Womad festival opened at its new home, Neston Park in Wiltshire, after a year off in 2025. The boundary between spectator and performer dissolved entirely – headliners were spotted in the loo queue, wandering the site with their kids, or sitting in on intimate panel discussions hours after their main-stage set. Phone signal was practically nonexistent at the new site, forcing a crowd reliant on group chats into analogue meet-ups. The new arboretum layout held a cosier, village-like setup than before, complete with a mercifully shorter trek from all camping areas. Attendees could start the morning at their own speed: pounding through a west African djembe workshop, joining “laughing yoga”, or relaxing in a wood-fired tub while distant basslines echoed through the trees.
Barrington Levy’s defiant stand
Musical highlights often happened when artists went off-script. Reggae legend Barrington Levy provided Friday’s standout moment by rejecting strict act times, turning to the side of the stage to deliver a blunt ultimatum: “Mr Promoter, don’t invite me to your festival and tell me to get off the stage. I’m fucking playing as long as I like.” The crowd backed him and he stayed, launching back into Black Roses and Here I Come, his star power locking in a crowd of nodding, fist-pumping seniors, families, and kids getting a proper musical education.
Political charge across stages
Greentea Peng closed Friday with a sultry set, backed by an all-female brass section who sounded remarkably tight despite having rehearsed only the night before. For sheer stagecraft, though, Brazilian singer Daniela Mercury dominated. Against visuals of favelas and Indigenous tribes raising awareness for conservation, her set was a fierce political charge, and she called out for democracy before signing off with Michael Jackson’s They Don’t Care About Us.
That political edge ran straight through the weekend. The festival’s talks stage directly confronted political instability and the rise of rightwing populism; Green Party leader Zack Polanski drew a packed tent as he detailed arms sales and a call for rent controls while The Lincoln Project’s unbarred Rick Wilson dismantled the mechanics of Maga.
Unity and hidden gems
Across the music stages, that message took the form of a shared plea for peace and solidarity. At Taste the World, Freshlyground cooked a chicken and peanut curry while sharing memories of performing Waka Waka at the 2010 World Cup. The Garifuna Collective brought ancestral grooves from Belize, reminding the crowd that after four songs, “we’re not strangers any more, we’re family.” On Sunday, Oumou Sangaré commanded the main stage with simple messages of unity: “Love is better, no war”, before teasing women to stay away from handsome, fast-talking playboys on Kamelemba.
Hidden gems were found by wandering into smaller tents, where artists held crowds in cult-like fixation. At the Sunflower tent, 83-year-old Aboriginal Australian elder Kankawa Nagarra delivered spellbinding desert blues and gospel; on the Village Stage, Sabine McCalla’s vocals felt entirely detached from time, howling mid-song like her dog to an unblinking audience.
Community and minor snags
Minor structural snags remained, such as the low stages at workshops, which meant anyone past the sixth row had to blindly mirror the person ahead of them during dance and yoga classes – but flailing limbs aside, it was accepted as part of the fun.
The festival’s longevity is anchored in its community, from stallholders like Marina at Ghana Goods (22 years and counting) to adults who first arrived in prams, now carting their own kids about. Japanese outfit Seppuku Pistols summed up the festival’s chaotic energy, determination and passion: one band member broke their ankle mid-show but didn’t realise and adrenaline kept them going, with a similarly unaware crowd chanting “one more tune!” for two solid minutes after they’d finished.
