Shire. Romanticised pastoral Britain. Neo-celtic antecedent. Warm company, cold climate, and breath-taking scenery. Westival is a lonely paradise, trailblazer to the post-covid festival scene, and a welcome reminder of life beyond politics.
You know that feeling you got in the back-seat of your parents car on a motorway as a child, watching with wanderlust the magnificence of sheep plagued hills and how that cloud is keeping up with you. The train to Westival manufactures similar feelings of wander and excitement of what’s to come. It doesn’t disappoint in its imagery.
The 4 day attendee cap is 1500. Founded by Jack & Joe, the core of the festival has grown from him throwing parties for his friends. In its fifth anniversary, the community driven vibe maintains an intimate air of close friends, fields, and flashing lights. This permits a safe space to go as far west as spiritually desired.
The Welsh south coast is in for a shot at the title of nicest British beach. Caves. Skimmers (a specific range of rock designed for serious haulage across the surface of any body of water). Lobster rolls. Beach pubs. The location catalyses a diversity of experiences arising and harmoniously overlapping. Special thanks to the helpful welsh lady that pointed our group of lost souls in the right direction from Sainsbury’s.
Art installations scattered the grass, tents were boundaries, and ample stewards guided needing attendees to their destinies. A quick 360º turn provided the reassurance sometimes needed to know where you are. The open space created safe passage for travellers or a hard shoulder for anybody seeking refuge along the way. Losing people was no thought when total lap time was sub 10 minutes.
Urinals. Nobody likes them. The festival sat at the bottom of a hill, which caused no stress to the festival other than the piss and booze pools that overflowed the corners. A minor inconvenience, nobody expects a festival toilet experience to be free from foreign splashback, but the near 1-in-1-out urinals became an unwelcome eventuality as the days withered. Fear not, portaloos were around and a charming medieval town nearby provided the option for a wee by the sea.
Firmly electronic, the line-up was a catered Michelin kitchen menu of fan favourites and up-and-coming hotshots. It became clear that the curators were going through a phase of 140, but there was plenty to seek out and be found. Ohmydais and Mixtress were proficient in the DJ metaphorical equivalents of Marco Pierre standard onion dicing . Both played secret sets at West Haven, Ohmydais braised the Grid on Friday and Mixtress took the reins for a Keep Hush beschemel on Saturday. The pair perfectly catered to a hungry crowd. Their high energy sets made a rendezvous with the eclectic soul of Fuji’s Bazaar hit that little bit sweeter. Ariwo, Afro Cluster, and Timbali were a few of the live performances that blew us away with a collective mastery of their instruments.
Whilst the mentions are out, it would be rude not to dive into West Haven. The tent was orchestrated by Earful of Wax and Next Door Records and powered by Kite Hill Soundsytem. A real oasis, it’s atmosphere and individuals gravitated around a portable speaker post-set hours. West Haven had it all, bouncing speakers, sofas, vinyls, vapes for sale, and hosted my favourite set of the weekend. Lazy H brought more waves than the moon with their live performance. Carefully manipulating the audience through, within and beyond their synths. West Haven was a reliable off-license for all your musical necessities, until the Atlantic rains and wind blew in for Sunday to shut them down.
Westival is a house party, afters, and holiday wrapped into one. And as great as all can be, all similarly have an end. Until we arrive at our overdue global post-work utopia, we look forward to Westival providing one modicum of the escapism on which our sanity now depends each summer.
