Filed Under 'Experiences'..

If walking down Oxford St on Christmas Eve is one of the busiest and most stressful things I’ve ever done, then walking down Oxford St during the Friday evening post work rush under a blazing hot sun, laden with bags and attempting to dash through bustling crowds to catch a train is a very, veryclose second. Not to mention, far more sweat producing.

As the hordes of revellers around us headed to their rooftop drinks, their evening dinner parties or whatever the beautiful Friday night had waiting; I was sweating, stressed and regretting not only my commitment to working a weekend (I was obviously under some sort of ‘crazy curse’ when I agreed to that one), but regretting the colour of choice for my outfit: black. I was to the sun what Lindsay Lohan is to drugs; I was its magnet, and it an inescapable object.

After inhaling the tangibly toxic air of the underground, (face planted against the open tube window and tongue wagging), we arrived at Paddington station to a delayed train and a building more resembling Wall Street’s Stock Exchange with the frantic moving, shouting and hand waving going on, the eager bustling of escaping the city heat in full swing. Twenty minutes later and the sun was streaming in our train window, the air conditioning working overtime to bring our body temperatures back to normal. The views afforded were glorious as the setting sun illuminated the beautiful countryside effortlessly gliding by and we read horoscopes and talked endless nonsense (think horoscopes and ‘heroes’)until our destination was being announced on the speaker and we were frantically grabbing our belongings ready to dart off. Approaching the door, a last minute memory burst occurred to remember that the camera and drinks were still lying untouched on the overhead racks. With the ‘doors closing soon’ beeps starting, the dash to grab the camera and drinks was stressful to say the least, but as soon as our feet landed on the concrete platform; the laughing and guffaws at our unfortunately matched ‘Leo’ qualities melted the stress away instantly.

Our friend had directed us to get a taxi from the station to our hotel, and after stepping outside the platform we swiftly realised we were in, well, the “wop wop’s” (this brought about considerably more giggling as I learnt from the expression of C’s face that ‘wop wop’s’ was a strictly Kiwi phrase). As we started to walk we soon noticed that the other exit from the station was far more active and actually had, thankfully, taxi’s. Real British, black cabs. Saviours.

Some wonderfully non-awkward (because it’s never awkward when you’re laughing) taxi chatter while gazing at the Welsh countryside (which I feel like I was doing just not that long ago!) and we were pulling up to our typically Welsh (ie. Not much else in the vicinity) accommodation. It was late by this stage, but we had free food waiting so we tucked into a delicious three course meal (garlic breaded mushrooms, tikkamasala curry with naan and poppadoms and a banoffe waffle) but not quite making it to my dessert as the tired eyes set in before its arrival.

We packed ourselves into bed, with the sheets thrown off as the heat of the day lingered, an exhausting day wiping us out before the heat could keep us awake.

Saturday brought about an early morning start as the alarm I am so used to hearing went off (the benefit of forgetting what it’s like to sleep in is that you forget what it’s like to sleep in) and we tucked into a divine breakfast (granola scattered with dried banana, dried apricots, dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, fresh berries, apple, pear, pineapple and orange topped with vanilla yogurt and enjoyed with a cup of hot tea) - the fuel you need to get you through an unexpected day in the middle of a field with only the constant presence of arelentlessly hot sun.

I arrived to a giant field. 

A giant field, packed with trucks. 

There were big trucks, small trucks, colourful trucks, patterned trucks, trucks with giant faces on the side, and they were all shiny, sparkling and polished to perfection. We rolled up to the Eddie Stobart section, by far the largest there with three huge trucks and a couple of marquee’s selling merchandise. The stand I was working on was selling raffle tickets and memberships to both the adults and kids clubs. It had no shade. And by 9AM I was sweating. 

Story of the weekend.

The event opened at 9.30AM, technically. But people were allowed in beforehand and by 9.10AM a queue had formed in front of my stall. People were already coming up and asking about the drivers. Listing the names of a variety of drivers, I was baffled by their knowledge and excitement towards seeing these men. The marquee was opened behind me and some of the drivers had arrived and were changing into their work shirts in the back. Before I realised this, a small crowd had formed in front of me and girls were whistling, phones out capturing the moment, as the men took off their shirts. Their names were called, there was whistling and so was my introduction to understand the bizarre swarm of mayhem that was to follow these drivers that weekend. I was officially perplexed.

The day ran smoothly; we sold memberships endlessly and the opportunity to join a driver in his deliveries, name a truck, or win £150 of Stobart merchandise (in that order) was an apparently highly sought prize in the raffle and tickets were flying out of our sunburnt hands.

While the work wasn’t outwardly interesting, the people more than made up for that. If truckfest was a representation of the Welsh people, I will have to make my trips back short. The people were, unique. 

I had been warned that truckfest people are like nothing else, being told that I would have to wait and see what the event involved because the people that go are unexplainable. They were right. I could not explain the types of individuals I encountered if I wanted to (which, actually, I don’t. Ever.)

I was similarly stunned by the reaction to the drivers. Picture this: a shade less field, the searing sun burning down and with monster truck shows, ice cream trucks and drinks stands located elsewhere; and people were queuing for miles to meet, take photos with and get autographs from these drivers. These queues were around 2 hours long and stretched back further than I could see. Keep in mind, this is Wales. These people are not used to an over 20 degree sun, let alone over 27 degree.

I spend the day chatting (or being chatted to, my voluntary speech is significantly limited with a one sided conversation more than satisfactory for truckfest individuals), and gawking at the “celebrity status” of these drivers. Men who eat too much, smoke too often, speak too loudly and in every way, shape and form are your average middle aged, mid class man; yet they attract Hollywood significance at this unique festival.

When closing time rolls around the queue remains long and there is autograph signing and photo taking long after the day is ‘finished’. I give them all props for staying out to grant people’s wishes with sunburnt bald spots and sweaty shirts. 

We pack up, our weary, sun tired limbs aching as our t-shirts stick to our sweating bodies; the absence of shade plastered across our shining faces.

Dinner is a lavish affair, in the three course meal sense, as we load up chicken strips, garlic breaded mushrooms, tikkamasala curry and banoffe waffle, which I finally try! But after a couple of wine spritzer’s and a full meal, it is only bed that is calling our name. I collapse into bed as the heat of the day casts a shadow on my eyes and sets me to sleep.

Another early morning wake up call for the final day’s work; a delicious breakfast before a day spent under the sun, a much more jovial approach to the final day. The heat is stronger, the queues are longer and the customers lining up in front of the stall become more and more red as the day stretches on. 

Memberships and raffle tickets fly off the shelf, and before the sun has time to cool, we are packing up the tents and listening in awe as the monster truck show demonstration exudes exasperated gasps and we catch sight of the giant truck upside down as the fire and safety crews rush out to find an adrenaline high driver unscathed.

A truck breaks down to top off the otherwise faultless weekend, but before long we are back on the road and driving the couple of hours back into a hot and sweaty London; my eyes closing furiously intermittently throughout the drive. I experience my first English ‘services’ where we load up on M&S salads and sweets to keep us going, before I arrive home to a stuffy flat and a delightful evening, the stubborn sun finally deciding to hide behind the hills as I roll into bed, defeated.