Storasfestivalen 2008

On a makeshift bench in the camp site beneath steep, sweeping Norwegian hills sits a young Indian girl chatting through the iPhone she’s borrowed from the founder of Storasfestivalen. Sveinung Sundli met the smiling 11-year-old and her family in the slums of New Delhi whilst traveling, and became so touched by their generosity (“they live in a slum, but have made it a palace”) he promised to fly them thousands of miles to perform their Indian circus skills around the site of his festival.

It’s not the only promise that Sveinung has made and kept, and we doubt it will be his last. You feel, at times, like the five-year-old festival has been established upon such acts of kindness and collaboration, and somehow it works. From the welcoming people of Storas village, who lend out their log cabins to overseas guests (including our fortunate selves), to the authentic saunas and hot tubs home to naked frolickers by day and night, it’s the little touches and the efforts of everyone involved which make this three-day woodland valley retreat so truly special.

With a capacity of around ten thousand but actual numbers nearer half that as the economic bite works its way north, Storasfestivalen doesn’t have a massive budget but it’s almost impossible to see where corners have been cut. There’s no sponsorship and organisers pride themselves on their ‘one logo’ ethos; that of two mystical fawn like girls, complete with tails, known as ‘Hildur’ who are said to dance inside the thick bands of mist which roll down the valleys, laughing at the boys as they skip from hill to hill. What Storasfestivalen lacks in financial muscle it makes up for in mystical intrigue and natural wealth, boasting a backdrop of breathtaking beauty.

Just like the sprightly Hildur, we arrive with a spring in our step buoyed by icy mountain air and the stunning fjord coastline running south from the town of Tronnheim, itself worth a visit steeped in history and horizontal ambience. The festival takes 90 minutes via rolling woodland and the drive is so staggering that on first impressions the small, valley-nestled site seems a little underwhelming. However, Storasfestivalen is the kind of festival that reveals itself the further you delve, and it does this in a number of ways.

Our first night proves a fairly relaxed affair, meeting some of the organisers and checking out a few local bands before exploring a small arts trail under the branches and stars, featuring lit-up pictures of families in a number of chilling settings. Suddenly feeling as if we’re in a scene from The Shining, we retire to our log cabin in the hills, build a fire and cook up a strange tin of canned meat called ‘Bog’ before climbing into the attic and drifting off to the smell of pine. We’re awoken the next day to sunshine and a friendly guide who takes us to a desolate lake, which he tells us is “warm”. Of course, it isn’t but the bracing swim gets rid of the beer and Bog hangover and sets us up for what’s to come, namely ‘moonshine’. 

It's well known that every country has its own moonshine – generally categorised by being homemade, cheap and very strong - but no one does it quite like the Norwegians. It’s so powerful it’s actually classified as a narcotic and as such is completely illegal, something we’d never condone at a festival but, hey, we’re on holiday. There’s an inevitable sense of intrigue and foreboding as we neck our first cup of ‘kasc’ (moonshine and coffee) while our guests watch us wash it down with eager looks. “Good luck”, offers one. It turns out we’ll need it.

We’ve already been energised by Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster and up and coming electro Vikings Casio Kids, complete with shadow puppeteers and massive paper-mache Blondie heads, but the moonshine adds an entirely different dimension to the stumps and roots of the lumpy forest floor. Fortunately, it takes a while to truly kick in and we’re at least safe for the real Blondie, who is such a sturdy leveller you could be wrecked on mind-bending brown acid and you’d still be singing along to all the words and shifting the same moves you would at a wedding. The original disco punks put on a huge greatest hits set, kicking off with ‘Hanging On The Telephone’ and ending on ‘Atomic’, via ‘Picture This’, ‘Call Me’, ‘Maria’ and countless more.

It leaves us longing for further dancing so we head to the forest outside the main festival site on the promise that trolls and Spanish DJs lurk deep within. After five minutes of twig-snapping our way through the darkness, lit by the odd blue light in a tree, there’s still no sign of life, not even a distant thud. But just as we feel like we’ve been led down a dark alley the landscape dips into a scene resembling Endor, only instead of Ewoks swinging from the trees gurning Germans lull from branches while drunken Brits scour the site asking local girls about ‘Norwegian culture’. Everyone’s dancing, either in the tree houses hanging in the fairy-lit canopy, or on the leafy dancefloor, as groovy beats generate a full on forest fandango. Skilled stilt-walkers parade around the party and, paradoxically, it’s at this point that I lose my legs.

The evening is put together the next morning over a hastily arranged cooked breakfast. A dancer from Leeds has appeared overnight in our log cabin. She laughs at my former drunkenness but it’s nothing compared to the Eighties Matchbox boys, one of whom lived up to their ‘Disaster’ moniker by being rushed to hospital after overdosing on moonshine. Perhaps Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry also had a few cups of the brain curdling ‘kasc’ before he played the previous night, wheeling his suitcase on stage as if expecting to pass out midway through and be carted off himself.

It’s these fond memories that pull a smile through the hangover as the rain cascades down my face and the mountains, the weather only adding to the rustic ruggedness of Storasfestivalen which has become our home after just two days. Despite the familiarity, Sveinung Sundli excitedly shows us around his festival on the final afternoon, the place we thought we had sewn up. That is until we visit the campsite and meet the Indian circus people round a ramshackle table. And this scene will be the one I take with me; Sveinung laughing at the fact he’s probably lost thousands on the festival, a hippy in pink jeans skinning up and pointing to the thundering skies declaring that, “Thor wants to join the party”, two feral gypsy kids running amock in shell suits and, of course, the Delhi slum girl nattering all the way to India on her borrowed iPhone, as we sit around listening intently while another cup of moonshine is carefully served.