My kids love going to music festivals: here's what I've learned

It’s Festival season all over Scotland with TRNSMT and the Tiree Music Festival this weekend, Rewind next weekend and Youngest, just back from Kelburn Garden Party, with Belladrum in her sights. It seems my offspring favour the bucolic over the urban when it comes to festivals, and if there’s the chance of camping or cold water swimming, they’re in.

As I recite my list of helpful pre-departure list of ‘Don’ts - ingest any drugs, alcohol and definitely never anything blue, jump off anything higher than your wedge crocs, stay with your friends - watching her pack her bags is entertaining.

Top of the pile, on top of my waterproof jacket, trousers, fleece, favourite bed cover in case she’s cold or needs a picnic mat (I’ll be there in spirit), her own fluffy socks and wellies, is a tiny triangle bikini.

A banner in the trees at Kelburn Garden Party, Kelburn Estate Fairlie, North Ayrshire. Pic: S Christie

“A bikini? In Scotland? After months of torrential rain? Optimist.”

“Yeah, of course! Have you looked at the landscape, especially Kelburn and at Belladrum. Beautiful and at Kelburn there’s a waterfall so you get a bit of a shower and don’t have to pay for one. You should have come along.”

“I wish. Can’t. Working. Animals to feed. And the Edinburgh Festival is coming, it’s going to be busy.”

It’s disconcerting, but very welcome, this habit of my offspring inviting me to go to events with them. I would never have dreamed of taking my parents along to my social activities and a sweaty mosh pit is the last place they would have wanted to be - in those days there was a yawning chasm between the generations and their taste in music. My mum had Abba and I had punk. Admittedly she may have had the last laugh in terms of popular endurance, but give me ageing punks like The Stranglers still going strong over an expensive avatar show any day.

Festivals outside of cities are a chance to get back to nature. Pic: S Christie

Back in the pre-internet and mobile phone days parent/child relationships worked on a ‘we trust you to be sensible’ and they didn’t know if you weren’t basis. You could go interrailing, telling your parents you were going to France, maybe Spain, and if you inadvertently wound up in Morocco they were none the wiser till you got home a month later, arriving before your postcard from Marrakech, to a mild, “You went where? Well, you’re back safe and sound now.”

Ignorance was bliss for all parties and much less harrowing than today’s set up when offspring can whatsapp and facetime with anxiety-inducing footage of their real time exploits: “Look, I’m about to do this bungee jump! So buzzed!” Or ‘here we are in a hire car navigating hairpin bends over a very big drop to the sea, yay!” leaving me quivering and messaging into a void until they remember to get back in touch two days later: “Soz, we were sleeping. But going quad biking along the cliffs now, woohoo…”

Festivals also throw up the chance to meet up with my children after it turned out Youngest Child bumped into one of her brothers at Kelburn (so that’s where he’s been).

“Yeah, my mate’s a sound engineer so I helped him take all the gear through, and I’ve just been having a great time,” he reported as they sat around in the sun on my best bedspread.

“What’s your musical highlight been?” I ask, wondering which of the headliners he caught - who are the names to watch out for.

“A guy with a kettle drum who sat down beside me in the field and played. He was spectacular. And then a woman came past and just started singing impromptu and she had the BEST voice, so they were very good… you really should have been here.”

This time round Youngest Child is packing for Belladrum, near Inverness.

“Nice scenery again,” says Youngest. “Come, but I’m going to be working (hey, that’s my line), entertaining children (er no thanks, done that). And I’ve not even checked the line up yet but I’m sure it’ll be good.”

I look at the website. “Sophie Ellis-Bextor!” This takes me back to my previous point about parent-child dynamics. Youngest and I watched the Saltburn staircase scene together without thinking to make any comment other than “love this song” while back in the day any hint of nudity, not that there were many, saw parents racing out of the room to put the kettle on. Nowadays it doesn’t even merit a comment, never mind embarrassment or awkwardness, which is a good thing as far as I’m concerned.

“There’s Toyah&Robert, Deacon Blue, loads and loads of great stuff at Belladrum. Oh, and the mighty Samba Sene and Diwan, Edinburgh’s own, are playing. We love them,” I say.

“Well come then!” she says.

“Cannae”. But I’m very tempted…