It was 50% proof and 100% unwelcome. But this had become a battle for national
pride, and I felt compelled to do my bit for the flagging reputation of
Ireland. I swallowed a mouthful of warm vodka, retreated further into my
sleeping bag and prayed that the sleep police would let me go back to
oblivion. It was 7am.
The Westman Islands Festival has been officially named the Greatest Party in
the World, according to a Rough Guides readers’ poll. I probably should have
warmed up a bit lower down the Top 40, but I’d decided I was man enough to
go straight to No 1. I was wrong.
Only two types of people go to the Westmans, a volcanic chain off the south
coast of Iceland: bird-spotters, chasing the world’s finest collection of
puffins; and hedonists, mostly chasing each other. For four days over the
first weekend in August every year, these disparate groups collide on
Heimaey, the largest and most beautiful island in the chain.
The fiesta’s unpronounceable name — Þjóðhátíð — means “The People’s Feast”,
and officially it’s about celebrating the ratification of Iceland’s
constitution. Unofficially, it’s about camping in the hollow of a volcano
and going completely wild to live music: Glastonbury with ice and fire.
Heimaey itself would provide an interesting case study for a geography field
trip. The walls of the volcano tower above most of the west of the island,
though the last eruption — in 1973, I noted uneasily — blew one side of it
away. What is left is a perfect volcanic cross section. Steep, grassy banks
sweep down to the sea and provide a superb natural amphitheatre for the
temporary stage erected in the hollow, facing back up the mountain.
Most students at the festival are more interested in biology than geography,
though. Westman is billed as an endurance test of intoxication and, it must
be said, copulation, which challenges the best of party and festival
regulars. I had carefully selected a three-man All-Ireland team for a bold
bid to become the first non-Viking descendants to emerge with credit from
what is pretty much an exclusively Icelandic party.
A BUS leaves Reykjavik on Friday morning to take festivalgoers to the coast.
It’s then a 2½-hour ferry ride to Heimaey, and as the boat cuts through the
swell of the North Atlantic, leaving an already isolated Iceland on the
horizon, the bracing wind forces moments of clarity. We were travelling to
the most remote place we’d ever visited, for a festival we knew next to
nothing about. Another fine mess...
There was a bit of a free-for-all at the unloading of the luggage containers
in Heimaey’s small port, but once all bags were recovered, I brought the
team down towards the volcano’s crater, where a burgeoning camp site was
spreading over any available flat greenery. Entry cost £85 for three days’
camping and entertainment. That’s cheap for Iceland — in a bar in Reykjavik
the night before, I’d paid £27 for three beers, while that afternoon a stamp
to send a postcard to Australia had cost £9.
Just as at a “normal” festival, the first bands appear on the stage at about
3pm, although, out here, time begins to melt like a Dali clock. There are 21
hours of daylight every day in an Icelandic summer, and the 8,000 people in
attendance appear to have no need of rest.
Indeed, teams of “sleep police” patrol 24 hours a day, armed with vodka, to
make sure everyone is making the most of the madness, and the entertainment
is laid on from dawn to dawn. The bands are mostly Icelandic and Danish, but
the quality and range of music are remarkable, from Sigur Ros, who provided
the theme music for David Attenborough’s Planet Earth series, to some
excellent reggae bands and a few comedy acts, whose quality is evidenced by
the masses of doubled-over locals enjoying monolingual hysterics.
Other than those dancing directly in front of the stage, most people gather in
groups on the grassy walls of the volcano for raucous picnics — fuelled,
again, by vodka. In between bands, mass singsongs break out, echoing around
the crater as groups link arms, sway and occasionally roll down the sides of
the steep bank in a gloriously carefree drunken return to childhood. At
midnight, the festival becomes the world’s biggest campfire song session, as
an enormous bonfire is lit on a natural platform halfway up the hill,
warming anyone still sober enough to feel the cold.
Of course, others find more natural ways to stay warm, and it is for this
activity that the majority of young people come to the island. When dusk
finally falls, writhing, conjoined shapes are silhouetted by torchlight
against the canvas walls of most tents, and venturing too far up the steep
slopes of the old volcano is like walking through the middle of the
mountain-goat breeding season. Iceland’s womenfolk are famously beautiful
(it has the highest proportion of Miss Worlds per capita) and notably
uninhibited. Glastonbury with fire, ice... and Bond girls.
