Having previously done Glastonbury (2010) and Sonisphere (2014), the first thing that struck me about Download was the trek from the West car park to the campsite. Though it is a bit of a walk from the car parks of Worthy Farm and Knebworth to their respective sites, they were nothing next to the seemingly endless miles (about 0.7) we trudged, in blistering heat - burdened with bags of booze and food, and with our camping equipment strapped to the back of a wheeled suitcase - to the Arena, only to find we were only halfway to the 'Village'.
NOTES FOR NEXT TIME
Park in the South
Bring a trolley
Get fit beforehand!
When finally we reached the campsite and found a plot, the tent went up with little issue, and it was out with the booze and the BBQ. Fed and watered, it was to the car and back once more for the last of what we assumed we'd need, before spending the evening checking out the Village, and the impressive Circus of Horrors.
Thursday was relatively uneventful, which was fortunate as it was HOT. I'm not good with the heat. I'm a child of winter, and technically ginger (my hair darkened to a chestnut brown by the time I was 2, but it still comes through in my beard). Even Rhiannon - a certified sun worshipper - managed to get sunburned! Personally I've always found it easier to warm up than cool down, and I was hoping for a good spell of rain.
NOTES FOR NEXT TIME
Be careful what you wish for
Never assume you won't need everything
Never assume you won't need everything
I even bought shorts! I don't do shorts.
We did manage to escape the heat for a little while; sitting down to watch Jurassic World in the cinema tent, with a pint of Trooper (Iron Maiden's own beer - tasty stuff) and a cider.
Friday began muggy, but cloudy, with the promise of wet relief to the interminable heat. And the festival began proper with Raveneye: an energetic, if not entirely stand-out three-piece. They put on a great performance - especially for 11 o'clock on a muggy Friday morning - with their front-man showing off some impressive athleticism - and their bass player a strong back - and they're clearly a good band, but their sound isn't exactly earth-shattering just yet.
Fairing somewhat better were As Lions. Following Raveneye's fun, but relatively tame opening, As Lions brought our first taste of some meaty metal, with great technical work from the whole band (despite issues with one of the guitarist's amps), and in particular their vocalist, Austin Dickinson. Dickinson's range settles comfortably in a harsh, near-scream for the most part, but when he moves onto a more powerful, melodic tone, his lineage is clear (hint: his dad's name is Bruce). And that lineage extends to a physical performance that had him leaping around the stage, throwing out 'karate' kicks like a sober (if slightly less flexible) David Lee Roth.
Next, it was off to The Lemmy Stage for Babymetal, though just in time to catch Alien Ant Farm ending their set with Smooth Criminal. Which was nice.
We did manage to escape the heat for a little while; sitting down to watch Jurassic World in the cinema tent, with a pint of Trooper (Iron Maiden's own beer - tasty stuff) and a cider.
Friday began muggy, but cloudy, with the promise of wet relief to the interminable heat. And the festival began proper with Raveneye: an energetic, if not entirely stand-out three-piece. They put on a great performance - especially for 11 o'clock on a muggy Friday morning - with their front-man showing off some impressive athleticism - and their bass player a strong back - and they're clearly a good band, but their sound isn't exactly earth-shattering just yet.
Fairing somewhat better were As Lions. Following Raveneye's fun, but relatively tame opening, As Lions brought our first taste of some meaty metal, with great technical work from the whole band (despite issues with one of the guitarist's amps), and in particular their vocalist, Austin Dickinson. Dickinson's range settles comfortably in a harsh, near-scream for the most part, but when he moves onto a more powerful, melodic tone, his lineage is clear (hint: his dad's name is Bruce). And that lineage extends to a physical performance that had him leaping around the stage, throwing out 'karate' kicks like a sober (if slightly less flexible) David Lee Roth.
Next, it was off to The Lemmy Stage for Babymetal, though just in time to catch Alien Ant Farm ending their set with Smooth Criminal. Which was nice.
Alas, Babymetal were a tad late coming to the stage as, during the set-up, I got my wish of rain...and then some.
I like rain: I find it relaxing, refreshing and a particular relief from the scorching summer heat. This, however, was something else. It was as if the gods had spent the prior two days holding in a week-long-binge-worth of piss, and each chose the same moment to relieve themselves over this one small patch of Derbyshire countryside.
