About a year ago, I missed out on what was supposedly the ‘most epic weekend’ my friends had ever had. Neither of us had heard of this annual festival happening in Robertson, dubbed Wacky Wine. Well, upon their return it was to be the only thing I heard about for months. There were many tales from this festival and as each tale was told and retold I could sense the jealous rage brewing deep within me. I vowed that I would not miss the next one.
The build up to this years’ festival was quite a long one and the last week had me rather frazzled. On the one hand the weather had taken a rather sharp dive with the couch looking cosy and on the other I had actually planned something. This combination was a massive shock to my system.
Let me explain. If you ask anyone they will confirm that I am the worst planner. However when I started interning at Getaway I had planned to write a blogpost about this years’ festival. I had even bought a notepad. I was planning to be all arty and enigmatic armed with my notepad and pencil behind the ear. The consumat Gonzo journo. I was even going to throw in the smug seen-it-all attitude. It was going to be great.
Except that I forgot my notepad behind.
So, thinking on my feet, I decided I would use Twitter as my own personal notepad. Publicly broadcasting my most intimate thoughts in the hopes that they would all be collated for me to go through and extract a story on my return. A fantastic plan! Except, of course, that there would be gratuitous amounts of alcohol available.
Did I mention that I am quite bad at this planning thing?
So not one to give up on my initial idea; this is Wacky Wine in tweet form. I hope it makes at least a little sense.
I must interject here and state that due to the excessive amounts of rain, the sights of the mountains were breathtaking. Unfortunately the rain prevented me taking photo’s so you’ll have to take my word for it. Also I might have forgotten to pack a camera.
And so ends the first night. Don’t worry I am just as lost as you. As far as I can recall we went to Arabella’s music festival where wine was going for R30 a bottle. This, combined with regular trips back to the car for Tequila and beer, resulted in my body becoming a boozy wasteland. My mind became convinced I was being stalked by an 80’s rock band and supposedly there was a mystery I solved involving an occupied tent and a sobering experience. I do not remember this sobering experience. This doesn’t say much for me but it also doesn’t say much for the experience either.
The traffic back into the Arabella brings our day activities to a close on Saturday. It’s probably a good idea to mention that my girlfriend had graciously offered up her services as the designated Daisy. Also the ‘meercat incident’ was grossly over exaggerated. The trip to the Dros wasn’t really planned but was required for one of the members of our party to retrieve her spare set of keys. The draughts had me back off the wagon though which does explain my mis-sip towards the latter part of the day. The drunken ramblings were inevitable.
Unfortunately I cannot confirm nor deny that we went to the music festival, again. I can however, attempt to piece this back together for you. There was confusion as to who was playing and so I stumbled off to relieve myself. Upon arrival at the bathrooms a fight broke out which I just nonchalantly wandered through. I realised who was playing. I also realised that a certain band was on my tail again and then more mixing of beer and wine ensued. I woke up again in my tent. With my clothes on this time.
We arrived home with muddy clothes and fuzzy memories. I got a little anxious that there might not have been signal and logged into Twitter. I was met with these muddled ramblings and breathed a sigh of relief. I then got anxious again when I read the tweets and realised just how nonsensical they were.
In the end though, I will heartily recommend that anybody who likes wine attend next year’s festivities. Heck, even if you don’t like wine it is still one helluva party. I know I will be going back next year. Maybe next time I’ll be a little more prepared and get to a lot more wine farms. Maybe I will drink a little less and remember a lot more. Maybe I’ll even be able to solve the mystery of ‘the unknown glove’. Then again…
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