A Slice of the Seventies: First book of The Mug Trilogy
Best Book Bit:
They bustled off their second ferry within twenty-four hours and onto Isle of Wight soil, the last leg of their journey, mingling with swarms of other festival-bound hitchhikers lugging rucksacks.
They sensed an air of unease amongst the residents living in the vicinity of the festival. There was understandable suspicion in the eyes of many of the residents, as nobody knew how they would be affected by such a vast influx of young strangers. Fears of pilfering, violence, defecation, and urination in their gardens and streets abounded. The three weary travellers were aware of their mistrust from snippets of conversation overheard in local shops along the way. As the trio were clueless whether those anxieties would be well founded or not, they did not try to allay any fears.
Only a couple of hours after eventually arriving at the vast festival, Mug’s pounding feet felt like they no longer belonged to her jet-propelled body. ‘This is it! I’m going to die falling over the edge of this bloody cliff!’ she thought as she hurtled at breakneck speed past the thousands of colourful festival goers, who were making a more sedate descent after a peace march up the steep cliff. Two mischievous, muscle-bound teenage boys had thought it hilarious to turn her round and start running with her, the long hair of all three flowing out behind them.
As her legs were longer than theirs, she left the two idiots, plus Vanessa and Christine looking on in horror, in her dusty wake as she rocketed ever closer to the cliff edge, narrowly avoiding collision with several alarmed peace marchers. Far below, she could see huge boulders lying at the base of the treacherous cliff. Death would be certain and messy if she tumbled through the air. Luckily, she fell heavily a few yards from the edge of the precipice, ripping both knees out of her sage-green cord flares, revealing bloodied skin beneath.
If she’d not been wounded, she would have kicked herself for even trying to walk up the steep hill against the flow of the hundreds of marchers strolling down. After eventually catching up with their injured, stunned companion, Vanessa and Christine carried her into a candle-lit St John’s ambulance tent.
‘Your mum would have killed us if you’d fallen over the cliff. We’re supposed to be keeping you out of harm’s way,’ said Christine, trying to keep the blood off her long Indian skirt.