It was a worry. No, not how was I going to pack enough grub for 4days for three teenagers at a festival and not whether to take one pop-up tent, or two. Or even three. It wasn’t even how I was going to stretch ninety quid over the fields. No, my biggest worry was those Olympic lanes on the way. The voice of doom like a sliding tombstone telling us to avoid London at all costs seems to have forgotten one tiny small thing – that some of us that live here weren’t lucky off enough to get tickets and so made other plans. Worse, a journey to Dorset with a low-slung suspension thanks to the enormous offspring bulging like chicks crowding a nest is usually three and a bit hours – and one and a half of those is crawling round through Brixton, Clapham, Wandsworth, Putney, Sheen, Mortlake, .. wake me up when we get to Sunbury.. Slap in a bunch of forbidden lanes, right in the middle of the road, on the very bits of tarmac you’ve reserved for your super wit because you always know exactly which one gains the most advantageous, least irritating and, dare I say it, often correct route round the one-ways and turns, and you’ve got yourself one headache.
It did taketh forever but eventually we found ourselves at the services on the M3 making inroads into that precious £90. What terrific value for money the Moto is - £2.89 for a tepid coffee; four quid for a sarnie, no fuel at Winchester and more Out of Order signs in the loos than at a Geordie hen night. Then there it was, glistening patiently against the magnificent Purbeck Hills, a swoop of marquees like licked lips and broad grins.