don’t offer much more in return other than a polite smile. When I draw level and she’s still looking, I think to myself I really should do something here, but how am I supposed to approach a girl completely surrounded by guys? And then when I go past, look over my shoulder, and she’s still checking me out, I have to tell myself… no more excuses, it’s time to man up! Thinking that I’d better ingratiate myself first with her male friends, so that they don’t beat the crap out of me for trying to steal the only girl in their group, I tap one on the shoulder and kick off a conversation.

I wasn’t sure what response I’d get, but the guy in question is very friendly… very friendly indeed. “Where are you from?” he says, flicking back his hair and looking me up and down. Too late I realise that all the guys in the group are gay, and suddenly I’m the unwitting centre of their attention. Whilst I struggle to answer the barrage of questions my unlikely admirers have for me, as they crowd around, I desperately try to catch the eye of the slim and beautiful, dark-haired girl that is leaning back on the wall, looking distinctly unimpressed. Eventually she comes to rescue me.

“If you want to talk to me, you should talk to me. Not my friends.” Yep, in case you’re wondering, I do feel pretty small right now.

Now that the girl has isolated me from the group (has she been reading The Game?!), I am at least able to work my magic. In fact after just a couple of minutes I’m confident that things are moving onto the right track. Then disaster strikes. The gay guys, now bored with me, want to head off – and they want to take my olive skinned beauty with them.

“So, I’m going,” says M.O-S.Beauty.

“Ok, erm, really? Maybe we should swap Faceb…”

“Yes. Goodbye then.” She leans closer.

“Ok so, I guess, this is goodb…”

“GOODBYE THEN!”

Finally, as she moves to within a foot of me, I get the hint. I grab her by the waist, pull her close and, in true Brazilian caveman style, give her very little option but to kiss me. Which she does. Both willingly – and ably – I should probably add. Not that this is a true love story however. Thirty seconds later and she turns tail and goes, not even giving me a chance to get her number. I guess that’s just how it’s done in Carnival. Farewell hot brunette girl, wherever you are!

We Could Be Heroes

As you get older it’s fair to say you give less of a f@ck about pretty much everything. Which is perhaps why in my mid-thirties I was finally ready to make my first ever (public at least) appearance in drag. I’d seen several Wonder Woman outfits for sale in Recife old town for 20 reias and, after a little hesitation, snapped up two, one for me, and one for Pedro (if I was going to dress up in a pair of skin-tight, star-spangled blue hot pants and a bright red boob tube, damn well he was too. Although I spared Pedro the electric pink wig – something of a fetish of mine, ever since Natalie Portman in Closer). On the third day of Carnaval, the two of us set off, together with Sabrina as Pocachontas, to the Enquanto Isso Na Sala da Justiça (“Meanwhile In The Hall of Justice”), super-hero themed bloco in Olinda.

Unfortunately we were too tired recovering from the concerts the night before in Recife to make it in time to see Spiderman abseil down Olinda’s water tower, but we did make it in time for the mainstay of the revelry. Here at the summit of the city, it looked like one of those American Comic Con conventions, as heroes from the world of TV, film and graphic novels had gathered to… get pissed basically, and maybe pose for the odd photo. Wolverine was there, brandishing his claws and muscles – and a fat cigar, Skeletor minced around in tight trousers, a cohort of Greek Hoplites closed ranks behind their shields, Beatrix Kiddo wielded her katana, in her Kill Bill yellow jumpsuit, Cat Woman preened and hissed from her perch on a wall, whilst many more unrecognisable freaks and geeks ran amok in merry abandonment. Then came the traditional march, and once more I was plunged into a moving mass that once entered was inescapable as it wound its way down the narrow streets. I barely had room to lift my arms and take a photo of Jesus Christ superstar, as he lifted his arms towards us from on high and shepherded us through the streets to the city centre. Heaven would be way cooler if God was Brazilian I surmised.

