Fortress Festival Travel Diary - Part I

Disclaimer:

Yes, the title says Fortress Festival.

Yes, I’ll cover the music. The bands. The noise.

The bits where everyone nods solemnly and pretends they’re not crying.

But not in this one.

 

This one is about the before.

The baggage, the logistics, the weather-based despair.

 

Because metal isn't just the main event—it's the thread stitching together the chaos in between.

 

So if you're here for setlists and soundchecks, hold tight.

That part’s coming.

First, we stress-pack and scream into the sea.

The last time I flew to England, it was 2016.

I was pregnant.

London didn’t care. But I remember the weight of it—literal and metaphorical.

I left my first kid at home for the first time, convinced the world would collapse without me. It didn’t.

And still, the trip mattered. Because it was London.

Our city.

Well—mine, really. I think Chris loves it because I do.

 

Now it’s 2025. Nine years later.

And everything’s changed.

 

COVID happened.

Brexit happened. (Still hate it. Loudly and often.)

My business was one of Brexit’s many casualties. So that was fun.

Now, instead of gliding through the border with a smile, I need a passport, an ETA, and probably a blood sacrifice like I’m applying for permission to visit an old friend who ghosted me.

 

Still. We’re going.

 

Flights booked. Fortress Festival on the horizon.

And there’s something darkly poetic about returning to a country that no longer feels like home—

just to sit by the sea, and let candlelight and distortion do what therapy can't.

This time, I’m not going to London.

A first, actually. It’s always been London. The comfort city. The known chaos. The familiar skyline.

 

But not this time.

This time it’s Hamburg to Manchester.

A new airport. A new route. A rental car waiting—and it better be a Fiat 500 or so help me God, I will stage a dramatic meltdown in front of the Hertz counter. No more Toyota disappointments. I want a car with sass.

 

From there, we drive to Scarborough.

Yes, Scarborough. As in actual cliffs, sea spray, and seagulls that will try to steal your soul.

We’ve got an Airbnb that looks like a Pinterest board exploded in the best way. You can see the ocean from the window. You can hear the waves.

I intend to stand on that bloody North Coast shoreline for hours.

I miss it. The wind. The bite in the air. The salted edge of everything.

 

I miss the kind of weather that demands reverence.

I miss the sound of water punishing the shore.

I miss standing still and feeling very small, in the best possible way.

 

I want wet trousers. I want cold feet. I want to get it wrong and laugh at the mess.

 

It’s only three full days away from home.

But I am wringing them dry.

Why Scarborough?

Simple. Fortress Festival 2025.

May 31st to June 1st. Two days of noise, catharsis, and probably overpriced vegan burgers.

Agalloch are headlining.

Let me say that again. Agalloch are headlining.

 

And my birthday is on June 2nd.

You see where this is going.

 

There was absolutely no universe in which I wasn’t gifting this to myself.

Because this year, I’m turning 40.

And I am dreading it.

Loathing it.

Still quietly plotting my escape route in case I manage to time-travel my way out of it.

 

I hate birthdays.

Mine especially.

Always have. This year, though? This one’s different.

This one hurts.

 

So if it’s going to hurt, then let it hurt in style.

Let it ache in the glow of stage lights.

Let it ring out in riffs that shaped my spine.

Let it sting against salt air and cider.

Give me the gift of meaningful noise and moments worth capturing.

 

Because that’s all I want to do—

Take photos.

Write things down.

Be quiet and observant and still feel like I’m part of something.

 

And when the music fades, I’ll take a walk along the cliffs and remind the English coastline how much I still love it.

Not that it cares. But I’ve shouted into worse voids.

Let’s take stock.

 

I’ve got the ETA.

I’ve got a passport.

Flights? Booked.

Airbnb? Locked.

Rental car? Reserved (Fiat 500 or I burn down the agency).

Vegan food options? Located, bookmarked, judged.

 

So yes—on paper, this looks like a functioning travel plan.

 

But now we’re packing.

And packing is where dreams go to die.

 

Hand luggage and one small bag. That’s it.

And half of that space? Already claimed by camera gear. Lenses. Cables. Chargers. Laptop. Stuff that weighs more than my will to live.

 

Which leaves me—maybe a pair of pants and a lip balm.

 

And here come the hard choices.

Do I just pack the usual—black jeans, black shirt, black mood?

Or do I take that dress? The one I actually feel pretty in. The one that makes me feel like I’ve got this ageing thing vaguely under control?

 

Is this a trip for sensible shoes, or stupid cute boots that will definitely betray me by hour three?

Because let’s not forget:

I only get one pair of shoes.

One.

If I get a blister before we even leave Manchester Airport, I’m doomed.

Festival over. Just bury me under a merch stall.

 

And then there’s the ultimate nemesis:

The English Weather.

Sunny? Rainy? Both? Snowstorm for vibes?

How does one pack for a climate that changes mood faster than I do?

 

I have no answers.

Only anxiety.

And a rapidly growing pile of “maybes” on my bed.

Trial packing.

 

I need to measure my bags and confront the fact that physics doesn’t care about my packing anxiety.

 

Then the pile of maybes—shirts, jumpers, one pair of trousers I’m still lying to myself about—gets tried on.

 

If it’s not comfortable, it stays home.

If it pinches, pulls, or requires shapewear – bin it.

Let’s be honest, I’m turning 40. I am not getting back into those pants.

They’ve betrayed me for the last time.

Off they go. Good riddance.

 

Then comes the master list:

What to take.

What not to take.

What I want to take but can’t because apparently camera equipment is more essential than a backup hoodie.

 

And finally?

I attempt the impossible:

Fitting everything into those ridiculously small bags.

And crying.

 

I’ll keep you posted.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Not sure if it will contain actual music yet. No promises.