Me at a previous Wilderness Festival, enjoying the sunshine and the music. Photo: Yolanda Barker
The decision to go to Wilderness Festival did not happen quickly. It was not one of my usual impulsive moments where I announce something wild and Peter, my husband and carer, sighs, and accepts his fate. This time, we had to take proper stock of the situation. Real stock. The kind where you sit together and ask, “Is this actually possible?” and “Will we regret this before we even leave the driveway?”
By the time we reached the point of saying yes, the house already looked like it had been taken over by festival preparation. The kitchen smelled faintly of antiseptic wipes and musty camping gear. Medication boxes were stacked beside the kettle like a strange new tea selection. The hallway had become a camping equipment triage centre, with piles of gear waiting to be inspected for mould, missing parts or signs of rodent activity. Even the bathroom had a stack of wipes, catheter supplies and emergency hygiene kits arranged like we were preparing for a small-scale apocalypse.
It felt as if Wilderness Festival had already arrived and was quietly unpacking itself in every corner of the house.
In the middle of it all, Peter stood holding a mug of tea, looking at me with the expression of a man who knows he is about to be dragged into something complicated. He is used to me coming up with ideas that range from mildly chaotic to outright questionable, but this one was different. This one mattered to him.
“Scissor Sisters are playing,” I said, trying to sound casual, as if I had not been sitting on this information for a week.
He froze. He blinked. He looked at me, then at the mug, then back at me. He did not say it, but I could see how much he wanted to go. He deserves a weekend where he is not just my carer. A weekend where he can be Peter, the man who loves music, laughs easily and lights up when something fun is on the horizon.
We sat down together and talked it through properly. The logistics, the accessibility, the sheer amount of stuff we would need to take, and the fact that Festival Spirit, the charity that made our last Wilderness experience possible, could not attend this year. Without them, everything would be harder.
Even so, we still wanted to go. Life is short, and sometimes you have to say yes even when the sensible answer is no. So we booked the tickets. And the house sighed and accepted its fate.
The Wilderness main stage in full swing, the atmosphere we are working so hard to reach this year. Photo: Yolanda Barker
The Ghosts of Camping Trips Past
It has been so long since we last camped that our equipment has apparently taken early retirement. The sleeping bags have vanished. The camping kettle has gone missing. The electric cool box has given up. The deluxe bed is a menace, deflating on one side and gently tipping its victim towards the tent door like a slow, determined shove.
Peter had to empty much of the garage to reach the camping gear. This is the same gear the children borrowed for the Medieval Festival with Flora, the Singleton Giant, so everything had to be checked for nibble marks, mould and medieval debris.
The camping lights had to be thrown away because someone, definitely us, left the batteries in and they had leaked themselves into oblivion. The gas oven was ruled out immediately because it requires the enormous patio gas tank, and unless we strap it to the roof like a bizarre festival mascot, there is no room in the car. The rubber mallet was found in a completely different part of the garage, as if it had been on its own private holiday.
Peter muttered through the entire process. He will continue muttering until Monday.
The Festival Spirit crew at Wilderness, creating the accessible set‑up that made our last visit possible. Photo: Festival Spirit
Festival Spirit: The Gold Standard
We have been to Wilderness before, but we were exceptionally lucky to go with Festival Spirit. They are a charity that transforms festivals for disabled people. They set up a large marquee with private areas, an electric profiling bed, a proper camp bed for the carer, temperature control, electricity, charging points, breakfast and an urn that never stops. Most importantly, they are staffed by volunteers who are funny, warm, kind and genuinely invested in making festivals accessible.
This year, they cannot attend. We were gutted. They make festivals possible for people like me. They also give Peter the chance to relax, watch music, eat, drink and be merry without worrying about whether I am about to be catapulted out of a tent.
But Scissor Sisters are calling. And we still wanted to go. So we are doing it ourselves.
Peter and myself at Wilderness, enjoying a quieter moment before the music and the mayhem. Photo: Yolanda Barker
The Accessibility Gauntlet
Navigating festival accessibility without Festival Spirit is not impossible, but it is fiddly. I have had to apply for a Nimbus Access Card, then accessible wristbands, viewing platform access, accessible toilets, camping and parking. Wilderness is known for being helpful, but it is still a lot of admin when you are doing it last minute.
What It Means for Me
Our tent has a built-in groundsheet, which means a raised lip at the entrance. A small lip, but a lip nonetheless, the sort of obstacle that looks harmless until you try to step over it with limited mobility. It also requires bending down to open and close the door. I suspect the tent will win.
Peter, who is both my husband and my carer, has to do all the lifting. Into the car, out of the car, across the field, and back again on Monday. He is already muttering. He will continue muttering. This is simply part of the festival soundtrack.
We need to be close enough to the toilets to be practical, but not so close that we hear the door banging all night. I self-catheterise, so hygiene is essential. Portaloos are not the easiest places for this. Add to that my bowel issues, which can appear without warning, and we need a plan for changing me, showering me and washing clothes.
Peter relaxing in amongst the audience. Photo: Yolanda Barker
Charging my powerchair is vital. If it dies, I am stuck. Wilderness usually has a charging tent, but if anything goes wrong, I will be moving at the speed of a Victorian chaise longue.
My new month of medication needs to arrive before we leave. With over thirty-two tablets a day, this is not something we can improvise.
Food is another challenge. I have to be careful what I eat, and I currently have a temporary bridge spanning five teeth, making biting impossible. Festival food is not known for its softness. I may be living on mac and cheese and hope.
Packing as a disabled person is not simply throwing things into a bag. The boot will contain my powerchair and its enormous charger. The back seat will contain the tent, cool box, bed, bedding, clothing for all weathers and whatever camping paraphernalia we can squeeze in. I also need my journalist kit: notebook, pens, power bank, phone.
Grant Logan from Ability Today with Yolanda at the Festival Spirit tents. Photo: Peter Barker
Festival fashion in full force at Wilderness, the kind of joyful chaos we cannot wait to dive back into. Photo: Yolanda Barker
And So, We Go
Despite the packing, the medication panic, the tent lip, the missing kettle, the broken cool box and the bed with a vendetta, we are going. Festivals are not just about logistics. They are about atmosphere, music, people and freedom.
And this year, they are also about Scissor Sisters. Peter deserves to see them. He deserves a weekend where he is not just my carer. He deserves to laugh, to relax, to enjoy something that is entirely his.
I want that for him. I want that for us.
Even if we arrive with half our equipment missing, a tent that requires acrobatics and a bed that may or may not fling us into the night sky, we are going. We are doing it. We are embracing the chaos.
If all else fails, we will sleep in the car and call it camping with ambition.
