Woodstock. It’s not the only defining event of our generation, but it is one that still sticks in the minds of those who were there, and those who followed it from afar. Ian Margieson has written a novel called “Woodstock: In the Quiet Morning

Saturday 23rd August 1969. With violins in our sunset, we hung around Orange for no longer than we needed to. And after picking up a few supplies, we headed back out to the river. Janis seemed in a bullish mood, as if the discontent of earlier had left her. Either that or she had bullied it into submission. We made a makeshift camp on the banks of the Sabine under the now sinking Texan sun; we lit a fire, made from anything we could find and given ample ammunition by liberal douses of Southern Comfort. The ground was hard and the breeze was warm.

On the other side of the river was a barbed wire fence, rusted from rain and covered in animal fur. This was truly rustic America. The color of the sky that evening was as sweet as any I can remember, its changing hue seemingly pulsing from somewhere within itself. Janis, bottle in hand, leaned herself back on one of the big old tires of the Lincoln while I made myself comfortable on a log. She puffed on a cigarette, blowing the smoke into that of the bonfire, while the embers and splints crackled and sparkled against the twilight backdrop, like tiny pearls taking leave of their captivity. Every now and then, one of us would get up to check the sausages, cooking on a primitive spit and when they were ready, we returned to our places to feast upon our humble banquet. Nothing tastes better than food prepared outside.

For a long time, we didn’t talk, allowing the scene around us to hold its own conversation, but eventually it was Janis who broke the silence. “You ever told a lie, Peaches?” It seemed a deceptively simple question.

“Of course, as much as my mother might like to think otherwise. Who hasn’t?”

“When was the last time?”

“Jesus, I don’t recall it,” I answered quickly, not really giving it any thought. “When I was a kid, I guess. If you mean a white lie though, well I guess we’re all guilty of that every day. Who goes through life saying what’s on their mind? It just isn’t practical.”

“Have you lied to me?” That one, I did give some thought.

“No, I haven’t. I am what I am, I guess.” At this, Janis looked pensive, brooding almost. She threw the end stub of her cigarette into the fire, immediately relighting another. “You are what you are?” she said. “I guess you are. My man Peaches, from Belfast, Ireland, twenty years old and a long way from home. Two sisters and a brother, right? You work in a clerk’s office and all you’ve ever wanted to do is come to America.” It was funny to hear the basic facts of my life thrown together so raggedly, somewhat disconcerting too. I nodded, but said nothing, waiting to see where Janis was taking me.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” I asked. Silence.

“What do you know about me, Peaches? Have I lied to you?” Now, the silence overpowered even the crackling of the campfire as Janis’ words hung in midair, daring me to do something with them. She looked directly at me, with eyes that almost begged me to challenge her. I didn’t know how to though, not back then. “Janis,” I began. “I know you like wildlife, I know you’re passionate about music … you’re fiercely loyal and you drink more than anyone I’ve ever met. Damn, you drink more than everyone I’ve ever met put together! Beyond that? Well, you didn’t give me your name for a whole day and you’ve gone out of your way to avoid telling me anything about where we’re going in Port Arthur. You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever known … and …” I stopped, drew breath and looked at Janis. She didn’t speak, but somehow her face eased the words out of me, like a soft glove sliding off of a delicate hand. “The most infuriating by far,” I repeated. “But I’ve …”

“Go on, honey,” she said this time.

“I’ve had more fun with you than I’ve ever had in my life before.” I threw my arms up in a kind of exasperated way. “But have you lied to me? I don’t know. I hope not, but nothing is going to take away the past week. Janis,” I said with a lump in my throat. “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve made it the thrill of my life.”

I stood up from the log, sat back down again and got up once more, shifting around nervously, naively embarrassed at what I had just said. The smoke from the fire drifted across Janis’ face, making it hard to see her. “Shit Peaches,” she said slowly, “are they all like you in Ireland? Man, I musta been livin’ on the wrong side o’the ocean.” Her words, so often mocking and sardonic, were different as she said this. There was a sincerity in her voice, which made me both relieved and anxious at the same time.

She ran her fingers through her hair and as the smoke cleared, I could see she was steeling herself to say something. “Man, I gotta be honest with you and let me tell you Peaches, that’s somethin’ I ain’t entirely been so far. Shit, I’ve been runnin’ with my foot on the gas and empty in the tank for too damn long. You get kinda clogged up, you know what I mean?” She laughed, but not comfortably so, before continuing. “I guess you just get used to it and one day you wake up an’ you can’t remember how to get back home. Man, I been away so long I can’t remember where I came from. And I gotta get back home, darlin’.”

“Port Arthur?” I asked, sitting back down. “No,” she whispered through the crackles. And then she laid it on me. The rest of my life was about to begin.

Ian Margieson’s new book, “Woodstock: In the Quiet Morning” is available at Amazon.co.uk.