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Enchanted Wilderness tango began last year. It consists of up to 6 days dancing tango and optional camping in deepest Devon, twice a year.
A friend had told me, months previously, about this event, but it is over 500 miles from me, nine hours of straight driving - much longer with stops. Yet I met at least three people who had travelled from the United States.
But how did tango and camping work anyway when most people like to be clean and well turned out, not underslept with grass clinging to them and struggling to wash clothes? As someone at another event commented, they had been to the Devon event in 2023 and while there husband had liked it, his wife had found it "just a bit too wilderness". Besides, I had already camped overnight in May and again for 10 days in Kent during July/ August with my sons. I had no plans to go to Wilderness Tango. And yet, here, unexpectedly, I was.
I didn't want to commit to anything for more than one night so I tipped up at Southward Farm near Bere Alston on the Devon - Cornwall border for one night. By then I was beginning to find not peace, not a solution but some kind of equilibrium. I didn't feel quite so shell-shocked but I did feel like something of a fraud among so many light-hearted people who had planned to be there and for a good time. I was just there, almost by accident. As I hung out my sparse washing and people exclaimed over how far I had come, I joked that I had simply turned right (south) instead of left (north) after Cumberlandia and ended up here. It was true but not really the truth.
The welcomes to the site and the to the milongas were warm and friendly. It was an immediate good omen. The host, Jonathan was relaxed, accommodating, experienced and interesting.
The setting was beautiful, in what felt like a hidden valley. You came round a bend in the the road that seemed to go on forever and there, suddenly below you was the river, the cottages, the camping field. Sheep grazed in the field behind the farmhouse but presumably it was hard to farm that land. A market garden seemed to be set up on the slopes of the other side of the river. Southward Farm was on an obvious flood plain, meters from the river. I was sure the site must already have been flooded but forgot to ask. Part of the camping field, which sloped gently down to the river, was cordoned off as marshland.
The practicalities were in place. There were places to charge your phone, places to dry clothes or towels, a washing machine if you needed it. And it was cheap: £12.50/£15 per camping pitch. A surprising boon was that you could help yourself to home made bread, butter, cheese, coffee, tea etc. A coin-in-the-slot for the shower kind of place it was not. There were three showers between the campers and if occasionally one had to wait it was never for long.
I nearly didn't stay though. I was initially given a corner pitch, "flattish", said Rosie, a young woman on car park duty who reminded me of Margo in the Durrells: smart, centered and no-nonsense. My pitch was under an ancient oak and high winds were forecast. I really wanted to find a flat spot and the next day moved to one, auspiciously, as my neighbours regaled me with invitations for breakfasts, which I never managed to make, and dinner, which I did.
I showered in one of the horsebox conversions. There were no instructions on how to use the thing and disquieting notices on the boiler telling you not to install it in a bathroom. It's fine I told myself against the strong whiff of gas. It will be to do with ventilation of which there's plenty. But the temperature soared to a scalding forty degrees. I heard later this had been a problem last year too. As I had done successfully in the other horse box on the night I arrived, I turned the shower off to see if the temperature would reduce while I soaped. When I turned the machine on, there was an alarmingly large blue flash of gas and the temperature was still soaring. I turned the darned thing off and thanked heaven I had brought a rain jacket. Donning this over my soapy self and barely maintaining decency, with two bags for the day and washing bowl of crockery I stumbled down the path towards the indoor shower avoiding the quizzical look of a man coming up the way. In the utility room I put some washing in the machine only to discover, some five minutes later, water pouring out of where the front of the dispenser drawer had been. Fortunately there was a second machine and the event did at least lead shortly to the application of an "Out of order" label. But I had a reliable shower, my clothes were clean, my tent repitched, calm regained and I did stay. My laundry vanished temporarily when the drying room became a kind of therapy room but I found it again in the farmhouse. Nothing was unsurmountable and I guess it all added if not quite to the decided charm of the place, then certainly to the experience.
So when, next day, I encountered the legs of a man without his pants coming backwards down the steps of what appeared to be an attic to the barn, I was rather unabashed. Since the front of him faced me and I was not fast enough in my volte face, we did encounter one another. It was all rather what I had, if not come to expect, then at least not be surprised by. With a perhaps European savoir-faire or insouciance, he seemed to suffer no disquiet as he sauntered towards the shower. I muttered a hasty good morning and tried hard to forget who it was. I won't remember once he has clothes on, I told myself and did a reasonable job in that respect. Perhaps that's the difference between men and women - do the men take pleasure in the remembering? I think I'm supposed to be more up-to-date than that, so let's just put it down to individual difference.
One of the great pleasures of those days was the discovery that Beto Ortiz, the Argentinian DJ and dancer has an Argentinian folk band. We chatted in castellano then borrowed an ancient guitar from the farmhouse and sat in the kitchen one morning singing songs from Latin America, the best of which, for me, was when he sang Quiscaloro.
