Fortress Festival Travel Diary - Part V

DISCLAIMER: If you came here for actual journalistic coverage of Fortress Festival—this is not that.

Please head over to [stormbringer.at] for a proper live report with facts, structure, and objectivity.

 

This? This is the personal side.

This one’s got feelings. Spirals. Regret. Way too many thoughts.

It is biased, chaotic, and emotionally compromised.

You’ve been warned.

Sunday. Day Two of Fortress. First band wasn’t until noon, so we actually got to sleep in a bit. Rest our battered bodies.

 

And honestly? It was bad. Not just the blisters—everything hurt. Feet. Legs. Back. I wasn’t even hungover. I’d slept for seven hours. So why did I feel like I’d been run over by a freight train?

 

We took our sweet time getting ready. Planned to have breakfast with a view. You know, civilised. Classy.

But then I checked the time and realised I was supposed to be shooting the first band in 30 minutes.

13:00 on Sunday was your first real choice:

Option A – The Watcher from Fen, giving a talk in the Theatre Room.

Option B – Belore, France’s epic/atmospheric black metal offering, fluting it up on the Ocean Room stage.

 

I went with the flutes.

 

Look, The Watcher had been haunting the press room all Saturday. I’d seen him so many times by now, he was basically part of the furniture. So: epicness it was.

 

And honestly? Worth it.

 

Belore brought grand, sweeping black metal—the kind that breathes, the kind that gives you a moment to rest your nerves and picture windswept mountain ranges and crumbling keeps. It was a welcome contrast to Abduction’s opening assault.

 

Also: they had a flute guy.

When he wasn’t playing, he just stood there—hands behind his back, headbanging like it was a full-time job.

Respect.

But the set? Tight. Brutal. Gorgeous.

Wistful, melodic guitar lines clashing with raw-throated anguish. Fury laced with feeling.

Exactly the kind of set that hits you in the chest and makes you want to scream and hug someone at the same time.

 

Loved it.

Enough rambling about gorgeous men. Jesus.

Next up was a no-brainer.

 

Autumn Nostalgie were playing the Ocean Room—post-black from Slovakia, very tempting.

But there was no way in hell I was missing the Agalloch talk in the Theatre Room.

 

I got there early. Queued up with a bunch of equally curious people.

Scored a decent seat. And I’ll be honest—I had no idea what to expect.

 

Because yes, I love Agalloch’s music. Deeply.

But musicians? You never know. Meeting your heroes is risky.

They could’ve been boring. Pretentious. Dull. Even worse—disappointing.

 

They weren’t.

 

They were funny. Sharp. Unfiltered.

They were also, very clearly—old. Like me. And I say that with deep affection.

 

When they talked about tour planning around childcare and not wanting to headline because “it means staying up too late,” I felt seen. Like, spiritually.

 

I went in with zero expectations.

I left with a full heart, a face sore from laughing, and a bunch of weird little stories that made me love this band even more—if that was even possible.

 

My biggest takeaway: 

They’ve been called black folk metal.

They hate that. As they clarified during their talk: Folk is Joan Baez.

 

Which—honestly—no shade to Joan Baez.

Diamonds and Rust still slaps.

At 16:40, it was decision time again.

Blasphemer was giving a talk in the Theatre Room—biker boots and all.

Meanwhile, another hooded figure in equally stompy footwear was preparing to summon the void in the Ocean Room.

 

I went with Aristarchos. And honestly? No regrets.

 

These Scottish black metallers emerged fully cloaked and hooded, like a coven of cosmic executioners. I didn’t need to worry about facial shots—there were no faces. Just silhouettes and smoke. The backlighting was a gift. The kind that turns a photo into a sermon.

 

Their music hit that sweet spot between suffocating atmosphere and raw, scraping aggression. Cosmic atmospheric black metal, but with teeth.

 

I focused on the light and the weight of it.

And I think that was the point.

But for me, it felt like one long soup of undifferentiated dissonance. Nothing stuck. No shape. No moment.

Just a slow descent into a black hole made of geometry.

 

Again—just me. For many people, this was one of the festival’s absolute highlights. And fair enough.

Composed and semi-recalibrated, I headed to the Theatre. And yeah. It was—empty. Maybe thirty people total. Half of them photographers. Yah. I guess it was a niche talk. I get it. I dug it anyway.

 

NecrosHorns spoke about photography like it was survival. About the toll. The necessity. The philosophy. He sees himself as an artist first, photographer second. And that stuck with me. Quietly. Clearly. Not the most popular talk of the weekend. But for me? An inspiring one.

Nope. Just more of the same. Pummelling. Relentless. Until my brain turned to pulp and begged for mercy. Not my cup of tea. But the audience? Fully onboard. They screamed. They fist-pumped. They raised imaginary banners.

 

So, you know. Vive la différence.

Fortress Festival was drawing to a close. This was the second-to-last band of the weekend. The final one on the Ocean Room stage. And—for the very last time—I dragged my carcass into that particular photo pit.

 

On stage: The Watcher. Not in the press room. Not on a panel. Not giving his eighth interview of the weekend. But actually performing. Finally.

 

And what he was performing was big: Malediction Fields in full—Fen’s 2009 debut, and a fan favourite.

