Coming over the lip of a small Somerset valley, a coppice at one end and surrounded, on all sides, by fields of sheep, horses and cows. Nestled into the bottom, by a large pond and looking, for all intents-and-purposes, like a South-West free party, was Hamswell Festival. One large, open-sided, marquee adjacent to an open space and separate DJ tent formed the focus. A few food tents, a bar and a market stall were scattered about it and the camping sprawled out alongside, down through the valley.

We stumbled down the hill to “eclectic shit”, at least that’s what they announced as the title of the song. As darkness fell, the free party feel began to intensify. Hamswell floated on balloons. A mash-up of music; with brief sparks of transient euphoria. There was a cut that went straight through the middle of the event, which kept you on your toes – from your float to your fall. In the marquee, with the stage, a band would pluck some sounds – gypsy-folk-funk-indie – then the stage would pass and the DJ booth-come-tent-come-mini-stage would blow up from across the muddy space. The audience wrenched happily from one world to another.

Saw Andrew Howell play on the Saturday – introduced as “the most beautiful man at the festival” – oh, how he squirmed. Played to the gentle applause of a quiet crowd. I finally got to hear “Redemption” and “Lady” that I’d written the lyrics for. Brilliant. Boy’s got some talent; check him out. Floated on top of the hill for a while with him later – euphoric views of the festival. Sunshine broke periodically through the blanket cloud and the cheers of the people resonated through the whole valley. The days of Hamswell were the rests between nights it seemed – local ale, local cider, local food, treats-all-round. Later on, the Saturday night blast out sent us spinning, soundly round – the beats of Toxic Funk Berry absolutely hit the spot.

Rosy-fingered dawn, very early on Sunday. A chorus of bird calls erupt from the nearby coppice at the end of the valley. Suddenly the sky is filled with the whole flock. They danced and weaved above our heads, stretching their wings for half-an-hour, before disappearing on their daily missions. Then I lay down to sleep. Sunday and the valley was fast clearing of tents. “Good to see you Hamswell faithful!” Came the afternoon voice before introducing the final band – King Charles – Most notable for their outro when the guitar was fully shredded. Like a Woodstock time-loop opening in Somerset. Perfect chills to the end of live tunes.  

Sunday evening and the remaining few have gathered sticks and logs from the woods close at hand, they’d built small fires, creating the final night of intimacy. As night falls, you can see smoke rising gently above the scattered collections of tents – the whole scene is some post-party, apocalyptic vision of the come-down. Still canisters fire, unrelenting, but empty tins of lager and bottles of coke are strewn across the field, casualties wander aimlessly, groups wander directionless before settling by flames.

On the mic: “Go home people, go home. We will release the dogs in five minutes.” Laughter around the valley. Then from the top of the hill leading away, where a few tent communities were, another voice “we want more, we want more!” Then silence, then several pulls of gas. Then chatter. Then the beat of the night went on. I finally fell asleep to the cry: “I say Hams-well, you say Wick-ed” – “Hamswell!” “Wicked!” “Hamswell!” “Wicked!”.