As a writer, there are times I’ve wrestled with the blank page. And whatever creative field you work in, I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences. So I’m always on the lookout for anything that might spark inspiration. This is partly why I headed to Green Man Festival this weekend, enduring an 11-hour bus ride from Hartlepool before dragging my tent through the sun-drenched Welsh mountains.
If you haven’t heard of it, Green Man is Wales’ largest independent music festival, and one of only a few big indies left in the UK. Set in the breathtaking Bannau Brycheiniog (what we used to call the Brecon Beacons), it’s a world away from the corporate mega-festivals that dominate the summer circuit.
Photo: Patrick Gunning
Photo: Kirsty McLachlan
MIKE. Photo: Kirsty McLachlan
This is an event that sold out in 60 minutes without announcing a single artist, which eschews sponsorship to maintain creative freedom, and where you’re as likely to stumble across a hydrogen-powered science stage, a director introducing their Scottish Samurai movie, or an author discussing their book about box office disasters as you are a world-class rock band.
But what makes Green Man really special is the atmosphere. I’m not kidding, it genuinely feels like the friendliest festival in the world. It’s also family-friendly without being sanitised, LGBT-friendly without making a song and dance about it, and committed to showcasing the best of Welsh culture alongside international acts.
And thanks to all of this, I uncovered something quietly profound. Three things happened this weekend that might have changed how I think about being creative.
The Martin Parr revelation
First off, I wandered over to the cinema tent for a Q&A with Britain’s most famous—and controversial—documentary photographer, Martin Parr, before a screening of his film, I Am Martin Parr.
For the uninitiated, Martin is the photographic artist known for capturing life in our seaside resorts, shopping centres and street parties in gloriously oversaturated colour. Critics call him a sneering class tourist; defenders argue he’s celebrating the absurd joy of ordinary life. I’ve adored his images for years—including this series about my neighbouring village. But watching him actually work was a revelation.
Here’s a humble man who wanders among the working class with his camera, chatting to everyone, and enjoying himself immensely. There’s no tortured artist nonsense, no fake seriousness. Just genuine enjoyment of how weird and wonderful ordinary people can be.
Martin approaches his work with curiosity and, crucially, fun. Even when tackling serious subjects like class and consumption, there’s joy in his process. He’s not afraid to find things amusing, to celebrate eccentricity, to smile at the beautiful absurdity of it all.
When CMAT conquered Wales
All this was brewing at the back of my mind when I got dragged along to CMAT’s set on the Mountain Stage. I’ll be honest,