There was a fear the girls would't be able to perform, as the stage had evidently become as saturated as the crowd, but after a lot of mopping, and with the audience festooned in emergency ponchos (the nearby pharmacy stall dishing out said attire must've made a fortune), the show could go on.
I first saw Babymetal at Sonisphere, and was rather impressed. I'd expected some typical J-pop, with a heavier backing-track and some bad instrumental miming, but they actually put on a big, loud, bombastic show, with some genuine talent being shown by all on stage. Two years later, and the act is pretty much the same, though slightly more attuned to a metal crowd, with 'Su-Metal' orchestrating an ever-growing wall-of-death, and screaming for more from the crowd, between her clean and child-like, though surprisingly powerful vocals, while her twin back-ups belt around the stage like five year-olds on a sugar high.
What was most surprising, however, and most enjoyable, was how receptive the crowd was. There is an element of the metal community (and the broader music community for that matter) who write off Babymetal as a gimmick. And, to be frank, they're right; the blending of J-pop with metal is a gimmick. But it's a gimmick that works. It works because of the genuine talent of all involved, and the commitment of both performers and behind-the-scenes crew to put on a spectacle. Say what you like about they're music; they know how to put on a show. To see middle-aged, thinning haired old rockers headbanging on the outskirts of a significant mosh-pit just ads credence to their relevance.
Sadly, we couldn't stay till the end of the show, as the torrential weather was raising concern for the state of our tent. Sure enough, when we got back to it, a pool had been installed and our belongings were doing laps. We learned later that ours was far from the worst situation, but it put a significant downer on the day.
Praise be to the credit card!
New tent; new sleeping bags; towels; pillows; thermal socks. We salvaged what we could and binned the rest.
By the time we were done, we'd sadly missed Killswitch Engage, the Motorhead tribute and Korn (the latter being a particular disappointment to Rhiannon), and were not feeling entirely rosy about the whole thing, but we picked ourselves up, donned our wellies and ventured out to see Rammstein.
And having finally seen Rammstein, I can think of no better way of picking oneself up than some big, loud, dramatic, beautifully performed, expertly staged, at times funny, at one point intimate, but never less than epic, industrial German metal. We laughed, we cried, we windmilled. Rhiannon enjoyed a bit of a drool over Till Lindemann. At one point, we watched a gimp on a chain being placed in a metal coffin, which was then filled with what was clearly supposed to be molten steel, which exploded in a hale of fireworks, revealing Flake reborn as a cross between Kraftwerk and Michael Jackson in his Rock With You video.
After a lot of cheering, bouncing, headbanging, three encores and a long walk back to the site, we crawled into our snug new sleeping bags and slept the sound sleep of the satisfied, but mightily exhausted.
Saturday opened with another walk to the car to grab a few things we'd (erroneously) assumed we wouldn't need, which sadly led to us missing Avatar, but we were still treated to a trifecta of awesome. Local(ish) boys Wearing Scars were given little room to work on The Dogtooth Stage, but that didn't stop them going big, and taking the tightly-packed crowd with them all the way. Despite their energy and technical prowess, there was an impressive effortlessness to their performance, even in Chris Clancy's raw, gravely screaming.
NOTE TO ORGANISERS
Is it too much to ask to make your more intimate stages just a single foot
higher so more than just the front two rows can see?
We then skipped on over to The Encore Stage for Inglorious: some good ol' home-grown hair metal, with a vocalist whose range could humble Axl Rose back in his leaner days.
QUICK SIDE NOTE
While almost every member of every band we saw sat somewhere between good
and awesome, this seemed to be the festival for impressive vocalists and
drummers. In fact...
...back over on The Lemmy Stage, we were treated to both at once in the form of Atreyu's Brandon Saller. Not to take anything away from the rest of the band - the stage was overflowing with talent (literally, as front-man Alex Varkatzas couldn't stay away from the crowd) - but even sat behind his ample kit, up on the rise at the back of the stage, Saller more than made his presence felt.
A brief interlude for lunch and a stage change, and it was time for Sixx:A.M.
These were an interesting one for us. Rhiannon had been looking forward to them, and musically, they were great. Everyone was on point and displayed oodles of talent, the songs were strong, and it was all very professional...but that was part of the problem. It was a very clinical, soulless performance. That might sound pretentious, but while the previous three acts had all engaged with the crowd, drawing us in and making us feel like a part of the show (intimately, in Varkatzas' case), any attempt from James Michael to do the same somehow came across as phoney, like he could've been playing to any crowd, anywhere, and he'd have been reading from the exact same script.
