Jaggy Jam

OK, I admit it, I was a hippy… I guess, at heart, I still am.

But I wasn’t simply a hippy, back in the early eighties I became something of a gypsy, a new age traveller, my home was a converted ambulance mini-bus — what’s known as a live-in wagon — in which I’d built a bed, installed a water tank, loo and shower, cooker, sound system and TV.

I never got around to building myself a wood burning stove, but I kept myself warm and snug with a propane gas heater.  It was really comfortable and as I was living alone, I had plenty of space and it never felt cramped.

There was a peoples’ music-arts-fringe event of some kind every week or two.  Around midweek, those of us who lived and worked on the circuit packed up our belongings, stamped out the last glowing fire embers, filled up our live-in vehicles with diesel or petrol, and it was ‘wagons ho’ as we set off on the journey to the next event.

In the UK there existed a hardcore of new age travellers, fragmented into an assortment of raggedy-arsed bands of aging and new age hippies, peace loving bikers, entertainers, organic wholefooders, green politicos, teepee dwellers and bender builders, incense burners and dope heads all trailing around in a variety of vehicles, some quite fantastical and imaginative, and many barely roadworthy.

Many earned a living on the festival circuit by bartering or selling their skills, wares or labour — I sold comics and retro clothing at the more affluent gigs, and fruit and veg at peace camps — I’m nothing if not versatile!

When I got my first live-in wagon and started trucking around the UK – both independently and as a member of a fluid group – it felt like I’d come home, and during this period of my life, I experienced some intensely spiritual moments.

During the winter months, the numbers dwindled and those of us who remained on the road, spent our time effecting mechanical repairs and interior refits while we were parked up at peace camps or private farmland (by invitation or with permission of the owner) or occupying common land.

When live-in vehicles travelled in convoy, their number attracted the attention of local police, who would sometimes escort the convoy to the town or county boundary, and these occasions were mostly friendly, non-confrontational affairs.

However, there was one occasion after Ling Festival in Suffolk, when a bunch of us were on route to a farm where we planned to spend the winter.  I was driving my bus at the rear of a convoy of about 10 or 12 vehicles, progressing down country roads winding through heavily wooded countryside, and we had attracted a police escort.

Up ahead, the convoy had been halted because one of the lead vehicles had run out of diesel, and the order had just reached back to the guy ahead of my vehicle.  Just as I was pulling to a stop, a car passed from the opposite direction and, in its wake, something flew past my side window on my right (it’s the UK).

As I refocused on the road ahead, to my horror, I saw that a policeman had been knocked down and was lying injured and motionless in the middle of the road, and I realised that it was the officer’s police helmet that I witnessed flying past my side window moments earlier.

I leaped out of my bus and ran to the assistance of the policeman on the ground, there were police nearby and I called to them for help, but was dismayed by the slow response.  Then I shouted out that it was one of their men that was hurt, and immediately there were police officers running towards us from every direction!

As the police had the situation in hand, I ran back to my vehicle to get blankets for the stricken man, but was aghast when I saw that two young police officers were sitting on the bonnet of their police car with their arms and legs outstretched in front of them as they struggled to prevent my wagon rolling back into their police car!  When I’d jumped out of the cab, I neglected to put on the hand brake!

Fortunately, they were very good-natured about it, after all, I’d only done what I’d done in an effort to help their colleague.

Then things got a bit heavy, not for me, but for my friend who was driving his wagon ahead of mine.  The police jumped to the conclusion that it was my friend’s vehicle that had knocked down their colleague, and they weren’t happy.

Before it all got ugly, fortunately, events were pieced together and it transpired that it had been the car that shot past in the other direction that had struck down the injured copper.  He had a broken leg and concussion, but other than that was going to be OK.

The entire experience was a bit surreal really, the light was diminishing as dusk fell, and we were in the depths of the English countryside with moon-dappled woodland surrounding this alien montage of frenzied activity populated by hippies and police!

Ah, happy, carefree times!

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