Living my Irish dream: Rain soaked revelry at Electric Picnic - SEE PHOTOS

“Music is only half the festival,” Crookes says, later adding, “there’s something for everybody.”

My sister and I spend the majority of day 2 wandering around visiting vendors, talking to concert-goers in different campsites, and taking pictures(which you can view by clicking here).

It is a long day, and this time, by the end of it, there are three people in the tent. I wake up with someone’s legs resting on my stomach, and bruises all over from where my bags – laptop case included – dug into different corners of my back throughout the night.
But the highlight of the festival arrives a few short hours later. On Day 3, after nightfall.

About ten minutes before the final act, Massive Attack, are set to perform, what has been a friendly drizzle suddenly turns into a severe downpour. I figure we’ll see hundreds of feet scurrying towards the camping areas, to the relative warmth of their tents. But instead, we witness – and join – thousands of wellies charging towards the main stage.

You would have to see it to believe it. Upwards of ten thousand people gathering willingly in the midst of hurricane-force winds to simply dance in the rain. It is a magical moment. And it continues through the night, at several other performance venues, where we see groups like Intinn, one of the most popular, and certainly one of the most creative, reggae groups in Ireland.

Greetings like, “Yo, yo, yo Electric Picnic y’all,” boom through their speakers and they receive heavy praise in response, despite the rain, which pelts all of our faces like hail stones. Intinn has become renowned as much for its unusual musical identity (the group adorns traditional reggae rhythms and vocals with traditional Irish harp strums) as for its “music with a message.” Lead singer Cian Finn says his music is “all about positive vibes” and says he is committed to promoting awareness about the dangers of drug use, especially when it comes to impressionable youngsters.

It’s a particularly courageous stance to take, given that drugs flow like water at festivals like these.

After the reggae, there is the silent disco(i.e. you’re given headphones with two channels, so, ultimately, two people dancing next to each other can actually be listening to two completely different songs ). And after a few more acts, it quickly gets well into the wee hours. Before we know it, it’s time to slosh through the ankle-deep muck back to the tent.

By the end of day 3, there are four soaking wet, squashed sardines in my tent, all of whom shift endlessly and mutter under their breaths about how uncomfortable they are. We are like frustrated children after a long day at a theme park; we’ve had too much fun, have eaten too much junk food, and – cranky, tired, and wet – we just want to go home.

On day 4, I’m home, safe and sound. But as the day begins to wind down, I wonder if I’ll feel a little lonesome tonight in my warm, comfy bed all by myself.

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Nster.com