I’m going to the pub tonight, specifically the Inn on the Park in London Fields. I’m going to ride my bike there, sink two or three pints and then, at about nine pm, point my bike north east and keep going until I reach the sea, somewhere past Ipswich. Then I’ll have another pint and maybe a fry up, as it’ll be early morning by then. Thankfully I won’t be the only one idiotic enough to do this, there’ll be over a thousand others doing exactly the same thing…

This is the Dunwich Dynamo and has been the cause of many a sleepless night and panic attacks for me of late. Legend has it that, in 1993 on a balmy Friday night in July, a group of cycle couriers went to the pub after work and decided to cycle to the sea. Since then it’s become a bit of an institution, with more and more cyclists joining in on the none-too-bright idea each year. At 120 miles it’s twice the distance of the ever popular London to Brighton bike ride with the added bonuses of:

· Taking place at night
· Having no backup or organisation whatsoever – you break down, you’re on your own
· Ending up in, err, Dunwich

Sounds great, right? For some reason, I’ve decided that this will be a ‘fun thing to do’ and ‘an experience’ – I then proceeded to mention it to everyone I knew so that I couldn’t chicken out without feeling a bit of a tit. I’ve done a bit of preparation. I cycle to work every day – about 10 miles each way, and I’ve bought a big bag of Haribo and a massive torch. The most I’ve ever cycled in one go is about 40 miles, and that was quite a while ago. Oh dear…

What could possibly go wrong?

So, at about 5:30pm I bundle on to the train to Cannon Street and stand conspicuously opposite another guy with a bike. “You’re not going to Dunwich by any chance are you?” It turns out he was. David is a fellow commuter who had been egged to do it by his mates. He has a lot less stuff than me though. Just a tiny saddlebag with some tools, a water bottle and a couple of energy bars compared to my mountain bike with rack and rucksack containing a tonne of tools, food, drink, clothing and water. David is now worried that he’s under-prepared. I’m now worried that I’m over-prepared and lugging around a load of pointless weight. Not the best start.

We cycle from Cannon Street to London Fields (couple of wrong turns – this will become a bit of theme for the night), picking up a few more stray cyclists en route. Once we arrive, we all go our separate ways to meet our mates and settle in for a couple of warm-up beers. My crew consists of George, who arrives with his hybrid, Stuart who has a cyclocross bike that we all want to steal from him, and Justin and Suzanne, who have both turned up with proper bikes. Racing bikes. Quick bikes. Even before we start the rest of us make a decision not to bother trying to keep up with them. The simple fact of it definitely not being a race really does change the atmosphere of the Dynamo. Sure, there are the few super-fit nutters who’ll arrive on the beach at 2am, but the vast majority will get there when they get there.

Responsible pre-ride preparation

The atmosphere in the park is great; hundreds of bikes and people in bright clothing sitting around, having a Lucozade/beer and filling their faces with bananas. A sneaky look around reveals that the majority are riding on racing bikes, with the rest being hybrids, mountain bikes on slick tyres and a few nutcases on fixies, Bromptons or rusting Halfords-specials with big knobbly off-road tyres. One guy is there with a sandwich delivery bike and a very excited spaniel in the front. Even if it’s not a race, he definitely wins in my opinion. There are people from all over taking part, including a cycle club who have ridden down from Cambridge, a couple from the south of France (why are they here when the Tour is on back home??) and Marco, an Italian guy who has booked a holiday around this. “It’s not too bad for me,” he explains, “once we get to Dunwich I don’t have to worry about getting back to London, I’m just going to carry on.” Marco is a nutter.

People start getting on their way at about 8:30pm, which catches me by surprise as I have to neck the remaining half in front of me and don’t have time for a pee break. Five minutes in, Stuart and George take a wrong turn, but they catch up a few minutes later. Although the photocopied route guide is pretty clear, reading it while cycling is a bit tricky and following the person in front doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to right way. Riding out of London is fun because of the oddness of being in such a huge group, but the traffic is a pain. As we start nearing the outskirts of the city, I start getting into a nice, steady rhythm, but I’m dying for a wee. First pub stop it is then. Justin and Suzanne carry on while we drain a cheeky Foster’s and buy some more Haribo. Back on the bike and as the sun starts to set, it feels like the ride really begins. This is what it’s all about, a big adventure in the dark. It’s nice to see the line of flashing red LEDs snaking off into the distance and people are now starting to be able to ride side by side and have a bit of a chat. Spirits are still high and everyone’s eager to get some miles behind them. I’d been warned about how dark the country lanes are, and that a decent light is essential, so am glad to have the powerful torch I’d strapped to my handlebars (even if it did keep switching itself into strobe mode). People flock to those with lights like moths, eager to avoid any potholes hidden in the shadows.

