Wilderness 2026
Thursday 30th July to Sunday 2nd August 2026Cornbury Park, Charlbury, Oxfordshire, OX7 3EH, England MAP
£288 weekend camping
Last year, Wilderness went through a significant change. I commented at the time that the movers and shakers of Wilderness would have us believe the festival had naturally evolved, and had done so in a positive way. Judging by the impenetrable wall of people crammed into that year's new Dive, you'd have to consider this a fair point. I'm less sure the absence of Letters Live could so easily be rationalised, while the absence of the Shala removed in one merciless swipe a distinctive part of the festival’s character, and the festival seemed at a loss how to appropriately fill the Atrium. I thought it more likely, and still do, that this was less about the simple economics of keeping the festival afloat, but there's no sin in that. A few years ago, Latitude went through a period of rationalisation that was, no doubt, painful for punters and organisers alike. Yet it just celebrated its 20th edition, and while not quite the multi-faceted arts festival it once was, it's been successfully remodelled into a vibrant and energising experience. Returning to Wilderness, I was keen to see whether it had been successfully remodelled into something viable.
There wasn't much to see or do on Thursday, but in fairness there never has been. A camp, feelgood hour I didn't really understand was on the Atrium, followed by Carl Cox playing records by other people. The 45s, a cover band named after the speed of a single record (ask your Dad, kids) put up a pretty good show in the Jump Yard, while the Dive hosted the excellent Bleech 9:3, a Dublin four-piece that tore through their set in a venue that is claustrophobic, but does deliver.
Weirdly, I fell across an unpublicised stand up turn from Tiff Stevenson, apparently the last act of an unpublished line-up. My guess is that when the widely promised Fern Brady couldn't make it the festival quietly removed her from the line up. Then, hoisted by their own petard, they forgot to update the app. Whatever the precise reason, Stevenson performed to a tiny, if supportive, audience while ill. She's a gifted comedian, so that was a shame, as was her reliance on the tired cliché of her partner's uselessness. There really are only a limited number of hilarious ways to relate the failings of the man in your life, and we've probably enjoyed them all by now.
Friday morning offered an early opportunity to settle down into the forum with a hilarious parody of well-being culture, all the more poignant as the real deal - Wilderness used to have more Gong baths than you could shake a, well, mallet at – are long gone. The witty chaps behind Bearded Kitten - best known at the festival for the brilliant lampooning of the cricket match - happily spouting self-help sophistry while inviting us to lie back and think of England. Ironically, it was not only inventive, witty and very funny, but also turned out to be genuinely relaxing. Perhaps they've missed their vocation.
Thereafter, after a brief explore, the combination of the expanded bookshop venue and the Forum proved a winning combination while offering some tricky choices to be made. I opted for a pleasing double bill starting with Claire Mitchell and Zoe Venditozzi discussing, with great wit and compassion, the peculiarly Scottish enthusiasm for burning witches. This dovetailed nicely with Grace Willow, who discussed with great enthusiasm, Leonie Hannan’s book, No Fair Maidens. Admittedly it meant Hannan sometimes struggled to get a word in but it was such a pleasure to listen to an interviewer who had clearly done her homework.
One of the festival's key events was State of the Nation, Jolyon Rubinstein's free-for-all discussion panel crammed with speakers that could easily command a session on their own. Indeed, I'm not sure why the festival doesn't do just that. Using up the likes of Sangita Myska and John Sweeney
in one go seemed bordering on profligate. Unfortunately, the panel lacked the contrary voices of last year, and lacked grit as a consequence.
"Is this just an echo chamber?" asked a man in the audience.
“Yes," came John Sweeney's swift reply.
Nonetheless it was an invigorating session, to the extent that my head simply couldn't take any more talking.
Is Baxter Dury as good as his Dad? It's a question he must get sick of. The fairest answer is that while he might not be, who is? Commanding the main stage with a theatrical performance that teetered close to self parody, I was certainly reminded of Ian's defiant stance. Yet Baxter is very much his own man, prowling the stage, half-singing, half-speaking his sardonic lyrics. He may share his Dad's gift for storytelling, but he did so wrapped in sparse, synth-driven music delivered by his excellent band. Not sure what that peculiar business with his jacket was, but he's a charismatic performer.
Sadly, that was where me and the main stage parted company. Eats Everything is a popular repeat visitor to Wilderness, but whatever your views on DJs, to have one on the main stage might be considered misfortune by some, to have two - particularly when Carl Cox was only on the day before - looks like scheduling carelessness. With DJs aplenty all over the site, I do think it a shame the only really significant showcase for live music was used in this way from half eight onwards.
Instead, I squandered ninety minutes back at the Forum on the really very odd Thought Club, a peculiarly humourless debate on the proposition that all property is theft. My team clearly misread the room and had our leader Roz, who disconcertingly had all sorts of contraband stuffed down her bra, deconstruct the entire premise. Perhaps there weren't enough people for Laurane Marchive to effectively work the room, but it all fell a bit flat. She wasn't helped by Matthew Cole, who pompously judged the rhetorical effectiveness of the speakers. Let him who is without sin be the first to throw a stone, say I.
