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It's August 1970 in sleepy old Winchester in Hampshire. I'm up early Friday morning and leave the family home for the short walk to the railway station. Dressed in a red shirt, patchwork waistcoat, flares and a long scarf around my neck blowing in the wind. My rucksack and sleeping bag bounce on my back as I step up a pace or two. As I approach the station, my mate John Corkhill is already there. The adventure was about to begin.
It is still quite early and commuters line the opposite platform dressed in their drab suits like penguins waiting for the Waterloo train and their world of black and white. It is such a contrast to our side as we are joined by another few colourful pilgrims. Conversations are soon struck up "Hey, can't wait to see The Doors" "The Who were great last year, wonder how much of Tommy they'll do this time" "When is Hendrix on?"
The Portsmouth bound train pulls in. Fifty minutes later we arrive at the Harbour station. My god the place is heaving with people. The queues for the ferry are enormous, what to do. My mate John has a cunning plan, I pretend to feel faint
People moved aside, one girl even helped us stagger through the masses. It worked and we were soon on the ferry and the trip across the Solent. The crossing felt like a magic trip away from the rat race and freedom.
I had been there last year for Dylan, but after this event was over we find out there were anything up to 600,000 people, five times the number attending in 1969. There was a little jostling, but it’s good natured, everyone is so friendly. Conversations were soon happening on board the ferry. I can recall talking with people from the West Midlands, London & Maidenhead, one guy over from Holland joins us as we approach Ryde.
There are shuttle buses but again long queues prevail. What the hell, we’ll walk and maybe hitch a lift. We walk out of Ryde not really sure of the best way to get to Afton. We decided to head for Newport and work it out from there, neither of us had thought about getting a map of the Island. We keep walking and after about 4 miles a beat-up old Austin A40 pulls up. The couple inside we happy to give us a lift, it being obvious where we were heading. I remember them saying they had driven down from Peterborough on Thursday night and slept in the car just outside Portsmouth.
We reached Afton about 12.30pm I think. Hell the site is massive, so big it is hard to take it all in. We find a half decent spot to put our stuff down. We both had tickets not realising there was the freebee view from the Down. Suddenly there is some movement on stage. The announcer says a few words I forget and wow, I’m over the moon to see one of my favourite bands on stage, the then obscure and highly undervalued “Fairfield Parlour”. What a start. Fairfield Parlour were formally known as Kaleidoscope and were in my opinion one of the best psychedelic bands the UK ever produced. We are at the Glorious House of Arthur.
Bands came and went. At the time this just seemed a great weekend experience with like-minded people. We had no idea we were at one of the landmark festival events of all time that would be looked back on over 30 years later as the largest and to some the greatest festival ever held – The Last Great Event. The camaraderie was amazing as it had been the previous year at Woodside Bay. Forget all that sh*t in the film most of the aggro was outside the arena and a tiny part of the scene. A few of us were sharing bread rolls as the reality of hunger set in, quite appropriately Taste were on stage at the time I recall, with Rory Gallagher giving one of the best performances of his life. We had only brought sleeping bags, but luckily it was dry and not too cold overnight.
Day two and we walked down to the shops in Freshwater, the only cheap food was bread rolls from the bakers. We survived on these most of the weekend supplemented with baked beans and whatever we could lay our hands on. We managed to get into the café for a cuppa tea and toast. We were lucky, they ran out of bread a few minutes later.
Back to Afton via the golf course. We decide to watch the afternoon acts from the Hill. I remember us sharing a joint with two guys from Reading. I vaguely remember a band called Lighthouse that made an impression on me. The surprise for me was Miles Davis, wow was he hip. He was in his forties then and very ancient to one aged 19, but he introduced me to jazz and jazz-funk which I listen to, to this day. For me “Kind of Blue” and John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” are groundbreaking albums. Later in the afternoon Free hit the stage to give an amazing set including “Wishing Well” and “Alright Now”
It is getting late in the evening as The Who hit the stage. This is the best live performance I have ever witnessed until maybe when I saw the same band at IoW 2004. They were on fire. We eventually stagger back to our sleeping bags at 4 or 5am.
Day three, peaceful Sunday morning. At the dreadful toilet area I recall chatting to a girl called Jo from Northampton. She travelled alone and her parents think she is staying with a friend. There must have been many like her. She joins John & I for a while. Later in the day we try and get further to the front. We get wind that The Moody Blues would soon be on the stage, and we are both huge fans of The Moodies. Sunset, what a perfect time for them to be on stage. They were at their creative peak then not the middle of the road band they have become today.
I must have crashed out for some time and missed a few acts. However I was awake for Jethro Tull’s set. I remember being poked in the ribs and John telling me Jimi Hendrix was on stage. I manage to stay awake for this but a few around me are exhausted and sleep on. It seems incredible now that some were there and missed what was to be his last festival appearance. He wasn’t at his best which was a shame – but hey it was the great man!!!.
Monday morning and far too tired to face walking, we waited hours, but finally caught the bus to start the journey home. Would there be another festival next year?. We all hoped so. Sadly it wasn’t to be.
Nobody could have been more overjoyed and emotional than myself walking up to Seaclose Park from Newport town centre 32 years later for the start of it all over again.
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