You wake up late to the smell of coffee and the sizzle of bacon crisping up. The sun streams into the tent, as you unzip it, fresh air floods in. Gentle music drifts towards you, the folkiness of a melodeon or a favourite song you had almost forgotten. Someone hands you a fresh coffee and a bacon butty made with love and soft white bread and you sit in the doorway of the tent on an airbed that hasn’t deflated at all overnight, watching the festival site waking up.
Isn’t this what happens to you every morning at festivals?
OK, ok, this is not a true record of my own experience. I have Earl Grey not coffee. The bed is flat and feels like rocks, and the sound that often seems to herald the morning is this lot (even when they’re ironically playing Brahm’s Lullaby, they’re anything but soothing).