Another pleasure was the animals. On my way in to the site I stopped to watch a stoat or weasel like creature on the road. Later, on my one expedition to the shops I sat in my car for five minutes as a panic-stricken squirrel ran up and down wn the road, unable to recall that safety was in the hedgerow. Chickens wandered in and out of the kitchen, clucking comfortably. We learned quickly that they would peck at your feet if you let them and break the skin. A sord of elegant, dark ducks shimmied in unison away from passing humans. Unlike the individualistic hens they moved together, turned together in admirable, telepathic collaboration.
Stopping to say hello to a Welsh lady with a ukulele, her dog, Ted, came to lie against me so I too lay on her mat his warm body against mine listening to her delicate voice sing her own songs while the clouds passed quietly overhead in the blue sky and the mysterious river ran silently on. In the milonga a tiny slip of a dog slept on my stomach overcoming any desire I might have to dance. At night, the cry of the owls echoed across our tents.
I made it, on one day as far as the Morrisons for some vegetables. It was in Tavistock, twenty minutes drive away. The rest of the time, despite my intentions to find a swimming spot or visit the sea, I didn't manage to leave the site at all. I was profoundly tired - from the driving, trying to keep clean with the few clothes, the overall strain of the previous six days. I sat for long spells in the kitchen or the garden, chatting, only to find it was suddenly 4 o' clock.
My husband sent a message. He hoped I was recovering and included the heart emoji with a bandage around it. I realised that was indeed what was happening: rest and healing. Heart rate variability is a measure of good health. Mine soared to new heights while I was at Wilderness. My heart rate dropped, my breathing slowed. I even slept relatively well, considering it was camping with two cold night of the five and rained often overnight.
For all that things could be a little idiosyncratic at Southward farm, the flip side was that the whole place was unique, original, with creativity in every corner. There were beautiful, hand-painted chairs.
Some, in the buddha barn, had been wedding chairs. Jonathan had the colour scheme and the design in mind and his mini army of volunteers had painted them. Some were covered in a vibrant floral design which matched the tablecloth on the DJ's table. It had been a duvet cover. The place was eclectic in its elements and yet and it all somehow worked which is a great skill. Jonathan was a guy who could do the big picture and the detail.
The DJ desk was unobtrusively in one corner. It was a contrast to the next DJ spot I saw elsewhere, up on a stage with the protagonist in embarrassingly overt solitary, physical, self stimulation with the music.
Some attendees chimed with the original, hand-made or personalised aesthetic. From the musicians like Kevin, to the bunting made by his wife, Cheryl for their van to the wholesale van conversions that others had built, to the personalised therapies available on site. That, after-all is what dancing tango is - improvised, personal, creative, unique.
One compost loo was designed like or from a boat. I was delighted with them. Wasting 15 litres of drinking water per visit to a flush toilet, adding liquid chemicals that clean the bowl but pollute our water is unconscionable and unnecessary. The windows were etched glass dinner plates that let in light but maintained privacy. It was inspired. The showers were similarly original although the floors tended to flood. There were brushes to sweep the water but they were broken. Everything felt a bit like a work in progress. Some parts worked and others needed enhancement or repair though nothing was totally non-functioning. You just weren't quite sure if you might go into the shower and blow up. Still, this was the third iteration of the event with no dramas I had heard of yet.
Of course there were gypsy caravans for sleeping, a hideaway cabin - the Beehive - and a presumably all mod cons holiday cottage for those less inclined to the quirks of the site.
The dance venue itself, the Buddha barn, named for the paintings there of the eponymous sage, was lovely, all original, artistically designed, just the right size for the numbers. The floor, though indeed slippery, was for me, perfect, one of the best I've found. In the same venue there were free cumbia and chacarera lessons in the evening and Tai Chi / Qi Gong if you were up early enough
There was a space to hang out next to the salon, with the ubiquitous, calming hens.
And then there were the other extras: a free Alexander technique workshop, with private sessions available (recommended) with Gunda Fielden, a practitioner of thirty years experience. There was reflexology for a fee. There were walks from the site if you were so motivated. I had problems with my knee and would have liked some kind of physical therapy on site but perhaps that was the reflexology I didn't try.
Best of all was the shared kitchens and the sunny garden where I had long conversations about the limits of freedom, the reliability of information, immigration, 5g, campaigning, famous Argentine dancers, the spontaneous evolutions of well-established tango steps, the Alexander technique and tango, how the milonga protects empaths. Someone asked about heterosexual dancers at queer events. Others listened because many times over those days people came up to me to say what interesting conversations they had overheard.
It was a respite from life and modern life in particular.
