Splashy Fen Music Festival is always on the top of my ‘to do’ list every year. This year, the first time I would be driving my own car to the farm in Underberg, I was a wee apprehensive. Leaving at 5am and armed with snacks, supplies and good music, two friends of mine and I set off in the darkness to the heart of the Drakensberg Mountains on a rainy Thursday morning.

The drive is always an adventure as we pass goats, deal with random pedestrians trying to sell us single raw eggs from a carton, try to avoid cows and see a few llamas on the side of the road too. It’s on these types of drives one gets to see just how beautiful South Africa is. It’s beyond breathtaking; the rolling hills, greenery and wildlife are par for the course. But the fact that all this land holds so much history, and man has never been able to fully invade this land is amazing.

Getting into Underberg, the roads become dirtier and we get more anxious to hit the festival. Turning the volume up, seeing other cars piled with gumboots, tents and sleeping bags, we hoot at each other with the knowledge that our lives are going to be slightly altered after this weekend. All we have to do is endure the bitch of a road that is the D600 – the road to the Splashy Fen Farm.

We arrive at the farm just after midday. It’s packed. Muddy. My god, is it muddy. My feet scream obscenities at me at the prospect of walking through that shit. People are already drunk, stoned or high on life. People are setting up tents and starting their braais, some already in the river and some passed out from the drive. It’s almost as if EVERY cool person left their city and descended upon the farm. We set up our tent, have a bite to eat and go cow tipping. I get injured. Welcome to Splashy.

The music on Thursday night is mostly disappointing but Holiday Murray stole the limelight. A ‘progressive folk rock’ four piece, this band is polished, talented and is going to go places. Very much like the Fleet Foxes and a young Crosby, Stills and Nash, I have high hopes for this bunch of guys from Cape Town. They’re nice guys to boot. I hear sighs and swoons from women behind me as guitarist Justin Davenport picks up a ukulele. I don’t blame them.

 

Isochronous sounded better than they did at RAMfest. Perhaps it was just the sound. Their old stuff sounded as awesome as I remember. Their new stuff? Nah… not for me.  However, The Otherwise rocked out until the last person was too tired to dance anymore. This Durban band is punk, rock, sleaze, drugs and booze mixed into one incredibly energetic and potent cocktail. They draw from the punk legends of old and refine it to something almost Arctic Monkey-esque. I like them. A lot.

Friday brings in the legends, and the waterworks.

With a walkabout around the farm, meeting old friends, making new ones and getting up to random mischief, we are welcomed to the farm by an old friend. Splashy legend Tony Cox makes his guitar sing and I have to remind myself that this is one dude with one guitar. There is a reason everyone at the Fen loves and respects him so. The man is a genius. With his chilled stage presence and guitar mastery, all he needs is a cold beer and he’d be cooler than Christmas. Miles Sievwright impresses with his singer/songwriter stuff, as he did last year.

The memorial to Syd Kitchen was what tugged at my heart strings. This man became an institution at Splashy Fen, having played every year since its inception. One of my memories of Syd was him sitting on the rocks with a cuppa (of what, I have no idea) and chatting to some friends. I said: “Hi Syd.” He said: “Not yet, love!”

The folk music continues through the afternoon and brings on the orange-purple-gold sunset and welcomes in the clear night sky. It’s almost surreal. Streaks of clouds encircling the tips of the mountains. Mist framing everything. The smell of burning wood clinging to everything you touch and the moon beaming boyishly upon the festivities. The stars are so clear, it’s as if they pierce your every glance. You can almost see the man on the moon. It’s cold. It’s exhilarating.

Getting high on caffeine, we prepare for the onslaught of a manic line-up. Sheep Down, Catlike Thieves, The La Els and City Bowl Mizers command our feet like puppeteers. The energy, the sweat, the screaming girls and the front men being cocky little shits on stage make for the festival’s turn into a platform for the young guns. I am danced out.

But there is a campfire to go to. I clench my teeth and my beer and make my way down to the campsite, to be welcomed by a warm fire, more cold beer, awful white wine and friends.

This is the life.