Back From Oakleaf…..

So we went to Yorkshire for the weekend, for the annual Oakleaf Lammas Camp. Having started it all those years ago, we can’t very well not turn up for it, can we?
It was quite damp, mostly. Friday, when we arrived, was thankfully dry so that we could set up our tent without hurry.
Saturday it rained. And it was also the day I had one of my mammoth tachycardia attacks that lasted for around 14 hours. One way or another, I would have been stuck in the tent all day anyway.
It’s always hard explaining my tachycardia attacks to people. I tell them it’s a heartbeat irregularity and they immediately start thinking “Heart attack!” and asking if I need a doctor. And I have to reassure them that it’s not that serious, I just need to lie down flat somewhere quiet and wait for it to finish. One friend said I should be seeing the on-site herbalist and I’m afraid I snapped her head off about that. No amount of herbs can stop a tachycardia attack once it’s started; and there isn’t much a herbalist can do for it anyway. I’ve had this condition for years, I’ve researched it, I’ve talked to doctors about it, I belong to a Yahoo support group where we talk about causes and treatment. There isn’t a lot I don’t know about tachycardia, but what I do know is that herbs don’t help.
So I spent the day lying in bed, reading and listening to my iPod (I’d anticipated being rained in, so had bought along plenty of stuff to keep me entertained), with B looking after me. The only problem was toilets. The fantastically fast heart-rate of tachycardia means I get dizzy when I’m upright and breathless when I try to walk; it also means that that my kidneys process and produce urine faster than usual. At home, whether I’m upstairs or downstairs, a toilet is never more than a few steps away, with conveniently-placed walls all the way that stop me from collapsing in a heap. So dealing with the excess kidney output isn’t a problem when I’m having an attack there. At Oakleaf though, our tent was on one side of a very large Yorkshire field with a toilet on the other side, a very long way away. I managed the trip just once, with the help of my stout walking stick and a couple of chairs left outside tents. After that however, I decided to forestall any more trips by eating nothing and drinking only sips. A camping toilet might be an idea for next year, perhaps.

Anyway, by Saturday night I’d recovered sufficiently to wobble along to the marquee where I was able to catch a terrific performance from Damh The Bard. Never heard him before, but now I’m a fan – heck, I’ve even paid (gasp!!) to download a couple of his songs; they’re good, but the live performance, with an appreciative audience providing backing for the choruses, is definitely better.

Sunday was dry and nostly sunny – we just lounged, mostly and I helped Pauline with the stall for a few hours. Then the Wickerman ritual began – strange costumes (everything from a pantomime dame to a Green Man to kilted pipers to to very High Priests and Priestesses in full finery), chanting, storytelling, dancing, drinking, revelry. Plus the ceremonial Burning (we didn’t have a virgin Christian policeman, but where do you find one these days?). I didn’t dance, just shuffled around for a circling. But then I sat and watched the joining together of this community in a single joyous rite, and I thought “This is my tribe, my people….”

And Monday moring we packed up and came home, to hot showers, hot food and a warm bed.