What a lovely festival it is. Like some kind of crazy bohemiam garden party. Very British, very English even. Set in the Grounds of this house, which is so like something out of a story of a bohemiam crumbling aristocracy littered with a past of tragedy, trangression and proper what you would imagine classic Bohemian life might once have been and here still is. The historic mansion just about standing, a few rooms retaining their original splendour, with additional modern embellishments such as a chandelier made from faux flowers by a film set designer friend of the Duchess? Is she a duchess? a Lady? what? and a crazy mural in the round room, rotting chaise longues in the basement, servants bells still there but from another era. And today, the Port Eliot festival, with Kate Winslet popping up to read children's stories only announced on the day, with proper fashionistas making costumes out of rubbish, with a flower show and a scarecrow competition. And gyspy types with a horse and cart helping the campers with their gear. Wild swimming and mudlarking in the rivers. Jugglers on the lawn and Jamie Oliver's Fifteen providing rather tasty parpadelle pasta with local lamb.
Turns out that Louis Eliot who used to hang out in Notting Hill when I did is so named because its his dad who lives in the house. Its an extraordinary place and it was a gentle and quirky festival.
Ted loved camping and we hung out. I missed most everything of the talks and acts and bands and so on. But it was worth it never the less
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