It doesn't help that he somehow reminds me of Michael Flatley.
It feels harsh to criticise them over something so insubstantial, as, like I said, they were otherwise great, but after seeing the total package from the three previous, supposedly smaller acts, it was jarring.
Suffering somewhat from the previous day's tiredness (and the developing blisters and rawness from our wellies), we retired to the tent for some cheap, warm booze, before venturing out for more.
Next up: The Encore Stage for Juliette and the Licks.
These have always been a curiosity to me. I was aware of Juliette Lewis from Natural Born Killers and From Dusk Till Dawn, and was even aware she had some pipes on her from Strange Days and her karaoke stint in Full Tilt Boogie, but I'd never gotten around to checking out her band.
They were fantastic! Rough, raw and punky, with Lewis owning the stage with boundless vigour, even venturing out to the fringes for a bit of a dance with a security guy. All culminating in a full audience sing-along to River Deep, Mountain High.
A slow hobble to The Lemmy Stage, and we just caught the tail end of Megadeth (not enough to comment on, I'm afraid), ahead of the Deftones. With the exception of Minerva, I've always been somewhat ambivalent towards the Deftones, but they put on a great show. Chino Moreno's blond do is questionable, but there's no questioning his voice.
The night ended with Black Sabbath. Excited though I may have been to see Sabbath, that was nothing compared to the two flanking me. To my right, Rhiannon was beaming in her mac, giggling and stamping her feet in anticipation. To my left, an older fella was chanting "FORTY FUCKING YEARS!" with a half-toothed grin and tears of joy in his eyes.
Those decades (and many more besides) are showing on Ozzy. He staggered slowly around the stage whenever he ventured away from the mic, he needed to occasionally take himself off stage for a break, and his 'ad-libs' to the crowd often seemed scripted.
Then again, he's knocking on the door of 70, and hasn't exactly led a quiet life. Cracks in his stage performance are bound to show, and besides those, the voice is still there, and even from the back of the crowd, the joy on his face from being up there, and being so emphatically embraced by the crowd was clear to see. And the rest of the band more than filled in the gaps where needed.
Back on the subject of drummers: Tommy Clufetos was given centre stage at one point and, holy shit, was he impressive! Throwing out a seemingly endless barrage of percussive brilliance that grew with each new riff. Just when you thought he'd done something spectacular, he would start up again and throw out something even bigger! And if ever you started thinking, Okay, he's dragging this out a bit now, he'd take a turn and show there were plenty more surprises on offer.
The final day brought with it a plan! Ahead of the day's shows, we'd pack up the camp and ship it all to the car, then follow many other campers who'd transferred to the car park two days earlier. This led to missing the opening minutes of Amon Amarth, but there was more than enough to enjoy. Standing atop faux-stone dragons, with drinking horns raised, their trademark cacophony rumbled through the very bowels of the earth!
Not bad for a soggy Sunday morning.
Delain came next, and I was underwhelmed. Rhiannon enjoyed them, and certainly the music coming out of them was great, but I find myself frustrated by Charlotte Wessels' voice. It's the epitome of 'safe', and next to the likes of Lzzy Hale and Floor Jansen, she sounds like little more than a session backing singer, on a par with a lazy Annette Olzon. I realise those are high standards to hold anyone to, but when they're who you're up against, you have to bring a lot more.
On the subject of Lzzy Hale, Halestorm were next up (right after an unfortunately quick burst of The Temperance Movement's Ain't No Telling), and I wasn't particularly excited. I'm not a fan of Miss the Misery: after an impressive opening note, it descends into standard pop-rock, on a level with Paramore: another band I find underwhelming.
Clearly, then, one should not judge a band by a single song, because, sweet Moses, can Lzzy Hale sing! Adorned in black leather, with a guitar slung around her at all times, and with a voice so raw, there's something of the Suzi Quatro about her, but the power she's able to produce puts her over and above many of her contemporaries; male or female.