Olinda and Recife Carnival Tips

There were many more Carnaval adventures and highlights, but I think you get the picture by now. Obviously lesser known than the Carnivals of Rio and Salvador, the celebrations in Olinda and Recife are nonetheless considered by many natives and travel experts to be the very best in Brazil, and from my personal experience I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend them (even if I can’t compare them directly to the others, never having been to those). Perhaps a few tips are in order so you can benefit from my experience:

Costumes

Turning up to Carnaval without a costume is like turning up at a wedding without a gift. You feel like a bit of plonker. You might not want to go all out every day, but some fun paraphernalia always help you get in the mood, not to mention intermingle with others. (If I wasn’t dressed at Wonder Woman on day three, I never would have met the Emmanuelle Beart lookalike who took a fancy to my costume!). Whilst you will find some shops selling costumes and accoutrements if you look around the Old Town, I’d strongly advise arriving with one or two costumes already packed, as choice was limited and you’ll want at least two main costumes I’d say. You should also bring some red and yellow clothes as one of the best and most popular blocos, Eu Acho E Pouco, took place a couple of times and typically one is supposed to attend in red and yellow garb.

What Else To Bring?

A waterproof camera, or else a cheap portable one, comes in handy in carnival when you’ll likely to be assaulted by mud, water pistols or beer… and not unlikely to fall victim to pickpocketing or your own stupidity/carelessness brought on my inebriation. I also find a drawstring bag really handy during such festivals to carry a few things around, without really feeling the impediment of a bag. Plus they are almost pickpocket proof. Earplugs might also help you sleep… but don’t count on it, as the noise day and night is almost relentless.

Olinda vs. Recife

Olinda and Recife are right next to each other, but obviously moving to and from them is a bit of a pain in the arse, as everyone else in the city tends to be trying to do the same at the same time. Olinda is also better by day, with not too much going on at night, whilst Recife is better by night. I was lucky enough to be able to stay in Recife some nights at my friend Pedro’s flat, and other nights in Olinda in the house that Pedro’s friend Rick had rented out for the week. If I had to choose one, I’d say stay in Olinda, because the day parties tended to be more fun. If you do stay in Recife, stay in the north side so you can taxi or bus to and fro more easily.

Street Food

After discovering cassava with sundried beef during the aforementioned night at the Royal Parachutist bloco, I didn’t think anything could surpass it for festival food. But I was wrong. Try the tapioca.

Ok that’s about it from me… if you have any questions, or your own tips, please do add something in the comments section below! Meanwhile join me again soon “On The Road” (hint: you can follow on Facebook, Twitter or subscribe via email) as I fly back to Rio and then head to the island paradise of Ilha Grande.

About Duncan Rhodes

Duncan is the Editor-in-Chief of Urban Travel Blog, a born and bred city slicker who loves urban adventure, street art, killer bars and late night hotspots. More about Duncan here.

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Cocullo is a small village in the central Italian region of Abruzzo, hidden deep in the Apennines. For most of the year it is a village like many others, but on May 1^st it celebrates one of Italy’s most bizarre festivals: la Processione dei Serpari, the Snake Catchers’ Procession – the product of a combination of pagan rites, superstition and Catholicism. The celebration dates back to over 3000 years ago, when the area was home to the Marsi people, who worshipped their goddess Angizia with offerings of live serpents. After Roman conquest, the custom was adapted to honour Apollo. When Christianity reached the area it was sanctified and dedicated to St. Domenico, who was believed to have the power of healing snakebites. Every year on May 1^st, St. Domenico’s day, the statue of the saint is paraded around the village, adorned with masses of writhing reptiles.

The serpents are caught in the mountains and woods around Cocullo, and released in exactly the same spot after the festival. “They are creatures of habit,” says a young woman, with a mammarella, a thin apple-green snake, coiled around her arm. Four types of snakes take part in the celebration; the most popular by far is cervone, the four-lined tree snake, which can reach up to two meters in length.

I am standing next to a toddler playing with a mammarella, while his father is trying to keep two biacco snakes, the most aggressive, from chewing each other’s heads off.

On the day, the village square is packed hours before the procession is due to start at noon. Bands play traditional music, tourists and locals jostle for the best viewing spots; but, notwithstanding the crowds, snakes still outnumber humans at least three to one. I am standing next to a toddler playing with a mammarella, while his father is trying to keep two biacco snakes, the most aggressive, from chewing each other’s heads off. At twelve the bells ring and St. Domenico’s statue is carried out. I join the locals elbowing their way to place their reptiles on the statue. The snakes are forbidden from entering the church. Catholic lore claims they are a symbol of evil, yet they are celebrated and paraded with the Saint. Alongside the Saint, snakes become a totem; an allegory of what is supernatural, feared and revered at the same time. The snakes slide up and down the Saint’s legs, curl around his halo, over his face. The parade circles the village three times, finishes back at the Church. The Saint is barely visible, hidden beneath the throbbing mass.

