The Meredith Pilgrimage
The Age
Friday December 18, 1998
Every year around midDecember, the small town of Meredith between Geelong and Ballarat is inundated by music fans congregating for the annual Meredith Music Festival.
Out of bed at 7am on Saturday I check my contingent of supplies for the weekend - one slab of beer (cans, no glass allowed), water, fruit; and other necessities - Esky, swag, hat, ticket and sunscreen. Even at this hour the temperature already at 31 degrees and forecast to rise another 10 before the day is out. At 8.15 I ring Sean's house to make sure he hasn't forgotten to give me a lift. At 8.30 a car horn outside and I add my body to the five already crammed into Sean's Valiant Safari. Space is limited and the only place I can fit my swag is between my legs with one foot on the dashboard. We stop in Geelong to meet up with another camper and another car into which I throw the swag so I can take my foot off the dashboard. We buy more beer, ice, soft drink, bread, a watermelon and some vodka.
Next stop is at the end of the line of cars outside the festival gates. While we wait, a limegreen panel van streaks past at a dangerous speed. Later I meet up with my friend Ollie, guitarist for the Exotics and driver of a limegreen panel van, who explains he had been running a little late for the Exotics' 11am opening slot.
Once through the gates, we find a camp site and pitch tents. The Meredith Music Festival is held on a farm about 20 minutes' drive from the township. The stage is set up in a gully, a hill creating a natural amphitheatre beneath a canopy of eucalypts. A continuous parade of bands take to the stage as the hot wind swirls clouds of dust through the audience.
One crowdpleaser, LatinAmerican dance band and Meredith regulars, Combo La Revelacion, soon have a chacha line snaking through the dancing throng. By the time Brisbane band Custard complete the last of the live performances for the evening, heat, rain, alcohol and other substances have taken their toll on the rapidly dwindling crowd.
The next morning, it's back to the hill after a breakfast of coffee and an eggandbacon sandwich. Heavy rain drenched my swag in the night and I had to take shelter in the car. A few hours later, I was joined by Jeremy and Casey, whose tent had also been flooded by the downpour.
The raincoat I had packed only as an afterthought has turned out to be a marvellous piece of foresight and neither sleep deprivation nor a rather nasty hangover can prevent me enjoying the day's entertainment, culminating in the running of the infamous Meredith Gift. This event is probably one of the few foot races in the world where the rules require the athletes to compete in a state of either partial or complete undress.
The inclement weather has significantly reduced the field, in more ways than one. It turns out the winner, Chris the Plumber, is now a backtoback champion, having taken out the honors in 1997. Chris leaps up on stage to collect his prize - a slab of beer - apparently unperturbed by the fact he is still completely starkers. We head off shortly afterwards, joining the long convoy of cars heading back to Melbourne. Meredith is over for another year and it is time to drain the Esky, pack away the campchairs and dry out the swag in preparation for next year's festival.
P.D Riches is a Melbourne freelance writer and musician.
© 1998 The Age