Responsible refuelling

We decided that we’d try and get another beer in before closing time, so when we see a country pub packed with cyclists emerging out of the night at 11:00pm, we pull over for our second stop and last bit of alcohol for the evening. Probably a good thing – if the pubs were open all night along the route, I doubt I’d get much more than half way. When we’re about a third of the way into the route, we stop on a village green and I tuck into the cheese sandwiches I’d brought along. They taste heavenly after all the bananas and sweets. The man with the dog is there and I feel faintly embarrassed that I’m not quicker than him, but then remember it’s not a race. I chat to a guy who has a nasty cut on the palm of his hand. He stacked it at the edge of the road, taking two others out with him. It’s the only accident that I heard about on the run thankfully – other than when I clipped my right foot out of my pedal and leaned to the left, falling straight on to a grass verge.

The next stop is about an hour down the road, the fabled feeding station at the half way point. Spurred on by the idea of a cup of coffee we head to the entrance, see the massive queue and have a lie down on the lawn instead. Elton, a friend of George’s sits with us, we bump into him quite a few times over the rest of the trip as he speeds off into the distance and we then catch him up. He has pick ‘n’ mix sweets, so quickly becomes my new best friend. It’s strange, even though there is estimated to be around 1,400 people doing the ride this year, we find ourselves passing the same people over and over again. As we leave we’re joined by a bloke who has done this before and feels the need to give us a running commentary. We go through a village about 10 miles later and he points out the town hall where last year’s food stop was. “So hang on, which one is half way then? This one, or the one we stopped at?” I asked worriedly. “This year’s is at 52 miles in,” is his crushing reply. I decide I don’t like him anymore and pull ahead.

The next few hours go by like a very surreal dream. It’s very dark as, even though there’s a full moon, the cloud cover is very thick. On the flipside, this means it’s pretty warm, so I’m still fine in shorts and a t-shirt. My left crank had started to develop a weird ticking noise – I wasn’t worried about it falling apart, but after an hour or so, my mind has warped this into a strange Richie Hawtin-style minimal techno track that I can’t not listen to. Top tip if you’re planning on doing something like this – make sure your bike has a tick, it really helps. “Hold on for the best downhill of the Dynamo,” a voice shouts out of the dark. A mad descent into a village for a few minutes really lifts my spirits. My computer clocks us at over 35mph. The lights turn red at the bottom of the hill. Bugger.

Hallelujah!

At some point around 5 o’clock it starts getting lighter. We’re three quarters of the way there and the sun is coming up. I’m feeling great, we’re so close that I can almost taste the fry up in the café. Oh, hang on, no we’re not, we’ve still got 30 miles to go, and that’s a good couple of hours in the saddle. It’s safe to say that the last part was the hardest for me. It was now daylight, so my mind thought we should’ve finished but we were still chasing down endless (albeit beautiful) country lanes. A smattering of people cheering us on from the roadside cheers me up immensely, but not as much as a sign saying ‘Dunwich Dynamo Bacon Rolls’ outside an enterprising family’s house – without a doubt the finest tasting plastic cup of tea I’ve had in my life. After a good rest, we press on with what now must be my tenth wind. Elton joins us for the remainder of the ride, having met up with us again at the bacon sandwich stop. I also see David again, his lack of luggage doesn’t seem to’ve hindered him, but then all the crap I’ve brought with me hasn’t bothered me too much either, so we both needn’t have worried.

Sand of hope and glory

A few short but fairly brutal hills later and we come across the sight I’ve been dreaming of for the last hour. A simple road sign stating ‘Dunwich 7’ – beautiful. I have a pee behind a bush to celebrate. The last miles fly by and soon we’re coasting down towards the sea. I count at last 40 people cycling back the other way – some are off to the train station to get home and others are cycling all the way back to London. I don’t even consider joining them, 120 miles is enough for me. We pull into the car park and collapse in a heap with Mars Bars and Red Bull. There’s a café and there’s a beach, other than that it’s just bikes and happy, tired people. We meet up with Justin and Suzanne who finished a good hour and a half before us, even though Suzanne had two punctures – I’m glad we didn’t try and keep up. The ride couldn’t have gone any better for us. Not one puncture and the only thing that snapped off was the left arm of my glasses. The weather was good and the wind was behind us the whole way.