Visitor Info: Cocullo can be reached by train from Roma Tiburtina. There are extra trains on May 1^st, check Trenitalia for details. There are no hotels in Cocullo, but villagers sometimes rent spare rooms and flats for as little as €20 per person. Call the Pro Loco (Tourist Information) on +39 0864 49117.

About Crowded Planet

Crowded Planet are travel blogging duo Margherita Ragg and Nick Burns, an Italian / Australian couple based in Milan, who travel the world reporting on culture, nature and adventure.

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Imagine a place where there is no concept of money, only giving. A place with no rules, no limits, and not many clothes. A place where the sun always shines and the smiles always sparkle… Welcome to Black Rock City, aka “the Burning Man festival”!

If you have never heard of Burning Man it is the leading alternative festival in the world, with a free-spirit community of 60,000 people descending on Nevada Desert for a week under the scorching August sun. I went in 2011, with a soupcon of British cynicism about whether it would live up to the hype. It was duly blown to pieces.

If you have heard of the festival but never quite made it, perhaps you have the same questions I had:

Q – So no money? Do you have to trade and barter then?

A – Noooooooo. People are just nice and give you stuff, especially cocktails. Really!

Q – Hmm sounds way too hippy for me.

A – Well, it is hippy, but if you don’t want to dreadlock your pubes there’s no pressure, and you can enjoy it much like any UK/European festival, but a billion times better.

Q – No big bands playing at the festival for 7 days? I’d prefer to see Coldplay at Glasto!

A – Stop reading this. Now.

So before all the good stuff, the downside – to get there is what can politely be called a logistical nightmare. Firstly we needed to pick up campervans (top tip – book by November the year before to save yourself big bucks) before heading to Reno – aka “Vegas as seen through the eyes of a depressed tramp” – to pick up bikes and stock up on supplies. Sounds straight forward, but shopping for a week for twenty people in three vans meant a whole day in Walmart, working out exactly how much water and nachos you need to survive (we got the nachos spot on, we were 20 litres short on water. Priorities). And then there is the queuing to get into the site itself. Be prepared to queue for a few hours, though I wouldn’t call this a downside per se, as the semi-naked hula girls kept us entertained.

But then we camped up and got on our bikes to look around and wow, oh wow…

The site is set up with huge semi-circle of campervans in a grid format with the other half of the circle a huge open expanse of desert called the playa (the whole site is said to be 8 times the size of Glastonbury, and if you imagine that there must be 10,000 vans, many of which have set up a bar or game to welcome you then you understand why Coldplay will not be missed).

The city feels very different at day and night. The days were spent exploring one of the various camps each with their own bar and things to do. Some choice memories were: the Barbie Death camp, with thousands of mutated dolls marching to a brutal end, to be enjoyed with a glass of rouge with the tinkling of ivories in the background; or the wet’n’wild bar, a hoe down bar with real ale, water pistol babes and bar games; or the naked roller disco stage if you want to let it all swing free. And wherever you go there was always a friendly face offering you cocktails and games to get involved. Some of them were impressively creative (a lifesize version of Angry Birds) others were just fun (100 foot washing up liquid slide) or plain dirty spanking bar). In the spirit of giving and receiving we set up our own Bloody Mary stand where I chewed the cud with a naked Swiss Man (metaphorically, not euphemistically).

If you got tired of partying and want to get more in touch with your spiritual side there were all sorts of events going on, whether it be yoga or taking part in a huge spiritual group orgasm (which was most amusing to watch from the rooftop of the peanut butter and jelly stand). If you really wanted you could let some hippies shower you. If you wanted. Most impressive of all is a visit to the immense wooden Temple, the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, where hundreds of people have expressed their most heartfelt emotions through poetry and images attached to the edifice, which at sunset stages the world’s largest harp being played to poignant effect.

And then night falls and a whole new world begins. The pitch black Nevada sky is offset by neon lights and thumping music as Black Rock City goes chicken oriental. Again, there is something for everyone, from the New Orleans district with voodoo blues and a Mardi Gras party, the towering Temple of Boom soundsystem blaring out dubstep until your ears bleed, or the Thunderdome (shamelessly ripped off from Mad Max 3) where the baying crowd watch hardened baseball bat warriors smash into each other on bungee cords. One of the most fun things to do is ride on the mobile discos out in to the wild desert decorated as submarines, spaceships and everything in between. The complete lack of security or health and safety is a blessed freedom giving you the liberty to do what you want safe in the knowledge that fellow Burners will look out for you.