The evening, for those of us looking for live music, began with Lime Garden. Comparisons with the Slits feels a little lazy - both are all-female - but the energy and drive of their post-punk sound does resonate with the art-rock sensibilities of Goat Girl, Squid and even, at a push, Wet Leg. My only misgiving was the venue and what could have, dare I say, should have, been on. The Atrium is a superb, show stopping venue and deserves to host similarly distinctive acts. Yet as we'll go on to explore, it so often seemed reduced to just another stage. Worse, it frequently felt as if it was the place things were put for no better reason than there was nowhere else for them to go.
As if to prove the point, Saturday at the Atrium started with the delicate, introspective music of Bill Ryder Jones, looking rather lonely on his tod. He was accompanied by a four track cassette recorder that kept malfunctioning, but both he and the crowd took this in their stride. The Afronauts followed, an eccentric mix of circus skills and storytelling, that told the improbable story of a Zambian dream of joining the space race. This was about shooting for the moon as metaphor, with a cheeky, oblique side swipe at Britain's colonial past thrown in for good measure. The pace was a tad slow, but there was something winningly sweet about the whole concept. Afterwards, Police Cops' cleverly choreographed parody of the crime caper showed how pacing should be done and was jolly knockabout fun.
But this was hardly cohesive programming. Instead, I got the sense acts had been booked, and where to put them then came second, with the Atrium a dumping ground for things that don't fit elsewhere. What a shame the centrepiece of the festival has been so profoundly reduced. Fortunately, elsewhere the festival was raising its game.
The House and Garage Orchestra put on a marvellous show with string and brass arrangements of classic music from the genres. I found the performance hugely enjoyable, despite being unfamiliar with the source material. I imagine the combination of excellent vocals, superb musicianship and tune recognition must have been on a whole other level for some. It led to a pause for thought that while much was missing from my Wilderness that may not be everyone's perspective. Of course I missed going on a trek to find a cello-playing duo in the woods, as I did last year, but there weren't that many of us when I got there. The Egg's performance two years ago felt thrillingly intimate, but that was largely because few other people turned up to watch. Perhaps the abundance of DJs that seems wearily repetitive to me is a cornucopia of choice for others.
It was with such contrary thoughts in mind that I settled down to the oddly, arguably unhelpfully named Music For Flamboyant Moments that was actually the sort of string quartet you'd have tripped over without trying in the past. I was gratified that on this occasion at least, the forum was packed to bursting with folk keen to hear a selection of artful covers - The Cure's Lullaby and the Scissor Sisters' Mary among them - bookended by plainsong and Benjamin Britten.
Which just leaves an extraordinary double bill on the main stage. I had expected, and effectively priced in, the Scissor Sisters' being top notch, and both in their selection and delivery of songs and their colourful, full throttle stagecraft, their set was a masterclass in how to headline. What took me by surprise was the previous band. I was only vaguely familiar with Soulwax, and wearily expected the Dewaele brothers to deliver something broadly similar to their DJ personas. Instead we got keyboard, guitar, live vocals and no less than three drummers. I suspect the heavy lifting was still done by the central panels, apparently specially built for the show, but looking as if they'd come straight out of a 1950s sci-fi film. I particularly liked that they took time to explain how it all worked, gainsaying sceptics such as I, while maintaining an air of knob twiddling mystery.
What a difference a day makes.
It's a sentiment that works both ways, of course, with Sunday seemingly constrained by events that appear to be permanent fixtures on the Wilderness calendar. To not see the orchestra, or the cricket, or the Sunday Session feels remiss, but it does somewhat clog up he day with repeat viewings. The latter appeared to have been diluted from its forensic examination of the news. Hosted by Oli Dugmore of Joe Media, I was expecting more than the loose talking, knockabout humour of a session on scandals. Admittedly, panellist Milo Edwards was very funny and also well prepared, effectively taking over with his account of the Altamont killing, a tragedy I was astonished Dugmore wasn't familiar with.
A conversation with Rachel Millward, deputy leader of the Greens, followed. She proved an articulate speaker, deftly avoiding speaking with any substance. While it was frustrating that the "do politics differently" policy of the Greens seemed largely suffocated by Zack Polanski's populist messaging, it's Dugmore's curiously passive questioning that deserved the sternest disapprobation.
Seduced by the comfiest bean bag, I then stayed for one session too many, the penny slowly dropping that the anonymity afforded by writing a question on a card masked the opportunity to winkle out anything too awkward. Cue an anodyne hour of meandering chat, albeit with the return of the consistently funny Milo.
