THE bride and the groom wore jeans and the officiant, clearly revelling in the role, was neatly attired in his birthday suit. Actually, that’s a lie. The ‘Very Reverend’ Sid Rawle wasn’t entirely in the buff when he presided over the nuptials of a 22-year-old Swindon woman at the Watchfield Pop Festival 40 years ago this week.

Self-styled King of the Hippies, Sid was adorned in a pagan-style ceremonial necklace which in all likelihood didn’t quite cover his manhood.

“I blame it on the drugs,” the miffed mother of the “hippy bride” told the Swindon Evening Advertiser after absorbing the news that her daughter had gotten herself spliced to an unemployed London squatter who she had met days earlier at the People’s Free Festival.

Over the decades, this newspaper has featured countless weddings, but none, perhaps, quite as eccentric or freakish as this particular union.

“The ceremony was watched by scores of hippies, most of them naked, as the festival organiser Sid Rawle stripped off his only piece of clothing, a scanty scarf around his midriff, to tie the couple’s hands together,” we reported.

“He daubed a peppermint-like ‘t’ on their foreheads, and the guests held joss-sticks, and openly smoked drugs throughout.”

Which, some readers may think, sounds pretty cool in a New Age, Easy Rider, Carlos Castaneda sort of way. Except, of course, if you happened to be bride’s mum.

“I don’t like the idea at all,” she told us from the doorstep of her Lennox Drive home. “I wouldn’t call it a marriage under any circumstances.”

Before heading to Watchfield, her daughter was contentedly residing in the upstairs bedroom which she shared with her sister.

It would be somewhat ungentlemanly, I feel, to name the former pupil of St Jo’s Catholic School who went to watch some bands but came back with a hubby instead of a hangover (or possibly both).

She’d be 62 now and in all likelihood have a fine old chuckle over the foolishness of youth and the daft things that can happen when you partake of the weed, absorb the cosmic hippy spirit and find yourself in the company of Sid Rawle.

Or maybe the couple remain in a state of contented matrimonial bliss and are living on a farm in Wales. If so, happy 40th anniversary!

As we reported in our ‘Booze, boobs and a fair few bobbies’ spread (5-8-15) the nine-day summer soiree at Watchfield’s disused RAF base in August 1975 was the nation’s first Government Approved Free Rock Festival.

It annoyed the hell out of villagers in Watchfield and Shrivenham, located in the heart of True Blue Tory-land, who had the thing foisted upon them by a Labour Government.

But their kids had a ball - as did several thousand Swindon folk, many of whom appear to have cycled ten miles down the A420 for the music, the vibe and the – ahem – au naturel twirls and romps.

To slightly misquote an early David Bowie song, here are some Memories Of A Free Festival…

Broadcaster Alan Burston: “It all seemed pretty friendly. I can’t recall anything particular about the music. But I’ve got this very clear image of two elderly ladies manning the Red Cross tent.

“When a naked man walked in one of them turned to the other and said ‘Avert your eyes, Mabel.’”

University worker Martin Jones caught the bus to Shrivenham with a couple of mates. “We hung about hoping for some music and eventually a band ambled through a set.

“Never found out who they were: they weren’t introduced nor did they introduce themselves. I remember a lot of wood smoke – probably not just the wood-type – and a dearth of topless/naked dancers.”

Truck driver Dennis Carey cycled to Watchfield every evening after finishing work at Coate Water where he ran the boats and pitch-and-putt, and then rode back the next day for work.

“It’s all a bit hazy but I remember Viv Stanshall (ex of the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band) doing Urban Spaceman and a lot of other Bonzo stuff. He whipped up a storm – definitely the best act there.”

The arch dandy of rock’n’roll vaudeville was also roaring drunk, according to most reports from those at the gig.

Swindon musician Rob Beckinsale remembers “the guy who thought he could fly and chucked himself off of one of the hangars.”

Software engineer Ben Szulc recalls parties of 13 year-old lads from St Jo’s School eagerly cycling to Watchfield not for the greasy, spaced sounds of Gong, Hawkwind or The Pink Fairies but “to see the nudie girls.”

BMW plant worker Graham Kew says: “A lot of the locals were there fuelled with the rumours of nakedness and drug taking. It was a strange mix – the end of the free festival era I guess. It’s all become sanitised since.”

Bob Cretchley’s most vivid memory isn’t of the music or the Free People’s Festival ambience, but of the response of his grandmother Dorothy ‘Dolly’ Cretchley who was in her mid-seventies and resided near close the site in Shrivenham.

“Like many local people she was apprehensive about the festival, fearing her quiet village would be over-run by hippies stealing vegetables from the gardens etc. In fact I don’t believe she actually encountered a single hippy.

“She was interested to hear from me what was going on there and as the festival progressed her attitude changed to one of mild amusement.

“’I understand some of them are gallivanting about in their birthday suits’ she said to me with a quizzical look in her eye… ‘I just hope they don’t get sun-burnt.’”

  •  “THE pigs are busting a car,” boomed a loudspeaker, as if signalling some sort of military operation.
    Within minutes, dozens of festival-goers had encircled the vehicle in question along with four uniformed members of the Thames Valley Constabulary.

    Joining hands they began chanting and dancing around the officers who, the Advertiser reported, took it in good humour.

    After ten to 15 minutes one of the festival organisers patiently explained to the prancing throng that the officers were investigating reports that the car had been hot-wired from Reading.

    “The police would do the same thing for you if your car was stolen,” she said, at which point the crowd cheerfully dispersed.
     
  •  ROCK’N’ROLL drummer Richard Leach didn’t only strap his tent to his handlebars when he cycled from Swindon to Watchfield – he also had the foresight to pack his trusty Kodak Instamatic.

    Smartphones being thin on the ground 40 years ago, there doesn’t appear to be a great deal of photographic evidence of Watchfield ’75 and Richard’s pictures importantly capture some of the bash’s flavour.

    He says: “I remember cycling to Watchfield with some friends, then getting to a village shop and being refused a can of Coke in case I was a troublemaker – yet I was only 14 or 15.”

    He remembers seeing Hawkwind and the pre-punk era Stranglers and also recalls some Hell’s Angels who, according to reports, intimidated many festivalgoers and rode their choppers over people in their sleeping bags. 

    However, one of the friendlier Angels let Richard pose with his silver machine for a photo. 

    “We had no problems with the Hell’s Angels – or anybody at all.”

    Richard adds: “I remember sitting with others around camp fires talking and listening to music. 
    “I thought it was great. Even mum and dad came out one day – and they thought it was great, too.”