
Picnics, Pimms, plasters and paralytic climes swarm about the initiation of the British festival season like mosquitoes over Latitude's lake. Wychwood is upon us. Camping in the shadow of Cheltenham racecourse's solitary stand, the sun's laser-like rays gleaming off its dubious futuristic architecture, pretence and cares simultaneously fly out of the kaleidoscopic array of tents that litter the innards of the track. And they're quite literally the only litter to be seen. Whilst tent pegs can be found six feet under at Worthy Farm months after Glastonbury has passed through, Wychwood's recycling scheme has caught on. The sheer [...]