I thought I was done with festivals. In recent years, they’ve left me anxious and depleted, often to the point that I’ve left early. There was a strange sense of relief in deciding I wouldn’t attend festivals anymore, but the decision also fractured my spirit. I refused to accept it. On the 14th of February, feeling unusually optimistic, I found myself at the New Cross Inn in Lewisham, South East London, for Albion Dungeon Fest, where I had a wildly enjoyable and undeniably enchanting few days.
Female guest vocals on a song performed by French project Descort made for some of the most ethereal minutes of my life, and Weress, also from France, gave such an otherworldly performance that had someone told me the New Cross Inn had tipped into another dimension, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
The atmosphere was so accepting that at times I felt bold enough to start conversations with strangers. At one point, I tapped someone on the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, I have to tell you I thought your shirt said Green Slag…’ (It said, ‘Grey Stag.’) Another time, I gave someone a high five after they complimented my Windir tattoo and showed me their identical inking. It felt acceptable to joke about the diverse assortment of prop swords, ask questions like ‘Did you finish The Silmarillion?’ and announce to someone I’d known for seconds, that ‘The energy of all the nerds at the fest could power London for a year.’
I was so encouraged and emboldened by the genuinely positive vibes that, even after a bizarre altercation with a manager at a nearby coffee shop, I went back the next day. (The tea was good, what can I say?)
The security and bar staff at the New Cross Inn couldn’t have been more friendly and approachable. I was relieved of my cumbersome winter coat even though the cloakroom was full, a priceless gesture which left me euphoric and able to weave rather than bulldoze my way through the crowd.
My phone rarely came out of my bag, except to check which band was up next or to add someone on Instagram, and I purposely didn’t take my camera. Usually, I feel agitated and upset when it’s not in my hand, but its absence was a gift, and I could appreciate the sets in a way I’m unable to when shooting. I went to the festival knowing the likes of Örnatorpet, The Wanderer and An Old Sad Ghost – to experience them live was fucking extraordinary – but it was my first time hearing Frostgard, Malfet and Descort, and I’m currently mining their discographies.
For the better part of two years, I’d shackled myself to podcasts about ADHD and autism. Attempting to navigate the ocean of dungeon synth music (well, any of the genres I listen to, honestly) always left me overwhelmed and I’d retreat to what I already knew. Turns out the best thing I could do was to get off the internet and into a small venue in South East London where I could discover, in real space and time, my new dungeon synth obsessions.
I’ll be there next year, sans my big coat.
A Wyrd Of Her Own 