Fortress Festival Travel Diary - Part II

Day 5. Well. Officially, there's no Day 5. Fortress Festival is a two-day affair. But for me? It's Day 5.

The day after the noise. After the birthday. The comedown.

I’m sitting at the airport, chewing on yet another sad vegan pre-packed sandwich and sipping yet another wildly overpriced oat cappuccino from Starbucks. 

I’m wearing my Fortress Festival shirt, which almost derailed the entire security line because I apparently can’t listen to instructions and speak at the same time.

Picture the scene: me, frazzled beyond repair in the security line.

I step into the scanner—naturally, I get flagged. Of course I do.

The very polite security lady waves me over.

'Sit down, love. Left foot first.'

I’m wearing my boots. Because it's the only pair of shoes I've brought to England. Because I am an idiot. Boots that took me ten minutes to strap on this morning. My feet are now blister mosaics held together by plasters and regret. I am praying now she is not making me take them off.

And then—from the abyss—comes this voice:

'Oh, is that a metal band on your shirt? Fortress?'

NO.

Not now, Liam. Not while I’m trying to survive TSA Foot Inspection.

'Can you straighten the leg for me?'

'It’s—uh—been a two-day festival. In Scarborough this weekend.'

'Cool, is it like… death metal?'

'Right foot now, love.'

'Uh, no, mostly black metal—'

'RIGHT FOOT.'

'JESUS.'

Liam, bless your painfully chipper curiosity, but I am clinging to composure by a single blister plaster.

Eventually, I survive. Dignity: questionable. Sanity: fractured.

Now I’m at the gate. Too early. Wired. Headphones on. And for the first time in days, I can finally write.

Because holy fuck—my head is full.

Noise. Light. Sweat. Joy.

So much happened, and I need to trap it in words before it scatters.

So.

Let’s rewind.

 Manchester Airport. Shuttle to the rental village. And there she was—

The Fiat 500.

Tiny. Ridiculous. Equal parts sass and questionable judgement.

We could’ve had a BMW. Sleek. Grown-up. Sensible.

But no. I wanted personality. I wanted flair. And I got it. 

We left the car park with zero clue how British roundabouts worked or what counted as a traffic crime. I was no help. Too busy staring out the window, yelling at sheep, rolling green hills, stone walls, and the sheer, overwhelming Britishness of it all. I was thrilled. I was buzzing. Every time we passed a sign that said “Scarborough,” I whooped like a maniac.

Chris, meanwhile, was white-knuckling the steering wheel. He’s my hero.  A legend. A man who did not murder me for navigating like a distracted goblin. Let’s not talk about the brief episode of wrong-way driving. Or the roundabout we escaped via instinct and panic. We made it. That’s all that matters.

Scarborough appeared on the horizon like a dream: The sea, the ferris wheel, the fairy lights along the esplanade. The Grand Hotel rising from the cliff like something out of a gothic novel.

Parking, of course, was hell.

Scarborough Old Town is made of hills, cobblestones, and medieval spite.

There are no gentle inclines, only gradient rage. I would’ve rolled the Fiat straight into the harbour. Thankfully, I wasn't driving.

We parked by St. Mary’s Church. On a street called Paradise. Which, frankly, felt appropriate.

Five minutes later, we reached the Airbnb.

Red wooden door. Narrow, creaking stairs. A sea view from the second floor.

Waves crashing. Gulls screaming.

I stood by the window, running on adrenaline and fumes, and thought:

This is home. For now.

Six hours later, Fortress Festival would begin.

I woke up freakishly early. Probably because I was excited. But mostly because I was starving. And I get grumpy when I’m hungry, so I dragged myself into the shower, got dressed, and set out on a mission: food.

There’s a Marks & Spencer in Scarborough—of course there is—and I’d already mentally bookmarked it for daytime supplies. It’s a ritual at this point. England? M&S. We stocked up on sandwiches, crisps, some basics for the flat, and grabbed coffee from Grind Coffee Shop. Honestly? A solid little breakfast.

And then the outfit dilemma began.

You remember the dress. The one I bought specifically for this trip. The one I packed with the intention of being “that person.” I put it on. I really did. Lasted five minutes. Took one look in the mirror, sighed, and changed into black jeans and my Uada shirt.

