“How much booze is left?” asked Jeff.

Ant shook the bottle - a slosh that said ’not enough’ - not for being so far out in the woods. He swallowed some down, wondered how drunk he actually was, and passed the bottle back.

“Where did you say this was?”

Jeff gestured. “Somewhere about.”

This was the dregs of Ant’s thirtieth birthday. Only five people had turned up for the pub, and that included him. Phil and Jenny had to leave early for the babysitter, and Thomas had work the next day, so it was still relatively early when only Ant and Jeff were left to celebrate the dying minutes of Ant’s twenties. Jeff was only there because of his recent breakup.

And then Jeff had said “I heard there was a rave in the woods near the uni.”

It was either that or finishing the night back at Ant’s. They picked up some coronership whiskey and grabbed a taxi, figuring they had just enough money to reach the far edge of Hollingbury, so the driver dropped them off in the car park in the woods. Jeff wasn’t sure exactly where the rave was, but it was a warm enough night that walking about wasn’t unpleasant.

“Shouldn’t we be able to hear something?” asked Ant.

“The trees are probably hiding the sound, and it could be anywhere round here. We should keep looking.”

They continued walking, the night bright enough that the path was easy to follow. “Remember that rave back near Winchester,” asked Jeff. “The one where you met that girl?’

They talked about the old days, more than ten years ago, when Ant had fallen for a girl called Moonbeam. About cramming themselves into Phil’s car, how eager they’d been to take powders and pills, guzzling them because some crusty told them they were good. And, most times, they were.

They reached the road into Stanmer, and Jeff admitted that it might be the other woods where the rave was, the ones close to the campus. Ant was sure they’d still be able to hear something of a rave from here, if it existed, but said nothing, not wanting to argue with his friend, not wanting his birthday to be memorable for a row.

“Can I have another swig?” Jeff asked.

This wasn’t a 30th birthday, this was a cautionary tale about growing older. There had been no presents at the pub, other than not having to pay for a round. With no taxi money they faced a long walk home, which would feel even longer if this was a wasted journey.

“Can we get a late bus back from the Uni?” asked Ant.

“Let’s see.”

The campus was quiet when they arrived, but there was a bus in twenty minutes. They were the only ones waiting at the stop, which meant the students were all asleep or having fun in town. When the bus arrived they asked how much it was, and their remaining money would only stretch to a single ticket. “You take it,” Jeff insisted. “It’s your birthday.”

Ant took the bus and Jeff took the last of the booze. The bus route was not direct, going round some other campuses, and Ant could feel himself grimly sobering up. You assume that the way things are at eighteen are the way things are going to be forever. The worst thing about last times was that you never knew at the time. He had thought his life would be full of raves and girls like Moonbeam. Now all he had was a birthday where his only present was a bus ride back to his studio flat.

Some Background

One of the threads I want to follow in this series of stories about the South Downs Way is the road protest movement. The Twyford Downs protests near Winchester were one of the movement’s major battles. I want to write about this alongside acid house music which was also seen as a threat to Britain’s status quo - one theory I’ve read is that it was ecstasy and rave culture that ended football hooliganism. The combination of acid-house and protests looked like it might lead to something great and never did.

Ant’s story will feature the Twyford Downs. It will reflect much of the failure and disappointment of the road protests, but it will also offer an opportunity to talk about the hope that existed then.

Recommendations

There are some good books about the Twyford Down protests, such as Helen Beynon’s history Twyford Rising, but my favourite is Emma Must’s The Ballad of Yellow Wednesday. A book of poetry, this beautifully captures the bravery and commitment of the Twyford protestors, as well as the viciousness of the forces against them. Must’s poetry is a powerful account of the doomed struggle.