The sea that launched a thousand bikes

We chuck our bikes into the furniture lorries and head down to the water. If you’re going to ride 120 miles to the seaside overnight, the least you can do is go in for a swim. The chap with the dog arrives and they both enjoy a splash about too. After a sleep on the beach, a fry up and a bottle of cider, we’re on the coach back to London. It’s all very efficient and we easily pick our bikes up at the other end, and have a chat with Barry, the man behind the whole thing. He’s pleased with how it went and isn’t worried about it becoming too popular and getting out of control, what with the ever increasing numbers taking part year on year. “Cycling makes people better. I don’t mean that in some gushy way, just that doing something like this makes a person brave. And if they’re brave they’ll be more respectful.” We strap our stuff back on our bikes, say our goodbyes and head off to our respective train stations. At London Bridge I’m welcomed with the news that there are engineering works on my line. Sod it, it’s only another 10 miles, and everyone knows commuting is quicker by bike…

More info on the Dunwich Dynamo, what to bring, how to prepare, tips and FAQs here: www.londonschoolofcycling.co.uk/dunwich.html

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Ibiza in the off-season is so quiet you can grow a beard and pretend to be Tom Hanks...

The catch of the day

The South is where we stayed and is characterized by a perfect mélange of long, sandy beaches and hidden away coves to be discovered at the end of winding country roads, surrounded by pine trees and lemon groves. With public transport to Ibiza’s quieter areas pretty much non-existent, it’s an absolute must to hire a car if you want to explore the island. Alternatively, like the hippy and dog we gave a lift to one day, you could try your luck hitch-hiking. (I only hope that if you do take advantage of a free ride, you’ll exercise better bladder control than they did).

Rockin' not ravin' at Es Vedra

In terms of beaches you will be spoilt for choice on the South of the island, with variety and quality enough to warm the cockles of even the fussiest of aficionados. Most of them are smallish coves and nearly every one of them has a beach bar (known locally as chiringuitos) where you can sample the catch of the day, invariably served with bread (that ranges from freshly-baked to hardly edible) and lashings of aioli (garlic mayonnaise).

A sandy siesta beckons...

Other noteworthy beaches are Las Salinas, where the rich and famous strut their tanned torsos, and Cala Vedalla, a small cove with diving and boating nestled within a picture-perfect Ibizan village. One to avoid if you are looking for Balearic bliss is Playa del Bossa. Although Del Bossa is the most famous beach on the island, and decent enough in its own right, it is too busy in the high-season for some ‘me-and-you’ time, and the deserted shabby bars in the off season make it feel like an apocalyptic Mad Max scenario, minus Tina Turner and a small hairy wolf-boy.

The happy couple frolic on yet another deserted beach

A word of warning, before you book yourself a flight, Ibiza is not one for the tight-fisted Don Juan. With meals ranging from 60 – 120 euros for two, drinks and club entrance fees occasionally eye-popping and taxis meters whirring upwards as they whizz up and down the winding roads, you will need a fair bit of dinero to enjoy the best the island has to offer. However, your money will be well spent, though you could soon be forking out again for ring-finger accessories if the holiday goes exceptionally well…

Getting There

There are a host of cheap flights to Ibiza from the UK with operators including Easyjet, Ryanair and Jet2. German Wings, Air Berlin, Transavia and Smart Wings fly from other destinations in Europe. From mainland Spain you’re best trying Vueling. You can also catch a boat from Barcelona, although tickets are often more expensive than flying so don’t expect a cut price journey. (Ben flew return with Ryanair from London Stansted from around 80 GBP per person. He hired a car from Do You Spain).

More Juice

For more info on Ibiza try the detailed travel guide Ibiza Spotlight, or the rather hip blog and newzine White Ibiza.

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Defunct prisons have long made for unlikely success stories in the world of tourism: sites like Alcatraz, Robben Island in Cape Town and S-21 in Cambodia have become pilgrimage points for curious travellers, with a pull almost as powerful as the Golden Gate Bridge, Table Mountain and Ankor Watt, their traditional counterparts. Something in our human nature draws us to ponder the wretched plight of the prisoners who once occupied the empty cells, chalking up the years on bare stone walls, often enduring cold, hunger, beatings, torture and fear of death.