After seven days of hedonism the party has to end, and end it does in style. On the penultimate night – before the main event of Burning Man – there is an appetiser of what is to come when the impressive wooden recreation of 100ft Trojan horse is torched to a cinder by hundreds of Greek archers firing flaming arrows (quite frustrating when you were using this as a landmark to drunkenly find your way home). And finally the next night, like a Guy Fawkes night on steroids dipped in acid, the Man himself goes up in flames. First there is a spectacular fireworks display and tribal dance, before the effigy explodes – we were 100 feet away yet still our eyebrows were singed by the scale of the epic fireball obliteration. The excessive Carbon Monoxide given off reminding me of another minor quibble I had with the festival: just how sustainable it was for thousands of gas guzzling campervans to trek across the states and watch this brazen destruction? Hmmm…

This article has probably touched on about a single percentage point of the experience, but hope it inspires someone out there to go to the effort to get there (if not watch this video!). Whilst it may have moved away from its hippy origins to a more hedonistic experience it still contains enough of the former mixed with the latter to make an unforgettable week, without in any way feeling like a sell out. All I can say is go, just go.

Nearly all the tickets for Burning Man 2012 have sold out, but one final raft of 1,000 will go on sale on August 3rd. Check the relevant section of the website. The official site also has a survival manual they urge all attendees to read, and ABC have some more festival survival tips.

About Ben Rhodes

Bon vivant and amateur trumpet player, Ben likes to see as much of the world as possible, when he’s not busy saving it from behind his desk in London. Read more about Ben.

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Why do hundreds of thousands of people, many of whom would never visit an art gallery, spend a few hours every November filing along a narrow cliff-top path past a hundred sculptures? Simply because there is no public art event, anywhere in the world, as spectacular – or as much fun – as this one. No, I haven’t seen them all, but I defy anything to beat this.

Sydney‘s annual Sculpture by the Sea is billed as the world’s largest outdoor art event, and with 500,000 visitors each year it certainly ranks amongst the most popular too.

David Handley, the show’s founding director says, “The location by the sea has a lot to do with it.” More than a lot, I would say. Where else within a kilometre or so can you find rugged cliff-tops, clean sandy beaches, grassy knolls, crashing surf and the chance of seeing pods of whales swimming past?

Walking or jogging south from the famous Bondi Beach to neighbouring Tamarama is a fine thing to do at any time of year. Hundreds of sightseers and fitness fanatics do it every morning. It wouldn’t matter too much if the sculpture were second rate, but in fact it’s very good, showcasing the best of Australian and international work. The 2011 edition features Bert Flugelman, Sir Anthony Caro, Ken Unsworth and Chinese sculptors Chen Wen Ling and Wang Shugang.

There’s something very democratic about placing art out in the domain of the joggers and dog walkers, rather than in the confines of a snooty cultural space where only Time Out readers are likely to discover it. And whilst an expert jury chooses the winners in various categories, Ordinary Joe can scoff, ‘What could they possibly see in that rubbish?’, and then cast his own vote in the people’s choice award.

If you think modern art is too highbrow for you, this event could change your mind. Part of the appeal is that much of the sculpture doesn’t take itself too seriously. While competition to enter is fierce, and everything on display is likely to be extremely well executed, there are plenty of humorous works to make us smile.

The setting, along the Bondi-Tamara coastline, allows the artists to bring new dimensions to their work. Sculptors can float their work in the water, or perch it on a headland to provide a frame for the horizon. They can squeeze it into a rock crevice or send it tumbling down a grassy slope. Kinetic work moves with every breath of wind off the sea.

Best of all, there is no entrance fee, no dress code, no pressure to buy or even to make an intelligent comment on the art. If you hate a particular sculpture, you can stare out to sea as you walk right past it.

But believe me, you will want to look.

Sculpture by the Sea takes place in Sydney every November, as well as in Cottesloe, Perth, Australia, every March and, since 2009, every June in Aarhus, Denmark. For more info visit wikipedia or the official website.

About Richard Tulloch

Playwright, children's author and travel writer, Richard is our expert on both his native Australia and adopted homeland of Holland. Check out his full profile here.

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