Tartan Heart ended in a sudden change of pace, if not a pause of action. Saturday night had seen minor classes of violence, drug overdoses, wild parties, and all that stereotypes the dark side of music festivals until suddenly the sun came up and exposed a barren landscape of collapsed tents and rubbish-strewn fields. The policemen massed in numbers and grew more forceful, and those festival-goers whose mobile phones had run out scowled and searched in vain for a charging socket. Lines of hung-over lads waited for bacon sarnies, shivering from early morning cold weather and the alcohol that was slowly leaving their systems. Emerging from destroyed tents, a few unlucky campers blinked in the sunlight and wondered glumly how it was that someone managed to break their tent poles during the night.
During that night of drunken chaos and into the next day as bags were packed and hoisted into the back of cars and the festival ground slowly to a halt I wandered the campsite alone, my camera in hand. The following are a few shots of frenzied bedlam, drunken revelry, relieved celebration and exhausted acceptance:
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