Thursday

It could only happen at a music festival: no sooner are wristbands sorted, tents pitched and beer opened than I am offered a flapjack. It tastes odd. I am asked if it seems bitter. People giggle.

“That’ll be the Algerian blend,” someone says. I feel uneasy. “It’s off the internet. We’re not sure what’s in it.”

Just my luck. I have come to a folk festival and been given a spiked flapjack. Just as I wonder what sort of hallucinations I will have and how I’ll possibly explain, they tell me it’s only herbs. Oh. Phew. Can we see the bands now?

Arriving at the main field, we hear the last of The Gathering, an engaging if serious band whose unfortunate fate is to soundtrack the queues for organic pasties and vegetarian curry.

Next up are John Tams and Barry Coope. They are undoubtedly good, but serious and even downbeat at a point when most people have escaped work and want to cheer up.

That doesn’t matter because last up are Supergrass. They are as upbeat as ever and a small moshpit develops. It isn’t folk, but most people know the songs and a rigorously-enforced curfew leaves everyone wanting more.

Friday.

We wake up at 5am, when heavy rain on the roof of the tent becomes torrential. By the time we get up, it has subsided into drifting drizzle. But where most festivals descend into muddy anarchy, here there are clean toilets and even coffee. Lovely.

First band up are the Family Mahone, led by Radio 2 DJ Mark Radcliffe. He introduces every number with the words “this is a drinking song”. It’s cheery stuff and there’s tasty real ale.

Next up are Fairport bass player Peggy and PJ Wright. They are wearing Hawaiian shirts but are more musicianly and the crowd calms down. We miss 3 Daft Monkeys in favour of lunch. This is a mistake.

Next are pleasant young Scots duo Siobhan Miller and Jeana Leslie, who sound a bit like two Kate Rusbys, then Stackridge, one of the most important bands I have never heard of. They sound like a mix of 70s Pink Floyd and ELO, but people seem to be having fun.

This is soon dispelled by gloomy Irishman Paul Brady. A man near me groans “this guy has written songs for so many people”. I wonder who got the good ones.

All this CV-waving doesn’t bode well for Joe Brown and Dave Edmunds, billed as godfathers and grandaddies of British rock’n’roll, but they turn out to be good old-fashioned entertainers. There’s a cheery Lady Madonna guitar duet, a nicely ragged performance of a Mozart number, several standards and a pretty Italian wedding waltz thrown in. Everyone cheers up.

Last up are the Levellers, who put on the best show of the weekend so far. For an encore, they bring on 3 Daft Monkeys, who bounce around merrily and make things even better. Why did we miss them?

Saturday.

Rain starts falling as we get up and gets steadily heavier.

We put on waterproofs and head for Richard Digance who manages to be funny and touching, despite the rain.