Facing up to a killer

Wrestling the the ghosts of the past is one thing, but who can seriously imagine themselves visiting a fully functioning modern day prison abroad? Bribing your way in as a tourist and coming face to face with thieves, drug dealers and violent criminals? Sound outlandish? Well incredible or not ‘prison tourism’ has become one of the most bizarre travel trends to emerge on the backpacker trail in the 21st century…

San Pedro Prison in Bolivia may not be the first prison in the world to admit tourists, but it’s becoming one of the most renowned after a British drug-trafficker was imprisoned there in the late 90s. Thomas McFadden was shocked when he discovered how things really worked behind closed doors in the Latin American jail – notably that prisoners have to buy their own cells, rapists sent to the prison are apparently routinely murdered by fellow inmates, and that some of the purest cocaine in the world comes from inside the prison walls.

McFadden started prison life as a shopkeeper, before seizing on his lucrative tours idea

McFadden however found a way to use the widespread corruption to his advantage, and hatched a scheme to raise the $5,000 bribe money he needed to pay off his prison sentence. The plan? To take travellers on tours of the prison. Backpackers would pay McFadden a fee for the tour, and he would pay the guards a bribe to let them in, which generated enough money for him to survive and eventually get out. McFadden has long since left San Pedro (in 2000), but sensing the opportunity to carve a prison career for themselves (everyone needs one in San Pedro to pay their way), other inmates took over the prison tour trade, cashing in on the jail’s cult status that has followed in McFadden’s wake.

Spectators musing on the trend may wonder what possesses people to visit prisons. Is it a visceral strand of so-called ‘dark tourism‘, one which compels tourists to experience humanity being punished first-hand? There are some very mixed opinions about the matter, but backpackers passing through La Paz can’t escape the possibility of visiting San Pedro, such are the tours’ fame – they have even been listed in the Lonely Planet guide. The thought of such a visit repels some, who say that backpackers only do it for the satisfaction of being able to say they’ve been inside a Latin American prison – the travel kudos if you will. Whilst stories of visitors being robbed and getting stuck inside are enough to dissuade others. For many, however, it’s quite simply an opportunity not to be missed.

All smiles, but only two are leaving San Pedro today

Erin Pelquest-Hunt, who had read Marching Powder by Rusty Young (the story of Thomas McFadden’s experience as a prisoner), found herself in the latter camp of people while travelling in Bolivia. “Most of the travellers I met in La Paz had been there or were planning on it. It had a bit of a cult following and didn’t sound unsafe at all,” she says. “One of the guys I had dinner with showed me this bracelet made by a prisoner, and I thought something like that would be a great souvenir to accompany an amazing story.”

Although Erin admitted that she was driven by morbid fascination as much as anything, it was something she ultimately couldn’t pass up: “Had I thought about it a bit more I may have decided against going, but travelling is all about new experiences. It sounded all a bit unbelievable, I mean everyone’s heard about prison tours but never in one that’s still operating, especially not one where everyone has jobs. It sounded so unique and something I would regret for the rest of my life if I passed it up, so there were no two ways about it. I had to go!”

Let the inmate win, is our advice

Most visitors agree that it’s hard to tell that San Pedro is even a jail from the outside. Set next to a square in town, the only giveaway that San Pedro is a prison are a couple of guards and some watchtowers. Hearsay tells travellers to loiter in the square until someone approaches to invite them into the prison. Erin’s first impressions of the jail were of nothing spectacular – the guards couldn’t have cared less about them going in, prisoners were not wearing uniforms and the inmates seemed to just be sitting around, chilling out. “It really looked nothing like a prison at all, just a dirty, smelly community… There was even advertising for Coca-Cola.” Incredibly, Coca Cola provides the cash-strapped prison with tables, chairs and umbrellas in return for the exclusive right to advertise and sell its product line (proving you really can’t escape commercialism).

A typical San Pedro tour consists of a guide (usually a member of the strongest gang at the time) taking tourists to the different cell blocks, inside cells, to the cafés, bars, and to the artisans’ stalls for those much sought-after souvenirs. It’s generally a look around the prison in its daily normality. Including the cocaine production. “Every now and then an inmate would have a great big bag of coke sitting there in plain view,” Erin remembers. “I felt like telling some of them to hide it…that they could be sent to prison for that!”