Thank god I did.

Because it turned out that photographing bands in the Ocean Room required actual physical agility. Crawling. Ducking. Flat on the floor. There’s no way that dress would’ve survived. Or me, for that matter. So, on this rare occasion, my spiralling self-consciousness turned out to be an asset. I dressed for the job. Sensible. Functional. Efficient.

If only I’d applied the same logic to shoes.

Remember how I half-joked about bringing only one pair? That wasn’t a bit. I brought one pair. The Dr Martens. Sturdy, yes. Great for height, yes. Perfect if someone stomps your foot in the pit. But also? Heavy as sin. By the time we were halfway through Day One, I had a matching set of blisters and no backup. Just three more days of pain and poor decisions.

Future me: please. Bring the trainers. Leave the dress.

Scarborough Spa was only a fifteen-minute walk from the cottage. Took us forty. Because Scarborough is stupidly picturesque and I had a camera. The weather was stunning—blue skies, tufty clouds, sun-drenched beach. Kids ran along the sand, and honestly, all I wanted to do was ditch the boots and wade into the surf. But alas, that wasn’t on the schedule.

Scarborough Spa is—a lot. A seafront sprawl of staircases, golden railings, and long carpeted corridors that feel like they should lead to a dental convention—but instead, they lead to riffs. It’s part theatre, part municipal maze, and once you learn the layout, it’s actually brilliant. I love everything about it. It shouldn’t work—but it absolutely does.

The Grand Hall held the main stage—and was equipped with a balcony that saved my legs and my soul more than once. Across the building was the Ocean Room, where all sense of order went to die. Smaller stage, chaotic lighting, five-minute photo limit, and a low barrier photographers weren’t allowed to stand in front of. We perched like gargoyles, trying not to fall face-first into the pit. It was brutal. It was perfect.

Then there was the Theatre Room—seated, intimate, absolutely rammed. You had to queue early or miss out. No mercy.

But the real sanctuary? The press room. Nestled between the Grand Hall and the Theatre Room, it had everything: charging stations, coffee, actual restrooms, a quiet sense of “you’re doing fine.” A fortress within Fortress.

It’s where I met Dom—the man, the myth, the reason I had a press pass at all. He spotted me, asked my name, and we finally put a face to the helpful email threads. He’d arranged my interview with Osi and the Jupiter and promised to ping me once they arrived.

So I wandered. Shot what I could. Tried to blend in with the real photographers—the ones with lenses longer than my leg and no trace of panic behind their eyes. Impostor syndrome didn’t scream, but it hovered. Quietly. Like a goth bat.

I didn’t catch every band. Not even close. There wasn’t any overlap between the Main and Ocean stages, which was genius—but the Theatre Room? Full-on clash central. Add in an interview, the occasional blood sugar crash, and the fact that I am a human being with legs made of pain, and yeah—some sets got sacrificed.

Speaking of crashing: let’s talk food.

Farrer’s, the Spa’s in-house restaurant, attempted nourishment. Takeaway boxes. Outdoor seating. Wooden cutlery. The dream was seaside serenity. The reality? Sadness in a compostable container. It was worse than airplane food—and I don’t say that lightly. I threw most of it away. First festival I’ve ever rage-quit a meal.

Luckily, salvation existed in the form of the Suncourt—pizza, a German Wurst stand, and a little stall called Goth Burger, which felt aggressively on-brand. They served actual black-bunned burgers. The queues were medieval, though. Dom waited over an hour for a slice. A warrior.

Merch was scattered through the venue, like a scavenger hunt for nerds in battle jackets. Main Stage bands had tables downstairs, Ocean Room bands upstairs. It worked. It flowed. It felt weirdly logical.

And the Eisenwald table?

Absolute carnage.

Especially on Sunday. But we’ll get there.

Let’s just say this: Agalloch merch?

Booming.

So that was the start. Airports, oat milk, a Fiat 500, and Scarborough Spa in all its faded grandeur. The press pass was secured. The venue explored. The dress abandoned.

Next blog, we get to the reason I came here in the first place. The music. The madness. The bands that rattled my bones and made all the logistics feel worth it. Finally.