Then there's little brother Arejay: yet another drummer of note, who was allowed a few minutes in the spotlight. Following Clufetos' performance the previous night, Hale the younger had a lot to live up to, especially for a comparative boy of 28, but not only did he show the chops to sit side-by-side with the best of them, that boyishness often worked in his favour, as he brought an occasional playful silliness to his performance that made him both stand out and demonstrate some more esoteric skills (at one point involving a pair of over-sized sticks that in no way slowed him down).
We here took a break to return to the car, to drop off a few things, grab a fresh beer, and for Rhiannon to prepare...
Disturbed followed, and with them came one of the sets of the festival. They were determined to go huge, and the crowd was more than happy to go along with them. As is to be expected, the set leaned heavily on Immortalized, but there will always be a place for the likes of Down with the Sickness and Ten Thousand Fists, which were received almost as well as The Sound of Silence (though bringing the set to a halt in order to set up stools and a pair of kettle drums seemed unnecessary).
The highlight, however, came in the form of a medley of covers featuring I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For with Lzzy Hale (proving my previous assertion that she can stand toe-to-toe with one of the biggest voices in metal), Baba O'Riley with Wolfsbane's Blaze Bayley, and Killing in the Name with Breaking Benjamin's Benjamin Burnley.
And now the reason for Rhiannon's aforementioned preparations, which involved the donning of New Rocks, a corset, fresh makeup and a flag.
Oddly enough, Rhiannon had never been a big fan of Nightwish. She'd sampled them long ago, hadn't been keen, and had subsequently paid them no mind. That is until we got together two years ago, and she was introduced to the vocal stylings of one Floor Jansen. Her appreciation was a slow-burn, at first, settling primarily around Ghost Love Score. Since then, however, her love of the band has grown to a point of near-obsession, not just in their current form, but also going back to the Tarja days (she's not a fan of Annette).
Suffice it is to say she wasn't overly pleased when she couldn't make it to their Wembley gig in December.
Happy as she was to see Sabbath, Rhiannon was downright giddy for Nightwish. Things didn't start too well as we weren't in the best position to see or hear the set. We were so close to the front, the bass overwhelmed everything, and being just off to one side, our view was blocked by a huge lump of rigging there in preparation for Maiden, demonstrating a dramatic lack of sense and forethought in the organisers (if you were outside the centre dozen or so, near the front, you could see nothing).
Fortunately, we were able to negotiate our way back through the crowd to a more suitable position to appreciate the show. They didn't disappoint. Since their very first gig with Floor, there's been an energy in the band that hasn't been there since well before Tarja's departure, and a level of joy and even playfulness that they never had till now. And while it's a shame Jukka has had to bow out due to illness, Kai Hahto is doing some staggering work behind the drum kit.
It is disappointing that Tuomas can't arrange a trimmed-down version of The Greatest Show on Earth for their festival gigs, but the show was nevertheless fantastic, and as far as Rhiannon was concerned, made the whole experience worth it.
As Nightwish drew to a close, the clouds parted for the first time all weekend: an odd parallel to 2014.
There was concern at Sonisphere as Bruce Dickinson was scheduled to take part in a WWI dogfight over Knebworth, ahead of Maiden's headlining set, but thick clouds had been hanging over the festival all day, and it looked like it might have to be called off. But then, a mere 10 minutes before the scheduled display, the clouds parted and the show could go on.
Now, I'm not accusing Bruce Dickinson of being a weather wizard, or something of that ilk, but one can't help but be suspicious when, having been awash for the best part of three days, the sun finally broke through the clouds just in time for Iron Maiden to take the stage...
I would like to go into depth about Maiden's undoubtedly tremendous festival finale, but I'm sorry to say we didn't make it. Our feet blistered, legs scarred, cold, weary and emotionally drained, there simply wasn't enough left in the tank. We did enjoy the opening twenty minutes, and following his cancer surgery last year (quite apart from his advancing years), any fears Dickinson may have had to slow down were immediately assuaged. From the opening bars, he was bounding around the stage, riling the crowd and belting out that trademark howl with the same energy and power he's been demonstrating for past 40 years!
Certainly, he's in a far better state of health than the pair us, with a quarter-century of youth supposedly in our favour. While he was up there, sprinting laps and wailing like the harbinger of Hell's destruction, we were huddled at the back of the crowd, nursing a pair of hot-chocolates (with cream and marshmallows), and keeping an eye on the exit.
We did our best, but at last, it was time to head back to the car one last time, and bed down for the night.