Inmates' wives and children often come to live in the jail

Another ‘unique’ aspect of the prison is that inmates’ wives and children are also allowed to live there, and it’s not always easy for visitors to see children growing up in such an environment. And however ‘normal’ or non-threatening the prison may appear on the surface, it’s important to remember that that is not the case. You only have to read Marching Powder to remember the realities of what goes on inside a Latin American prison. Erin is also very clear about that: “While I felt safe being escorted down dark alleys, you certainly wouldn’t want to be there at night. You could scream bloody murder and no-one would hear.” She goes on to say that “it all felt very safe, and it was only the stories we were told about what went on at night that made us shiver from something other than the cold.”

Certainly the most famous, nonetheless the San Pedro story is not as unique as it sounds: word is starting to get out about other prison ‘experiences’ across the globe. Bang Kwang maximum security prison is just one institution in Thailand making a name for itself among travellers as a ‘must see’ on the backpacker trail (others are Klong Prem and Samut Prakan Central Prison). It’s home to the Thai death row, criminals in for the most serious offences including rape and murder…and generally a handful of Western prisoners at any one time. The trend of visiting Thai prisons started when the families of Western prisoners put up notices in hostels and guest houses, urging passing travellers to go and visit their loved ones because they couldn’t be there themselves all the time. Since then it has become almost ‘fashionable’ amongst backpackers to visit the convicts, and offer some company and goodwill to those with little left to hope for, deservedly or not.

The Angel of Bang Kwang comforts prisoners in the notorious Bang Kwang jail

Deciding whether or not to take advantage of a country’s corruption and visit a prison such as San Pedro seems to be more of a moral dilemma than a decision of free-will. The question is that of motivation. You could visit to inform yourself of a way of life and state of affairs, or to call-on lonely, scared prisoners who are far from home and desperate for friendly faces. Visiting San Pedro in particular helps to fund the inside economy. As everyone has to work to feed themselves, their families and pay their rent, tourists can help them survive on the inside – which is a basic human right. These are all very noble reasons. But how many prison tourists hide behind such a mentality, when all they really want to do is to tell their friends back at home how they visited a prison – an act that was potentially riddled with danger – and therefore all the more interesting to talk about in the pub? It’s difficult to know, and who would really admit to that anyway?

More Info

For the full account of the crazy sub-society of San Pedro Prison in Bolivia then obviously Marching Powder by Rusty Young is your main source, revealing everything from the cells so luxurious they resemble five-star hotel suites to the cocaine-addicted pets of the crack head inmates. Youtube turns up some interesting footage too, here and here, and the BBC chronicles San Pedro in this fascinating photo journal. For more on prison life in Thailand, your essential tomb is The Angel of Bang Kwang Prison, the account of Australian Susan Aldous who has devoted much of her life to helping the inmates living in the ironically dubbed ‘Bangkok Hilton’.

Other Prison Stays & Experiences

The sinister interior of the Hotel Katajanokka

If visiting (supposedly) high-security prisons isn’t on your travel agenda, there’s another much milder alternative to the prison tourism trend to throw into the mix. Jail houses such as Sainte-Anne in Avignon, France Malmaison Oxford and Hotel Katayanokka in Helsinki have all been converted into luxury hotels. At the latter, despite the wide range of mod-cons (no pun intended), all drinks are served in tin cups, guests are labelled with ‘guilty’ stickers and even given iron balls with chains to give them a small taste of what it was like to be an inmate.

For arguably the most bizarre strand of the prison tourism trend, look no further than Louisiana State Penitentiary. Thousands of law-abiding citizens flock to this jail every year for the Angola Prison Rodeo, to watch prisoners compete at everything from the saddle bronc to steer wrestling…

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Mud: a devout regular on the UK festival circuit

So I’m dozing in a slightly musty tent, my legs still caked in mud from the night before, when the familiar far off cry of ‘bollocks!’ awakes me – moments before a fold up chair bounces off the canvas. This is my cue to get up and do it all again.

I loved going to festivals when I was a teenager. In England in the 90s your options were fairly limited – Glastonbury, Reading, Phoenix and the Essential Festival (RIP) were about all the ones I knew about. They were all comprised of much the same setup: big (generally muddy) field, a few whacking great stages and lots of kids filling themselves with as many dodgy substances as they could before they had to go back to their parents’ house. And there’s nothing wrong with that, but the experience begins to wear a little thin as you pass the milestone of 30 and start the rapid descent into middle age.

