It is Friday and I am heading south to play an acoustic set with some friends, not at a concert, but at a party in a garden with 6000 other “gardeners” of which I am one. With soundscape courtesy of Beth Orton, Ffion Regan and Captain Beefheart, I meander along country lanes aware that I have seen no signs to confirm that I am going in the correct direction. Promptly I am forced to take a left out of the trees, and there before me, on horizon, are several tall silken masts calling out like sirens bathing in the ochre of this glorious summer’s evening. I smile to myself as I turn into the entrance since I am greeted with the first of many signs: “come and play”.

I quickly find the gang, pitch my new tent and, in readiness for the rest of the evening, shimmy into the ludicrous juxtaposition that comprises a slinky cocktail dress, combat trousers and wellies. Yes, this festival is all about dressing up and letting go, and there are few, if any, party poopers. Everyone has made an effort, and this particular guy in a frock is feasting on the continual stream of female compliments as he continues on his reconnaissance mission.

And no, my arse doesn’t look big in it either – but if it were, I could always call in at the Emotional Rescue Area, seek the advice of the Bad Advice Bears or be granted a wish by the beautifully enigmatic Fairy Wishmother.

The party is set around a magnificent lake. A natural amphitheatre forms before the Great Stage which itself looms up from the waters like some monstrous great white shark, mouth gaping wide at the sight of such frivolity.

Impressive as it is, and even more so as the night draws in and the lighting casts more magic over the garden, the “Shark Stage” is but a single piece of the whole. For all around the shark are smaller more intimate, more quirky stages, like schools of pilot fish. The Feast of Fools, the Living Room with its cosy intimacy, Wild Things Stage, Small World and the Pagoda are to name but a very few. And passing between all of these satellites becomes my gardening task for the entire weekend.

I catch the end of the Echo and the Bunnymen set. They blast out some classics and Ian McCulloch, steeped in perpetual arrogance, announces that the last song “The Killing Moon” is the “greatest song ever written”. I beg to differ but thoroughly enjoy it all the same. I wander over to the floating Pagoda Stage to catch some tunes. It is packed and the gentle swaying motion is slightly disconcerting at first so I decide to go back on land and see part of the Utah Saints set before heading for a more intimate set of “dub-diddly” music at the Small World Solar Stage.

I have no real agenda other than to treat myself to a decent nights sleep on the first night but as the sun’s first rays warm my face I am about to kiss goodbye to sleep for the rest of the weekend.

We wander up on the hill that overlooks the lake, buy some breakfast and sit comfortably in one of the many cushioned seating areas. It is a great vantage point and I stay for quite a while relaxing and chatting to people. Suitably satiated we return to camp, change into another outfit and wander off to experience more.

I happen upon some very inspiring installations and live art. There is an enormous hand that floats in the middle of the lake, a tunnel made from pallets, half a car, a door that opens and closes on anything you wish, a funeral parade, a pimp-your-pram stall and the 'Cats are Little People in Fur Coats' Action Camp. Meow! I am granted a wish by the beautiful Fairy Wishmother, catch the end of a mud wrestling match and witness a boat race on the lake.

Over on the main stage is the sultry Candie Payne. She oozes out some fine numbers but I remain unconvinced, even if she does look like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Sharon Osbourne. I am even less convinced by the hype surrounding Mercury Prize nominees New Young Pony Club. Despite impulsive angular guitar underpinned by stomping bass lines, the rather preppish keyboards and derivative 80’s prancing and posturing are very much indicative of the current state the media fawning over uninspiring UK artists at the expense of informing of real talent .Yawn. The rest of the large crowd are in obvious disagreement so I wander off in search of the emperor’s tailor.

I fail in my quest but do find the Vampire tent. Having interviewed a really nice bunch of vampires at a meet in London a few years earlier, I am almost tempted to participate in the Vampire Speed Dating. Unsure as to whether my dentistry and neck will be up to the task, I simply admire the people lazing around in coffins and try to figure out whether a coffin will fit in my tent.

It is starting to drizzle so I follow the fairy lights back to camp where I cement wonderful friendships with my new-found family over the course of the entire night. It is not long before the Sunday morning sunshine informs me that the rain has ceased and the umbrellas and rainwear can be put away. Another glorious day ahead to be filled with merriment and lunacy.

It is time to change again and go on a group wander. Dressed as a duck, Mick outclasses us all and no doubt will be remembered for many a year to come. He is photographed and filmed continually and not once steps out of character. It is getting rather warm so we decide sit down a quench our thirst with Pimms galore before the onslaught of the Great Custard Pie fight and a fantastic cricket match.

Before long I am on stage performing a short set of acoustic numbers appropriately at the Feast of Fools. I have an amazing time and even get to get a butterfly tattoo and say hello to a white rabbit – a real one!

Instruments, gear and food sorted, we head off to experience more. Johnny Bramwell of I am Kloot fame is performing an intimate solo set. It is excellent but I would have preferred the band to be present to help drown out the rest of the festival.

Eventually we end up at the Great Stage for the finale. The legendary Prince Buster and his band have the entire crowd performing ska dancing to the very best of their abilities. There is full moon, a clear starry sky and after the final encore the entire festival howls in unison to herald the end of the organised lunacy. Magnificent!

I finally go back to my tent for some sleep at dawn feeling very tired but very happy. This has been an almost perfect weekend and I am planning to return next year and make it perfect. But for now I head north to begin the start of my adventures in the deserts of California and Nevada. Hi ho Silver!
©Zee
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