At 7:30 the next morning, after a not entirely uncomfortable night's sleep, it was out of the sleeping bag, on with trousers, t-shirt and shoes, and out of the car park without fuss, for the journey home.
Suffering somewhat from the previous day's tiredness (and the developing blisters and rawness from our wellies), we retired to the tent for some cheap, warm booze, before venturing out for more.
NOTE FOR NEXT TIME
Highland socks!
Next up: The Encore Stage for Juliette and the Licks.
These have always been a curiosity to me. I was aware of Juliette Lewis from Natural Born Killers and From Dusk Till Dawn, and was even aware she had some pipes on her from Strange Days and her karaoke stint in Full Tilt Boogie, but I'd never gotten around to checking out her band.
They were fantastic! Rough, raw and punky, with Lewis owning the stage with boundless vigour, even venturing out to the fringes for a bit of a dance with a security guy. All culminating in a full audience sing-along to River Deep, Mountain High.
A slow hobble to The Lemmy Stage, and we just caught the tail end of Megadeth (not enough to comment on, I'm afraid), ahead of the Deftones. With the exception of Minerva, I've always been somewhat ambivalent towards the Deftones, but they put on a great show. Chino Moreno's blond do is questionable, but there's no questioning his voice.
The night ended with Black Sabbath. Excited though I may have been to see Sabbath, that was nothing compared to the two flanking me. To my right, Rhiannon was beaming in her mac, giggling and stamping her feet in anticipation. To my left, an older fella was chanting "FORTY FUCKING YEARS!" with a half-toothed grin and tears of joy in his eyes.
Those decades (and many more besides) are showing on Ozzy. He staggered slowly around the stage whenever he ventured away from the mic, he needed to occasionally take himself off stage for a break, and his 'ad-libs' to the crowd often seemed scripted.
Then again, he's knocking on the door of 70, and hasn't exactly led a quiet life. Cracks in his stage performance are bound to show, and besides those, the voice is still there, and even from the back of the crowd, the joy on his face from being up there, and being so emphatically embraced by the crowd was clear to see. And the rest of the band more than filled in the gaps where needed.
Back on the subject of drummers: Tommy Clufetos was given centre stage at one point and, holy shit, was he impressive! Throwing out a seemingly endless barrage of percussive brilliance that grew with each new riff. Just when you thought he'd done something spectacular, he would start up again and throw out something even bigger! And if ever you started thinking, Okay, he's dragging this out a bit now, he'd take a turn and show there were plenty more surprises on offer.
The final day brought with it a plan! Ahead of the day's shows, we'd pack up the camp and ship it all to the car, then follow many other campers who'd transferred to the car park two days earlier. This led to missing the opening minutes of Amon Amarth, but there was more than enough to enjoy. Standing atop faux-stone dragons, with drinking horns raised, their trademark cacophony rumbled through the very bowels of the earth!
Not bad for a soggy Sunday morning.
Delain came next, and I was underwhelmed. Rhiannon enjoyed them, and certainly the music coming out of them was great, but I find myself frustrated by Charlotte Wessels' voice. It's the epitome of 'safe', and next to the likes of Lzzy Hale and Floor Jansen, she sounds like little more than a session backing singer, on a par with a lazy Annette Olzon. I realise those are high standards to hold anyone to, but when they're who you're up against, you have to bring a lot more.
On the subject of Lzzy Hale, Halestorm were next up (right after an unfortunately quick burst of The Temperance Movement's Ain't No Telling), and I wasn't particularly excited. I'm not a fan of Miss the Misery: after an impressive opening note, it descends into standard pop-rock, on a level with Paramore: another band I find underwhelming.
Clearly, then, one should not judge a band by a single song, because, sweet Moses, can Lzzy Hale sing! Adorned in black leather, with a guitar slung around her at all times, and with a voice so raw, there's something of the Suzi Quatro about her, but the power she's able to produce puts her over and above many of her contemporaries; male or female.
Then there's little brother Arejay: yet another drummer of note, who was allowed a few minutes in the spotlight. Following Clufetos' performance the previous night, Hale the younger had a lot to live up to, especially for a comparative boy of 28, but not only did he show the chops to sit side-by-side with the best of them, that boyishness often worked in his favour, as he brought an occasional playful silliness to his performance that made him both stand out and demonstrate some more esoteric skills (at one point involving a pair of over-sized sticks that in no way slowed him down).