Rather unprofessionally, I can’t write with any great authority about all the
highlights of the People’s Feast — keeping up with the Jonases was, on
occasions, a challenge too far. One evening’s bonfire passed me by, as I’d
passed out and rolled down the hill at some stage earlier in the night;
another morning, I was rudely awoken by the sleep police and informed that
I’d missed the amazing arrival of Arni Johnsen, a former Icelandic MP and
folk singer who was imprisoned on corruption charges but had been released
especially to sing at the festival.
His ditty is apparently a tradition here, and a small thing like a jail
sentence wasn’t going to prevent it this year. Arni was flown in by
helicopter and winched down onto the stage. In an echo of the popularity
that may yet await John Prescott, Arni’s “hero of the people” status was
cemented at the previous year’s festival when he clouted a fellow reveller.
The climax of the weekend arrived on Sunday night with the lighting of a chain
of red flares around the rim of the volcano — the catalyst for another
outbreak of wanton snogging and celebrating. By this stage, I was
unexpectedly sick of both and ready for home, a beaten man.
I hadn’t considered the after-party. I missed two ferries back to the mainland
after being persuaded to take on one more day of vodka and sightseeing,
featuring a restorative dip in the island’s geothermal pools and the most
unerotic wet T-shirt contest imaginable. (Contestants stand in the corner of
a pub and get blasted with a power hose.) The next day, as I finally
traipsed to the ferry, I passed a pair of legs poking out from what appeared
to be a rolled-up tent, then a man cycled past on a bicycle with wheels made
from old trainers. Headed for the normality of the mainland, I shuddered at
the thought of what I’d been through. As I leant unsteadily over the rail,
Heimaey faded slowly out of my blurred vision. If I ever find the courage to
go back, it will only be for the bird-watching.
Getting there: Icelandair (0870 787 4020,
www.icelandair.co.uk) flies to Reykjavik from Heathrow and Glasgow; from
£163. British Airways (0870 850 9850, www.ba.com) flies from Gatwick; from
£142. Westman Island Airline (00 354 4813255, www.eyjaflug.is) flies to
Heimaey for £36 return; Eimskip (01469 550200, www.eimskip.com) has return
ferry crossings for £26. This year’s festival runs from August 4 to 7;
tickets on the gate, £85. As the national tourist board says: “If you’re in
Iceland at festival time, you’ll know where to go.”
More authentic festival experiences
Wicker Man Festival, Dundrennan, Dumfries & Galloway, July 21 and
22
Staged on an isolated farm in deepest Galloway, and named after the 1973 cult
movie The Wicker Man, this is a good-natured, booze-fuelled gathering that
attracts a rainbow crowd of musical tribes, including bikers, crusties,
mods, punks and trance freaks. The line-up is defiantly unfashionable — this
year’s headliners include Eddie and the Hot Rods, Arthur Brown and the
Sensational Alex Harvey Band — so the chances of Kate Moss and Gwyneth
Paltrow showing up are slim.
Weekend camping tickets cost £50 and will be available on the gate. For
details, call 01738 450442 or visit www.thewickermanfestival.co.uk.
Sziget Festival, Budapest, August 9-16
The civilised festival option, Sziget takes place on the island of Obuda, in
the middle of the Danube. The line-up of more than 1,000 acts includes
Radiohead, Franz Ferdinand and Scissor Sisters, as well as ballet, opera,
cabaret and contemporary dance — and if you don’t want to spend a week in a
tent, you can bed down at a hotel in Budapest and wander in for the day.
Camping tickets for the week cost £84, available online at www.sziget.hu; day
tickets cost £17 and can only be bought at the gate. EasyJet
(www.easyjet.com) flies from London to Budapest.
Gäubodenvolksfest, Straubing, Bavaria, August 11-21
Munich’s Oktoberfest may be a great opportunity to hang out with Australian
backpackers, but for authentic Bavaria you need to strap on your lederhosen
and head to the small town of Straubing, which has held an annual folk
festival since 1812. The main attractions are a huge funfair with giant
rollercoasters and seven beer tents that seat a total of 24,000 revellers.
All the beer is local, brewed especially for the Gäubodenvolksfest, and a
large proportion of the 1.2m visitors roll up in full Bavarian dress.
For more details, call the German National Tourist Office (020 7317 0908). Air
Berlin (0870 738 8880, www.airberlin.com) flies from Stansted, Manchester,
Glasgow and Belfast to Nuremberg.
