Like an army of turtles hatching from their eggs and heading towards freedom, festivalgoers attending Electric Picnic make their way to the campsites on Friday morning.
Wearing big gym gear bags on their backs like shells, they shuffle forward slowly in unison, the weight of their load holding them back. One small step for man, one giant leap for festivalkind.
A total of 70,000 people are descending on the Stradbally Estate in Co Laois as the annual arts and music festival returns this weekend.
Just after 10.30am on Friday, three friends in the green car park are trying to balance camping chairs, sleeping bags and bags of clothes on a wheelable shopping basket.
“I don’t know if I’m mentally able for this,” one friend says, trying to tie the items to the basket with red rope.
“This is only the beginning,” her friend replies.
The third friend, who can only be described as supervising from a distance, chimes in: “We are all in this together.”
All for one and one for all really is the motto when it comes to camping at a festival. One woman looks as if she’s about to keel over from the three bags she’s already holding. That doesn’t stop her though: “I can probably grab something else?”
“No, I’m fine,” her boyfriend mutters, rolling his eyes and laughing at her as he contends with five different bags. Let it never be said that chivalry is dead.
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Ellen Jane Oates, who is attending with her two friends, is in disbelief: “The walk from the car park to the campsite was harder than the Leaving Cert”.
But the trek from the car park is only the first challenge faced by those attending the annual event. Pitching the tent is a whole other matter.
Orla McGinty (18) is attending for the first time with her three friends. She and her pals stand next to her half-pitched tent, plaiting their hair.
“Yeah, we couldn’t do our tent so we got the scouts to do it. We didn’t think it would be so big. My mum said it was a small tent,” she shrugs.
There is a lot of excitement about the weekend’s acts among the group, particularly to see Inhaler, the rock band fronted by Bono’s son Elijah Hewson.
“They’re all so hot,” the friends whisper conspiratorially to each other.
There are two different groups in the campsites early on Friday morning: those bordering on tears and those who can relax and sit by their already-pitched tents.
Groups of boys tend to blare tunes out of their Bluetooth speakers, drinking cans at 10am. Time is but a construct on the Stradbally estate.
The girls and young women are much more civilised. Sitting in a circle, they painstakingly apply jewel after jewel to their face. Some might say being a surgeon is an anxiety-inducing endeavour, but those people have clearly never tried to apply face gems with tweezers when Orchard Thieves or vodka is pumping through your veins.
By 1pm, a crowd has gathered at the entrance to the main arena nearest to the Jimi Hendrix campsite. The gates haven’t opened yet, and it will be another 40 minutes before they do.
“F**king ridiculous,” one man says. “Let’s go back to the tent and get more cans.”
