jumped into Bunf’s Ford Fiesta and set the coordinates for the heart of a rave. In those pre-satnav times, their journey into the countryside was a challenge in itself: first they drove out to the outskirts of Merthyr, then they sped up the dual carriageway before finally pulling up in a floodlit Asda car park, along with thirty or so mysterious vehicles.
Daf wound down the window and spotted a tall, dreadlocked man shouting at the cars like some kind of crazed traffic controller.
‘That’s him, that’s the man,’ he said. ‘He’s the one telling people how to get there. HEY! YOU! WHERE ARE WE HEADING?’
‘South exit, follow the convoy!’ shouted the dreadlocks, prompting Bunf to rev up the engine and fall in line.
Several miles later, they were zooming through a wide stretch of moonlit countryside, spiralling in and out of the cover of forest. There was just one problem: it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell which cars to follow: the trail of ravers was running cold, diluted with regular traffic. Stuck for a solution, the car pulled over and Gruff got out to have a listen. At first, there was only open sky, cricket chirps and wind. But then:
OOM OOM OOM
OOM OOM OOM
OOM OOM OOM
The sound of muffled drums rolled towards them, then rolled back again. ‘Festival wind!’ thought Gruff. Rhys came out to offer a second opinion, and they both stood there a while, surveying the ambience. ‘It appears to be coming from the direction of the trees!’ announced Rhys in a Shakespearean accent.
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