This was what everyone had been talking about.

 

It’s my second time seeing Fen. First time was Prophecy Fest 2024. And yeah, I know they’re a staple. Atmospheric black metal. Bleak. Emotional. Long-running. Beloved. But honestly? I still don’t get it. I didn’t last year. I didn’t this year. There’s always something missing for me—some hook, some spark, something I can cling to. It’s not bad. It’s just not— for me.

 

That said—I might’ve also just been mentally elsewhere. Because while Fen were playing, I was already thinking about Agalloch. The final set. The one I’d been holding out for.

 

So I took the pictures. And then I did what any sensible, battered, emotionally wrecked human would do: I went to the Grand Hall, climbed up to the middle balcony, and got myself a seat. Because this next one?

 

This was the reason I was here.

 

And I was going to savour every. damn. minute.

Feet up. Camera down. Heart wide open.

God. Agalloch. Finally.

I can’t believe I made it this far.

 

I’d been waiting for this set forever. Tickets in hand for what felt like aeons. And ever since setting foot in Scarborough Spa, this has been the beacon. The reason. The thing.

 

Chris and I had secured our sacred balcony seat early enough. Now the stage was hidden behind a full black curtain—first time all weekend. For the last time, I hauled myself into the photo pit. Not without very clear instructions to Chris to guard my seat with his fucking life.

 

The Grand Hall was packed. Every seat taken. Floor swarming. The air was tight with anticipation.

And then—

Red light.

Fog.

So much fog.

 

It came rolling out from under the curtain like a creeping spell. The curtain opened to the recorded intro They Escaped the Weight of Darkness—and still, I couldn’t see a single damn thing. Didn’t matter. Jason was right in front of me. I had ten minutes. I tried to make them count. It was hopeless. The fog was a sentient beast at this point.

 

But I didn’t care.

Because watching those guys perform?

A revelation.

 

I don’t know what I expected.

But it wasn’t this.

 

Don Anderson—you beautiful, wonderful, guitar-dancing chaos wizard. Watching him play was honestly one of the most joyful things I’ve ever witnessed. And then there was John Haughm, delivering deadpan one-liners like: 'This one’s from our new album... from eleven years ago.'

 

It wasn’t just tight. It was personal. There was a connection, a bond—between band and crowd—that felt like electricity under the skin.

 

By now, I’d scrambled back to the balcony.

Chris had kept my seat. Fucking legend.

 

The fog was still absurd. You couldn’t see anything until at least five songs in, when they finally eased up on the dry ice and changed the lighting. It was blistering hot. We were shoulder to shoulder. But no one cared. Because this? This was the moment we came for.

 

Agalloch played across their whole discography—only two tracks from The Mantle, and sadly, not Desolation Song.

Would’ve been the dream.

 

But the final third of the set leaned into Ashes Against the Grain, and they closed with Our Fortress Is Burning… II & III. No tracks could’ve been more fitting for Fortress Festival.

 

And the ending? John and Don were on the floor. Rolling with their guitars like dogs in dirt. Full, glorious ecstasy. I just sat there. Wide-eyed. 'What the fuck' looping in my brain.

 

It was magnificent.

It was unhinged.

It was over way too fast.

 

John gave his guitar one last lash, leaned into the mic, and said: 'Goodnight.'

 

And that was it.

Fortress Festival—done.

Sunday night ended with Agalloch and a sea of black-clad bodies leaving Scarborough Spa in silence. I was gutted. Two days of magic—over. Back at the cottage, I peeled off my boots, took the hottest shower of my life, and crawled into bed. Midnight had passed. It was my birthday. We didn’t say it out loud. Chris just slipped a little non-birthday card under my pillow. No fuss. Just kindness.

 

The next morning, I could barely walk. Every blister had evolved into a sentient demon. I genuinely considered buying beach flip-flops—but pride is a hell of a drug. So I limped around Scarborough anyway. St Mary’s Church. Anne Brontë’s grave. The castle. It was worth it—sky, sea, views, the works.

 

Then came the journey to Rowarth. Should’ve been easy. But we detoured for Tim Hortons—fatal mistake. The food was catastrophic. Right up there with Farrer’s. Then Google Maps lost its mind and sent us through two hours of narrow village lanes and terrifying local drivers. I’ve never feared for my life so often in daylight. The cherry on top? Getting tailgated by two blokes who turned out to be working the pub we were staying at. Cheers, Kenneth.

 

Rowarth itself? Lovely. The Little Mill Inn looked exactly like it had in my daydreams. I’d planned to go hiking. LOL. Instead, we wandered through the village, sat down in the beer garden, and had pints in the sun. There were ducks. One of them bit me in the arse because I wouldn’t share my chips. Honestly? Fair.

 

Later, I showered and collapsed into bed. Chris was flipping through channels when I heard it: the Midsomer Murders theme tune. I almost cried. Not Agalloch. Not fire-breathing Norwegians. Barnaby. On my 40th birthday. In a village pub. Drunk on beer and black metal and the strange perfection of it all.

 

Next morning: Manchester Airport. TSA Foot Inspection.

But you know that story already.

 

We’ve come full circle.