We here took a break to return to the car, to drop off a few things, grab a fresh beer, and for Rhiannon to prepare...
Disturbed followed, and with them came one of the sets of the festival. They were determined to go huge, and the crowd was more than happy to go along with them. As is to be expected, the set leaned heavily on Immortalized, but there will always be a place for the likes of Down with the Sickness and Ten Thousand Fists, which were received almost as well as The Sound of Silence (though bringing the set to a halt in order to set up stools and a pair of kettle drums seemed unnecessary).
The highlight, however, came in the form of a medley of covers featuring I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For with Lzzy Hale (proving my previous assertion that she can stand toe-to-toe with one of the biggest voices in metal), Baba O'Riley with Wolfsbane's Blaze Bayley, and Killing in the Name with Breaking Benjamin's Benjamin Burnley.
And now the reason for Rhiannon's aforementioned preparations, which involved the donning of New Rocks, a corset, fresh makeup and a flag.
Oddly enough, Rhiannon had never been a big fan of Nightwish. She'd sampled them long ago, hadn't been keen, and had subsequently paid them no mind. That is until we got together two years ago, and she was introduced to the vocal stylings of one Floor Jansen. Her appreciation was a slow-burn, at first, settling primarily around Ghost Love Score. Since then, however, her love of the band has grown to a point of near-obsession, not just in their current form, but also going back to the Tarja days (she's not a fan of Annette).
Suffice it is to say she wasn't overly pleased when she couldn't make it to their Wembley gig in December.
Happy as she was to see Sabbath, Rhiannon was downright giddy for Nightwish. Things didn't start too well as we weren't in the best position to see or hear the set. We were so close to the front, the bass overwhelmed everything, and being just off to one side, our view was blocked by a huge lump of rigging there in preparation for Maiden, demonstrating a dramatic lack of sense and forethought in the organisers (if you were outside the centre dozen or so, near the front, you could see nothing).
Fortunately, we were able to negotiate our way back through the crowd to a more suitable position to appreciate the show. They didn't disappoint. Since their very first gig with Floor, there's been an energy in the band that hasn't been there since well before Tarja's departure, and a level of joy and even playfulness that they never had till now. And while it's a shame Jukka has had to bow out due to illness, Kai Hahto is doing some staggering work behind the drum kit.
It is disappointing that Tuomas can't arrange a trimmed-down version of The Greatest Show on Earth for their festival gigs, but the show was nevertheless fantastic, and as far as Rhiannon was concerned, made the whole experience worth it.
As Nightwish drew to a close, the clouds parted for the first time all weekend: an odd parallel to 2014.
There was concern at Sonisphere as Bruce Dickinson was scheduled to take part in a WWI dogfight over Knebworth, ahead of Maiden's headlining set, but thick clouds had been hanging over the festival all day, and it looked like it might have to be called off. But then, a mere 10 minutes before the scheduled display, the clouds parted and the show could go on.
Now, I'm not accusing Bruce Dickinson of being a weather wizard, or something of that ilk, but one can't help but be suspicious when, having been awash for the best part of three days, the sun finally broke through the clouds just in time for Iron Maiden to take the stage...
I would like to go into depth about Maiden's undoubtedly tremendous festival finale, but I'm sorry to say we didn't make it. Our feet blistered, legs scarred, cold, weary and emotionally drained, there simply wasn't enough left in the tank. We did enjoy the opening twenty minutes, and following his cancer surgery last year (quite apart from his advancing years), any fears Dickinson may have had to slow down were immediately assuaged. From the opening bars, he was bounding around the stage, riling the crowd and belting out that trademark howl with the same energy and power he's been demonstrating for past 40 years!
Certainly, he's in a far better state of health than the pair us, with a quarter-century of youth supposedly in our favour. While he was up there, sprinting laps and wailing like the harbinger of Hell's destruction, we were huddled at the back of the crowd, nursing a pair of hot-chocolates (with cream and marshmallows), and keeping an eye on the exit.
We did our best, but at last, it was time to head back to the car one last time, and bed down for the night.
At 7:30 the next morning, after a not entirely uncomfortable night's sleep, it was out of the sleeping bag, on with trousers, t-shirt and shoes, and out of the car park without fuss, for the journey home.
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