Travel Photo

Although this is a sort of stupid photo and I'm a bit embarrassed about that god-awful lip piercing, it does capture the feeling of one of my more vivid travel memories. The kind that wasn't so much fun at the time.

June 2006. Gill and I had been dating for almost a month when he suggested we go to the Strawberry Fair together. Cambridge is less than an hour from Norwich by train, so it would be an inexpensive, easy day trip. On the day of the fair, the typically temperamental English weather cooperated, so Gill and I both wore shorts and a t-shirt, and we each brought a sweatshirt.

The train journey to Cambridge was festive, even raucous. Gill had stopped in to the shop at the train station for cans of lager. We snagged a pair of much-coveted table seats, and then the seats filled around us, then people packed into the aisles around us, hands above heads holding on to anything stable. Groups of lads drank beer and sang drinking songs. Or football songs. I’m still not quite sure if there is a difference. Gill and I drank our lukewarm beer and giggled at nothing in particular. It was our first big outing together, and I was pretty sure he was officially my boyfriend.

The Strawberry Fair was much like the train journey there – lots of beer, lots of people, lots of noise. After watching a few sets of live music, a band of charming boys who couldn’t be older than fourteen, we wandered, drinking more, and were drawn to a tent thumping with hypnotic reggae beats.

“We have to dance,” said Gill. I was starting to get crowd-weary, but I have never turned down an opportunity to dance. It didn’t turn out very well for me. A hundred, two hundred sweaty people gyrated, but there was no space. I need at least six square feet to myself to properly get my groove on. Otherwise my flailing arms are likely to hit someone and cause trouble. It’s happened before. So I stood, squashed, paralyzed, and a silent scream ripped through my head.

“I need to get out of here,” I yelled into Gill’s ear. He nodded, smiled, kept dancing.

“No, I’m fucking serious,” I said. “I’m freaking out. I have to go.”

Gill had the best intentions, and he did begin to follow me as I steamed through the packed-in group, blended together into a quilt of multi-coloured skin, dreadlocks, loose-fitting shirts. But then Gill sort of forgot to follow me. He told me later that he was transported back to his University days in Leeds, where he hung out with a group of Rastas. But really, he was just quite drunk, and he wanted to dance, and he didn’t want to leave the tent.

Once I was outside and in a less crowded area, I started to relax, and the panic subsided. And then I noticed Gill hadn’t followed me. I sat down about thirty metres away from the tent, and I kept an eye out for Gill. He would realise I wasn’t there. Any minute, he’d realise.

Afternoon turned into evening, which turned into late evening, and then it became dark. The mood of the festival turned from drunk, to quite drunk. A German guy tried to hit on me, but found himself distracted and confused when he kept spilling beer from his plastic cup. He left for a refill. Gill was still MIA. I knew the best bet was to stay in one place, and he’d eventually find me.

And then, at around ten pm, Gill appeared in front of me. He was near tears with worry. Apparently he’d left the tent an hour or so after I had, and had been looking for me since. As we hugged each other, our relief crescendoed, then faded away.

“What time is it?” asked Gill. Ten. We’d missed the last train to Norwich. It would have costed over £100 to get a taxi, and neither of us could afford that. Neither could we afford a B&B, which didn’t matter anyway because all hotels and B&B’s in Cambridge are at full capacity during Strawberry Fair.

The mood of the festival changed again. No longer ‘quite drunk’: now, the lurkers were more ominous. As Gill and I stood considering our options, a man came up behind us, put an arm around each of us, and greeted us like long-lost friends. I gave Gill a look, and he shrugged – he didn’t know this man.

“So, my good friends, where are you from?” he said.

Gill played the part with enthusiasm. “I’m from Middlesbrough, mate. But not for years – I got the hell out as soon as I could.”

I tried to stay quiet. No such luck.

“And what about you, love?”

“Oh, I’m from the U.S…”

His smile dropped. He turned to Gill.

“What the fuck, man. You should fucking know better than to date an American.”

Gill tried to laugh, shrug it off. But the guy was getting really wound up. Yelling, waving his arms. He was definitely ‘on something’.

“We’re leaving,” Gill said. The guy started to follow us, but we walked towards a bobby, and the guy fell back into the shadows.

It was clear that Gill and I needed to find a good hiding spot, where no one would mess with us. We walked across the park, found an overgrown patch of field, and burrowed in. We cuddled for warmth, but spent the night shivering, the cold damp night seeping into our bones. Midway through the night, our misery hit a point where it was suddenly hysterical. That’s when Gill took the picture of me. Our first big outing together and there we were, freezing, hiding in weeds, sleeping in the park. What could be more romantic?