The first sign of trouble was when the bus driver dropping us off couldn’t say where we would be picked up again that night. This was easily resolved at the time, because a nearby steward confirmed it would be the same place. And in fact that was implicit in the mysteriously named “PUDO gate”, by which we entered the festival site.
For a while I wondered if PUDO was a suburb of Stradbally. Now I know it stands for “pick up and drop off”. Although blindingly obvious as that may seem, when a succession of staff in high-vis jackets were asked later where it was, none had ever heard of it.
In the meantime, we made mental notes of the location, guessing it might not be so easy to find at 1am. After all, when you’re on a day trip to the Electric Picnic and have no accommodation arranged, it wouldn’t do to miss the last bus home.
On the plus side, after only an hour’s search, my friend and I found Mindfield, the spoken-word part of the festival that would be our base. That is more than The Irish Times festival reviewers managed, thanks to the site signage. So I’m entering it now as an exhibit for the defence of my sense of direction, which has occasionally been questioned by those close to me.
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Anyway, in Mindfield and elsewhere, the day passed pleasantly. The expected rain held off so that at some point of the evening I consigned my rucksack, which had changes/extra layers of clothing, to the “Green Room” tent.
Not for the first time, I forgot the tent would be locked later. But oh well, I could ask someone to collect that for me on Sunday. In the meantime, at 11.30pm Saturday, my friend and I caught the first half of the main stage headline act, Fatboy Slim. Then we headed for the bus.
As since confirmed by an anguished (if belated) study of the online site map, the place we first went to was indeed close to the PUDO Gate. But there were only emergency exits there and a man blocking the way assured us that, anyway, the gate we needed was in the precisely opposite direction, back the way we’d come.
When we went there, however, another man told us with even greater confidence that, no, what we were looking for was the red car park. So doing, he gave us new directions that, as I now know, took us even further away from the bus.
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Thereafter, in a rising panic, we scrambled through the festival’s woodland sites, seeking renewed advice along the way, none of which brought us nearer the legendary PUDO. Finally, we found a helpful bar worker who knew where it was, but broke it to us gently that it was at least 20 minutes’ walk.
It was now 12.55am and my friend was exhausted. So we gave up on the bus and considered our options, which were between Fatboy Slim and none. There was not even a tent to be had locally and a taxi to Dublin would be exorbitant. On the other hand, rumours were rife that Fatboy would also be doing an unscheduled gig at 3am on the Salty Dog stage.
If true, this would be a show for the ages and shorten the wait until daylight. So we resigned ourselves to an all-nighter.
Which began well when, first we visited an art exhibition in the woods, including a lovely collection of Japanese-style screens, backlit to project shimmering silhouettes of the plants behind. A soulful young man sitting among them turned out to be the artist Liam Delaney from Cork, enjoying quiet time with his work (see shadoshado.com).
Chatting with him passed some time. So did a beer in “Providencia”, a mocked up Mexican shanty town. Then it was 3am, so we headed for the Salty Dog, a woodland stage ingeniously built around a half-submerged shipwreck, with lifeboats as seating.
Alas, it was quickly obvious there would be no unscheduled performance by Fatboy or anyone else. The stage was empty, the crowds were drifting away and suddenly it was very cold. My two thin layers were no match for the wind now howling through the woods.
My friend and I faced a long dark night of the soul (and not in the musical sense – even the reggae in the nearby Trenchtown stage had stopped). There was nothing for it but to shelter in one of the lifeboats, staring out bleakly over a sea of crushed plastic cups, like a marooned version of Vladimir and Estragon (“Let’s go”; “We can’t go”; “Why not?”; “We’re waiting for PUDO”).
When dawn broke, we found a road that was officially off-limits but led into Stradbally. A man in high-vis warned that security people might turn us back. But by then I’d have taken my chances with armed border guards. In the event, no one stopped us. A taxi to Portlaoise and train to Dublin later, I resolved that if ever returning to the Electric Picnic, the first thing I’ll do is form an escape committee.