Apart from that the event was lovely in itself, it saved me and restored me. Twelve days after my initial departure for a three day festival, to my home and family. For that I am grateful and relieved.
If I was to improve anything, I and I know others who felt the same, would prefer savoury snacks at the milongas over cake and biscuits. Perhaps a couple of the uncomfortable sofas in the dance area could be upgraded. But it was that kind of place: of course one sofa would be fine, one not and one half OK. Flatter tent pitches were already being dug into the slope on its upper reaches, an improvement that if it continues will considerably enhance the camping.
I found the extent to which people imbibe "truths" from teachers somewhat demoralising. Someone of ten years dance experience told me they had been told to dance every beat of D'Arienzo, whereupon I danced it with them on the beat, on the half beat and on the double time. "What rules?" So instead of classes where people are easily gulled into false or unquestioned beliefs I would prefer social dancing and other activities like the ones they already had, but expanded.
I only danced half of one afternoon milonga because one milonga a day is enough for me and many others. The milongas were £15 each which I, used to the £4 Edinburgh milonga, thought steep. But with that, we are exceptionally fortunate. Milongas in Scotland are usually no more than £10 unless for special events and usually include snacks. Special events are more. In the south, £15 is apparently not uncommon. But with the camping included, £30 / day for the whole experience and the bread etc thrown in, it was a good deal. Some milongas with performers can cost nearly that alone and I was delighted there were none.
I wasn't always there for the full extent of the evening milongas. But the music I heard was for the most part high energy. Of softer music, in tangos, I heard one Demare tanda one afternoon, no OTV / Carabelli the entire time though someone told me they had heard the lovely tango Lo vi en tus ojos, and one great Fresedo instrumental, though it too was rhythmic rather than the gentler Fresedo. Someone did play some softer music in a second set - although I remember only one of the Fresedo tracks was a classic number. There was good Caló, which is smooth. There was Rodriguez, which I feel as softer rhythmic music, after I mentioned it to one of the DJs. There was someone I wanted to dance soft music with and I waited and waited. Hours passed. I begged the DJ, twice for D'Agostino and was relieved when it appeared.
I don't remember much in the way of classic De Angelis which is strong but relaxing. I heard two good Donato rhythmic tandas but sadly no Laurenz tango tandas at all during any of the evening milongas when I was present. Or rather, I heard a good Laurenz track, but no great tanda. One DJ played Jose Garcia, which is lovely. There was plenty of Pugliese, which can be soft but strong. No-one played excessive high drama. Instead it was more the kind of vocal drama of Troilo with Marino. I heard Uno at least four times that weekend and have no doubt it was played more. Someone even played Patatero Sentimental by Di Sarli twice in the same set. There was quite a bit of Guardia Vieja, so the music often veered between two ends of a spectrum.
Overall, there was just a lack of balance in the sets between soft and rhythmic. I remember dancing a lot in the first half of one set but then being exhausted. It isn't up to the dancer to manage their energy. It is up to the DJ to play music that keeps people dancing but allows them to dance music that is high energy and then relaxing. Few DJ's would play a milonga followed by D'Arienzo or Biagi, so why play, say, Biagi and Tanturi next to one another? I have watched someone dance milonga - and tango for that matter - in a crowded space with long pauses very well. It is a way of countering overly high energy music, but it is atypical and shouldn't be necessary if that is your reason for doing so. I have seen no milongueros viejos nor professional dancers who dance milonga very well, dance this way.
I am not referring to a personal preference: it wasn't the music I heard and certainly not the balance that I heard in the traditional milongas in Buenos Aires where the milongueros viejos went, following, for the most part, the DJ Dany Borelli and they certainly wouldn't have danced to anything from the 1920s. That music they dance to is popular for excellent reasons. But the music I heard is not peculiar to the farm. I rarely hear DJs play the music I heard in the UK, or Europe. DJs here say, Well it's Europe, it's different. But music is feeling and feeling is pretty universal so I don't find that a persuasive reason. The milongueros viejos have decades of dance experience. They like, collectively, the music they do for good reason.
Overall, I would love a weekend of social dancing and opportunities for other music - to listen to, to dance, to play, to sing. I saw at least three campers with ukuleles and wished I had heard more of them play or play together. I wouldn't want anything too structured: just a time and a place to get together, because all of the impromptu jam sessions of folk music I have heard have been far more magical than any programmed performance by an individual. I would like to here more Argentinian and Latin American folk music and stories from that part of the world. There is a whole other culture, indeed cultures, taking into account the different regions within a country with their own symbolic references from la llorona or la difunta correa to la pachamama to el pombero. It was a great place for stories and Jonathan's partnership with Beto is a key part of it. Argentine tango with Argentinians, ideally a few of them, for me is pretty important.
But even if none of this materialised, Wilderness Tango, as it is, is still special.
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