The Blackmoon Festival was quite a pleasant place to be for me. Large enough to be a proper festival, yet small in relation to huge festivals of the kind (like Ozora or Boom) where all sorts of irrelevant to the event people gather, making all too confusing.
The event was set around that old, spooky farmhouse located on the very top of that remote hill. Inside a little yard of it, there were toilets and taps with drinking water. The bar, a pizzeria , and an ice-cream place were operating by its facade, where the shaded resting area was set with tables and chairs made by pallets and other waste-wood material. All around its periphery, most of the festival attendants were settled in tents and camper vans. And some 100 metres away, on a small flattened area on the hill slope, there was the stage, where the raving had started for good.
A brief, refreshing drizzling fell upon the hill by evening. A reliving wind started blowing over the hill’s slopes. The innumerable starts, and the faint electric lights of the many towns and villages crowning nearly each one of the surrounding hills, shone through the blackness of the moonless night. It was a plainly ideal night for trancing. The psychedelic tunes kept vibrating vigorously. The moral of the trancers was high. A night of magic and rapture had just began.