Indoor arenas get the green light

I like camping, but I don’t like people chucking bottles of piss at my tent. I love the atmosphere of a huge crowd, but I also like not peeing in a trough, having a shower, maybe a little sit down on a sofa. I like eating food that I’ve made myself with a cooker and ingredients from my fridge – burger van fare tends to taste a bit shoddy after a couple of days. Basically, I’m becoming a bit of a grumpy old man, but I do still really like the idea of festivals. It seems that I’m not the only one, and in recent years the UK has seen a sharp rise in the number of festivals hosted at holiday parks dotted about the country. Dedbeat, All Tomorrow’s Parties, Bangface Weekender and Bloc Weekend have provided a more civilised (and I use that term in the loosest possible sense) way of seeing lots of music and getting pleasantly off your head, while still having access to a bed, toilet paper, soap and all those good things.

For the last three years, Bloc Weekend has been my festival of choice – it has a good selection of music firmly plonked at the stranger end of dance music, with headliners over the years including Aphex Twin, Amon Tobin, Autechre, Surgeon, Carl Craig, Luke Vibert and Dave Clark, alongside legends such as Afrika Bambatta, Salt n’ Pepa, Grandmaster Flash, The Future Sound of London, Karl Bartos (of Kraftwerk fame), Model 500 and A Guy Called Gerald. There’s a lot more to see besides the big names though, with five stages running through most of the afternoon and night since Bloc upped sticks and moved to Butlin’s at Minehead – no early closing festival restrictions with indoor arenas.

Put your hands up... if you fancy an early night

For the first two years, Bloc was held at the old Pontin’s site in Hemsby (which has since closed) – a holiday park that somewhat resembles a Soviet prison camp. The much-needed move to Butlin’s has given the festival a slicker, more professional feel and the extra facilities are very welcome. There is a range of accommodation to suit most budgets – from the fairly shed-like Standard Rooms all the way up to the Deluxe Suites (leather sofas, plasma screen tellys and a damn good shower that pins you to the floor). All the Butlin’s facilities are open too, so you can go for a swim in the fantastic pool, go bowling or play endless games of Dance Dance Revolution. A fairly conservative capacity of 5,000 has kept the festival from seeming too busy and it’s rare to have to queue for anything on offer. The Centre Bloc is the main stage with the largest capacity dance floor and a seating area around the back. Red Bloc below it is a similar size (but with a better sound system) with Tec Bloc, Jak Bloc and the new RFID dome a little more on the intimate side. The crowd is generally a mix of twenty to thirty-somethings, but age really isn’t an issue; everyone’s there to have a bit of a dance and hear some great music. There’s a very friendly and welcoming atmosphere around the place and even the security are pleasant, which makes a very refreshing change.

'scuse me mate, got any Garth Brooks?

We turned up on Friday night and quickly checked into our gold apartment (pushing the boat out), right next to the arenas and with a good kitchen and bathroom, and flicked the TV on. One of the clever things about previous Bloc Weekends has been the live video feeds straight to your apartment from the stages, so you can see what’s on right now and working out which stage you want to go to. This feature was absent in 2010 for most of the time and I missed it (it was, however, replaced with a channel playing Groundhog Day on an endless loop – quite fantastic), but the set list in the brochure was well laid out and for the most part the stages ran to time. A bottle of gin found its way into my stomach and the weekend was off with a bang. The atmosphere throughout the festival was fantastic as always – all too often at events like this you end up standing in a room of very serious looking young men, scratching their chins and not dancing, at all. Bloc isn’t like this. Even the more famously chin-scratchy acts like Autechre had everyone moving – even though they killed the lights and had no visuals whatsoever. Moving on through Saturday night into Sunday morning, Surgeon was on top form, with an amazing set culminating with Outlander’s The Vamp, which nearly tore the roof off.

Dancing in the dark

My only criticism of the lineup (apart from the clash of Autechre and Model 500 – argh!) would be that it sometimes got a bit too relentless. Lots of harsh Dubstep and pounding Techno is fun and all, but it’s refreshing to hear a proper tune occasionally, so when Grandmaster Flash dropped White Lines, or Salt n’ Pepa played Push It, or even when Mix Master Mike scratched over System of a Down it felt like a breath of fresh air. Luke Vibert, Grandmaster Flash, Mixmaster Mike and Salt n’ Pepa helped to keep the party atmosphere going and Bloc stalwarts AGT Rave Cru delivered on the promise of an amazingly tight set packed with floor fillers that got the Sunday afternoon going with a bang, but all too often it was glitchy drums and wobbly basslines, so if that isn’t really your thing, be warned. This isn’t Ibiza house and (thankfully) you won’t see Basshunter on the bill any time soon.