The first time you see The Wilderness Orchestra it's quite a thrilling sight, and they still pack a punch on repeat viewing. Assembled especially for the festival, they seemed to take a while to settle down to the task of reimagining classic Beatles songs. To my mind, some of the arrangements were a tad overblown, the temptation to reach for crescendo proving irresistible. Results were varied. Camille O'Sullivan seemed unsure how to compete with the bombast of a misguided Yesterday cover, while Vanessa Freeman was dealt a much better hand, rising with the orchestra as she sought a little help from her friends. A Day in the Life and Eleanor Rigby sat somewhere in between those two extremes, while a singalong Hey Jude was perhaps the safest way of all to finish up. They were back for God's Jukebox, which as always pulls at the heartstrings, however much you try and resist being sucked in to the back stories. Sandwiched in between was The Guilty Feminist, Deborah Frances-White's podcast. This would have been yet another odd scheduling choice, had it not been a warm- up for a rare performance by Annie Lennox and friends.
The Circle was founded in 2008 by Annie Lennox, focusing on support for women and girls facing inequality and injustice around the world. Her Sisters Takeover of the main stage was intended as a vehicle, through music, to highlight the positivity of global feminism. Both Ríoghnach Connolly and Becky Sikasa acquitted themselves well, the former a flautist and songwriter who combined a stunning vocal, traditional Irish music and surprisingly contemporary sounds. Sikasa's blend of R&B, jazz and pop was equally entertaining but dare I be honest? I wasn't the only one, surely, itching to see Annie, not least when Benedict Wong appeared and read a poem.
As if to counter the philistines, Jessie Ware then appeared, to squeals of delight from all around me, and she didn't disappoint, proving to be a fine singer and, judging by the sneaky waves to individuals in the crowd, a thoroughly nice individual. Still, though, a bit of us was patiently waited, ready to worship at the Church of Lennox. So what can we say about Lennox and her half hour set? Mainly, I suppose, how quickly it flashed by. The very best known songs were expertly executed, most notably a stripped down, bare bones version of Here Comes the Rain Again that seemed painfully raw. The joyous coming together of the event's cast (plus two cheeky interlopers from Dinner Party) for the eponymous Sisters appeared to be unbeatable, until Annie returned for - what do you think? Sweet Dreams are, indeed, made of this.
So how on earth do you follow that? Margate-based five-piece Pigeon managed to do so by offering a total contrast over at the Atrium. Employing West African rhythms mixed with shades of funk and psychedelia, their sound is nonetheless defined by the Guinean singer Falle Nioke. To be frank, my mind's eye was still focused on the wondrously rare experience of seeing Lennox live, but in any other circumstances I'd have more thoroughly immersed myself in one of the best performances of the weekend.
Sadly, I can't say the same for The Last Dinner Party, their rapidly depleting crowd suggesting I wasn't the only one puzzling over their headliner status. But there will always be acts whose popularity bemuse you. After a while you become the problem if you don't simply move on. With yet another infernal DJ at the Atrium, I went out and about, ticking a few boxes.
The Riddle, which has a club like atmosphere within a repurposed wall garden, is now open to the elements and all the better for it. Having dispensed with all that secrecy guff it is now simply a place for folk to hang out, listen to the output from a DJ and enjoy each other's company. The House of Sublime was a more intimidating prospect. Advertised as the Southbank Centre's Kunsty Takeover, I can only imagine we had in mind two different Southbank Centres, given the entertainment within. On stage, a dozen or so performers jogged along to the music. Presumably they had all done their bit earlier and were letting off steam. All shapes and sizes were present and correct, in varying degrees of undress, revealing mix-and-match body parts, in a fearless celebration and a defiant assertion of identity. Good luck to them, say I, but it wasn’t much of a spectator sport - it was time for bed.
I don’t think I’ve ever come away from a festival feeling more ambivalent. On the one hand, I was always busy doing something. On the other hand, I would probably – had it been available – done something else at least some of the time. Much of “old” Wilderness remains physically intact. The swimmers still have the lakes. The diners still have their dinners. The set piece stages are as impressive as they always were. Yet there’s an unmistakable feeling of cheese paring throughout. The scale and ambition of the acts were undoubtedly scaled back. The programming of the Atrium wasn’t at all cohesive. There was practically no stand-up comedy, despite – did I dream this - Fern Brady being widely advertised as an act to look forward to. By close of play, the loos weren’t in great shape in the camping fields, and there was no soap in the dispensers. Silly things, like charging a fiver for a kid’s show that was free last year. None of these things matter that much in isolation. Perhaps they don’t matter in aggregate to someone keen on dancing the night away. But there was a noticeable narrowing of the demographic this year. It no longer seemed a festival for Everyman. Had it always been that way, a newcomer could happily come away delighted at what was on offer. But change matters and people have long memories.
Perhaps the paradox is best summed up by my camping neighbour. Paul had come to the festival based on reading my reviews of earlier iterations, so I was particularly interested, not to say concerned, what he thought of it.
“Er, it has a really good vibe,” he said, but then he paused, letting the implicit “but” remain unsaid.
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