As we rolled off on our next adventure—a weekend festival of running—we couldn’t help but fantasize about Wilko’s next phase. Would the new ceiling lights make him feel like a 5-star hotel or a nightclub on wheels? Would the acoustic panels turn him into the quietest, most zen mobile retreat in van history?
Only time—and possibly a whole lot of trial and error—would tell.
🌊 Hope Cove: Views, Wind, and Midges
We were heading to Something Wild Festival at Hope Cove, near Kingsbridge, Devon. A stunning seaside spot perched on dramatic clifftops, where the views could bring a tear to your eye—or at least distract you from the midges eating your ankles and the wind trying to slap the freckles off your face.
🏰 Wilko the Warhorse
We arrived just before 4pm on Friday, first to arrive, and had the entire field to choose from. Wilko creaked nobly up the slope like a warhorse returning to battle. We parked with military precision: top of the field, elevated, dry, and scenic. Also, less chance of being trapped in a mud pit come Sunday.
Wilko was fully armed:
- Both fridges humming like caffeinated penguins
- Bubbles and gin chilling nicely
- Chocolate rock-solid
- Three gourmet meals in the garage fridge (Paula’s genius): pasta, curry, and chilli—labelled, sealed, and ready for reheating like we were on MasterChef: The Muddy Edition
🎪 Festival Setup (Sort Of)
Once settled, we helped the festival host with final setup. Translation: we stood around holding string and pretending we knew what gaffer tape was actually for.
By sundown, the field had filled with hopeful campers, tilting tents, and the kind of optimism that says, “Tomorrow probably won’t be that wet.” Several runners took off on the evening run. We waved politely and stayed put. That wasn’t for us.
🚽 The Bathroom Experience™
At the edge of the field sat five wooden boxes that looked like they’d been assembled during a mild panic. Inside three of them: toilet seats and… a bottomless pit. Not a drain. Not composting. A chasm. A void.
Think Slumdog Millionaire, but make it rustic.
A bucket of sawdust sat beside each one—presumably to mask your “contribution” or spiritually cleanse your soul after seeing what lay beneath.
🚿 The Showers: A Gamble with the Gods
Next to the toilets were two “showers” with adventurous personalities. If the heater liked you (rare), you’d get a moment of glorious hot water—just long enough to lather your shampoo before being plunged into the Arctic rinse cycle.
But when the water was hot? Pure joy. You’d stand under the stream like you’d just been baptised.
🎶 The Festival Hub
A single teepee tent with hay bales, a few speakers playing indie-eco-folk, and a bunch of runners trying to dry off while discussing:
- Nutrition
- Hydration strategies
- Why no one can ever find a dry sock past day one
There was a mobile sauna too—steaming away like a mirage. Did we go in? No. Did we dream about it while shivering on the cliff? Absolutely. Regretfully.
🍔 Food Vans & Phantom Pork
A couple of vans sold teas, coffees, flapjacks, and one allegedly did hog roasts. I never saw any pork. Just a promising sign and the smell of onions. Possibly a trap.
🍝 Pasta, Bubbles & Bibs
We were totally geared up for the weekend, no matter what the weather did. Food, drink, telly, and glowing lights—time to turn them on.
We tucked into our pasta and a well-earned glass of bubbles after picking up our running bibs for the races ahead.
🏃♂️ Saturday: The 5K Jungle Assault
We signed up for the 5K trail run. A short distance, in theory. In practice? A full-blown jungle assault course. Vertical hills. Slippery paths. Nettles that were clearly unionised and hostile.
These weren’t your average “oops, brushed my ankle” nettles. These were aggressive. They sought contact. I’m pretty sure one of them growled at me.
The race started downhill, and for a glorious five minutes, I was in second place behind someone born after the invention of Wi-Fi. Then came the incline. I opened the gate and held it for Paula, who flew past with a high five and a look of loving pity.
She powered up the hill like a mountain goat with unfinished business. She ran like she was late for a dinner reservation. Finished 2nd overall. 1st woman. 1st in her age group. Possibly solar powered.
Me? I was behind. Far behind. Dragging my body over every incline like I was auditioning for a slow-motion nature documentary:
“Here we see the lesser-spotted trail runner, wheezing dramatically and regretting everything.”
I negotiated with my lungs. Made emotional eye contact with trees. My legs filed complaints. My back staged a protest. But I finished. Eventually. Gasping, muddy, and very much not victorious—but proud. I wore that little wooden medal like it was Olympic gold.
Paula clapped me in like I’d just scaled Everest. And honestly, it felt like I had.
🚿 Showers, Chilli & Existential Dread
Post-race shower? Cold as betrayal. I was in and out in seconds.
Back in Wilko, we tucked into Paula’s legendary chilli—so good it deserves its own fan club—and contemplated Sunday’s half marathon.
My back was aching. My legs were shot. The weather was threatening biblical scenes. Paula was already planning breakfast and pacing strategies like a caffeinated Olympian. I was considering retirement. Not just from running. From movement.
Then it hit me: what if I didn’t run? What if I… volunteered?
I’d still be part of the action. Just less soggy. Noble. Helpful. Warm. (This was a lie I told myself.)
I floated the idea to Paula. She agreed. I’d sleep on it.
🌧️ Sunday: The Marshal Chronicles
I woke up with a bad back and a strong sense of self-preservation. I chose wisdom. I chose laziness. I chose… marshalling.
I told the race director I wasn’t fit to run. He thanked me—and immediately asked if I’d marshal. I said yes. Like a fool.
They posted me on a cliff. A literal, wind-blasted cliff. My phone hadn’t charged. I had 25% battery. No signal. No shelter. Just me, a whistle, and zero idea what I was supposed to do.
I was stationed at a three-way trail intersection. Ultra runners from one side. Marathoners from another. Half marathoners from somewhere else entirely. I was a human signpost with no map, no training, and no clue.
Runners emerged from the mist, soaked and hopeful. “Which way?” they’d ask. I’d point confidently in a direction that felt right. Was it? Who knows. I said it with authority.
Eventually, someone called me (on my last 10% of battery) to explain the actual directions. Also, I was supposed to count runners. Too late. That ship had sailed.
Meanwhile, the weather had turned theatrical. I watched storms roll across the ocean like Poseidon had entered the chat. No trees. No rocks. No cover. Just me, a tin of jelly babies, and a rapidly fading will to live.
I walked in circles to stay warm. Shouted things like “You’re smashing it!” and “Snacks this way!” with the enthusiasm of someone pretending their waterproofs were actually waterproof.
Paula flew past me twice, grinning like she was running through a meadow, not a monsoon. I don’t know what planet she’s from, but I’m not allowed to live there.
When the last runner passed, I ran back to the finish line like I’d just completed the Ultra. Arms pumping. Heart pounding. Soaked to the bone.
There was Paula: showered, fed, packed up. Probably had time for a nap, a book, and a quick online degree while waiting for me.
🚐 Exit Like Legends
We rolled out of the field like legends, waving cheerfully at the poor souls spinning their wheels in the mud below us.
Would I do it again?
Oh, 100%.
But next time, I’m bringing:
- A sign that says “Ask Paula, I don’t know where this trail goes”
- Spare socks in a waterproof vault
- And maybe a small inflatable raft
The Something Wild Festival may be wet, windy, and wildly unpredictable… but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.