Sunday is fancy dress day at Bloc, last year it was 80s themed, this year it was weddings. Lots of men in white dresses, vicars and bridesmaids wandering around with kept everything nice and silly for the last day and provided a much needed energy boost after two days of solid dancing.

Things get blurry...

One other thing to mention is the new RFID Fenchurch dome. A tiny stage with amazing visuals projected all over it. It worked particularly well for the opening set of Digitonal – lush cinematic music with a hint of a 303 here and there. A very nice way to while away an hour, lying on the floor with yet another pint of mediocre beer from a plastic cup.

I’m fairly embarrassed to say that by the middle of Sunday night, I was done, broken, knackered. My feet refused to dance anymore, so with a tear in my eye I made the decision to not stay out for Derrick May. Popped to Pizza Hut to pick up a takeaway and sloped off back to the apartment to watch a documentary on Saturn’s rings on the BBC (and Groundhog Day for the 6th time – Andie McDowell is very annoying by this stage…). But, Andy McDowell aside, that’s one of the things I love about this festival – it’s nice to be able to do things like that. If I’d been at Reading, my only escape would’ve been to sit outside my tent, dodge the bottles of piss and listen to some talentless moron playing Wonderwall on an acoustic guitar…

For more info and tickets for Bloc Festival 2011 head over to the Bloc official website.

More Festivals for the Over 30s…

Relax, take it easy... at the Big Chill

ATP Festival
All Tomorrow’s Parties’ yearly UK shindig is, like Bloc, held at Butlin’s holiday camp in Minehead. Matt Groening (of Simpsons’ fame) ‘curates’ for 2010 and amongst the big names playing in May are Iggy and The Stooges, Spiritualized, Joanna Newsom and Coco Rosie. A perfect venue and line up for enjoying ‘the twilight of your youth’.
When: 7th – 9th May 2010
Where: Butlin’s, Minehead
Website: www.atpfestival.com

The Big Chill
The original festival for ageing ravers, The Big Chill was founded in 1995 when the organisers realised that the down times were becoming much more enjoyable than the ‘up times’. So couldn’t we just get rid of the messy noisy and let’s face it dangerously unhealthy prelude to the cosy chill out sessions? Decent grub, a slew of masseuses and therapists, plus of course several days of downtempo audio magic make this a perennial fave for festival goers who have outgrown the leg warmers and whistles.
When: 5th – 8th August 2010
Where: Eastnor Castle, Herefordshire
Website: www.bigchill.net

Camp Bestival
The sister festival of Bestival on the Isle of White, Camp Bestival is timed for the first week of the school summer holidays in Lulworth Castle set on the Jurassic Coast of Dorset. A mix of a holiday camp and music festival, kids of all ages are invited with those under 10 years of age entering for free. There’s an animal farm, kids entertainment area and an eclectic line up which in 2010 includes Madness, Calvin Harris, Chipmunk, Mr. Scruff and of course, the main man, Rob da Bank.
When: 30th July to 1st August 2010
Where: Lulworth Castle, Dorset
Website: www.campbestival.net

For more festive fun, take a look at Urban Travel Blog’s guide to the weirdest and coolest festivals for 2010.

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It was Toni Terry who started the trend earlier this month, jetting off to Dubai for some winter sun after ‘revelations’ that her husband, Chelsea captain John Terry, had being doing the dirty with a lingerie model behind her back. Everyone knows that footballers’ wives are slaves to new crazes, so perhaps it was no surprise that WAG Queen, Cheryl Cole, jumped behind the reins of the bandwagon and urged it on at full pace to Los Angeles, after it transpired that her own beloved beau, Ashley (…also of Chelsea FC), had been sending saucy pics of his top striker to a rival chavette. Who would have thought it?

Although the public at large might enjoy a laugh at the predictable messes that these material girls get themselves in for with their no-good but filthy rich husbands, the truth is we’ve all picked a wrong ‘un down the line – and usually discovered our mistakes the hard way. And whilst we don’t want to give too much credit to Cheryl and co., their idea of dealing with heartbreak via a holiday has got to be their greatest contribution to society they’ve made thus far (except for maybe this video). So to celebrate the unlikely occasion of WAGs starting a new travel trend Urban Travel Blog have decided to come up with their own list of great getaways for all the jilted Romeos and Juliets out there. From the self-indulgent to the spiritual, with plenty of single shenanigans in between, here are our seven best holidays for getting over your ex-boyfriend or girlfriend… they’re almost worth getting dumped for.

Self Love Island

A spa on Hvar: the holiday the boyfriend can't spoil

No, not that type of self love (…although it can’t hurt). In this instance we mean take the chance to treat yourself how your ex should have been treating you, if they weren’t too busy making whoopy with their new colleague from work. Now is the time to book yourself a single room at the Spalmaris Spa resort in Hotel Podstine on the almost Arcadian island of Hvar in Croatia. When you’re not busy getting rubbed down by some Slavic sexpot or getting the princess treatment with a Mediterranean Royal Pedicure, you can always rub bronzed shoulders with Europe’s yachting elite in Hvar harbor. Where better to be revitalized and single?

Retail Remedy in Rome

Expensive? Frankly my dear...

Spending money on yourself is a good way of reaffirming your self worth in the face of your unceremonious jilting. Especially if it’s with your partner’s credit card, or you’re draining the joint account. Why not head to Rome for a splurging spree – it may not have quite the associations with fashion as Milan does, but you’ll find all the same designer names, plus amazing markets such as Porta Portese and Campo de Fiori. Guys should remember not to use up all your ex’s credit on the first day… after all you’ll want to save a fair few euros for buying champagne for the sultry Italian of your dreams at Bloom club. Whilst girls would be well-advised to die their hair blond and wander around with a map in their hand looking helplessly lost (and single) … the dark handsome strangers will be lining up to whisk you away in their Vespas.

Mead in Manhattan

There’s nothing like a good drinking session to get over an ex… or at least numb the pain for a few blessed beer-soaked hours. If mead is your favourite medicine then ‘hop’ on a plane to New York and sign up for a tour of the Chelsea Brewery, one of the few still operating in Manhattan. Meet Market Adventures organize single tours of this sacred site, giving you an alcohol-fuelled chance of continuing the fun long after last orders has been called on your quest for the Holy Ale.

Photo Therapy

Prague's breath-taking scenery cures all ills

What you need in a time of emotional crisis is – pun intended – something to focus on. If that thing happens to be a stunning Czech model so much the better. Sign up for a week learning the art of photography with Aclass and not only will you pit your lenses against the amazing architecture of Prague and Brno – two of Europe’s most beautiful cities – but you’ll also learn how to direct a fashion shoot with a Pantene model and Miss Czech finalist, amongst other good lookers! Alternatively, for a one-day experience that will get your shutters in a flutter why not try your hand at photo dating in London?

Art Break City

…a much healthier destination than Heartbreak City for the spurned singleton is balmy Barcelona. Pack your paintbrushes and head over to the Catalan capital where Swiss-born art therapist Cora Egger will teach you how to easel the pain away in her specially-designed LOM studio. According to her studies (and she holds several diplomas in the field) painting can be a very effective tool for externalizing all manner of traumas and drawing a portrait of your ex (presumably so that you can savage it afterwards) can prove surprisingly beneficial. If it doesn’t work then there’s always Barcelona’s sunny beaches, raucous nightlife and plenty of cheap Cava to fall back on…

A Drop In The Ocean

Ex-girlfriend equals ex-problems

Nothing will seem more insignificant than your ex when you’ll battling the might of Atlantic ocean armed with only a 2m piece of plastic. Enrol at the Berbere surf camp in Morocco and not only can you spend every day receiving expert tuition at arguably the world’s most sexy sport, but you’ll be surrounded by amazing scenery and the local customs of the indigenous Berbere people. And if you don’t fall in love with Mother Nature and the ocean, then there’s always those superfit surfing instructors to sidle up to.

Medicinal Meditation

If you need a complete a mental rehab, how about locking yourself up in a Thai monastery – for a minimum of 10 days – where orange-clad monks will half starve you to death whilst encouraging you to achieve 8 or 9 hours of meditation per day? Just outside Chiang mai, the 15th Century shrine of Wat Rampoeng offers meditation lessons along with a set of rules that makes Her Majesty’s guests at Whitemoor seem privileged, on your painful path to enlightenment. If that particular brand of catharsis doesn’t sound like your cup of tea then you could opt for the opposite Thai treatment… Bangkok’s finest ladyboys are just down the road.

So that just about covers our vacations and travel breaks for the broken hearted. The next time you find yourself in Dumpsville, don’t mope about on the sofa; take some time off work and jump on the ex tourism trend. New environment, new skills, new people… being single could be the best thing that ever happened to you. And you never know, some time away might from home might just have the ex begging to get back with you… especially if he’s a pathetic weasel like John Terry. Just say no Toni!

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