Hanging from the middle of the roof in the Happy Hookah’s tent swung several Barbie Dolls embracing in bondage gear. Below were some square, low-riding tables with scatter cushions and rugs and, in a cleared space in the centre, lay Fishboy. His body was rigid with his arms by his sides, hands and feet flapping at the joints and his head angled up gasping for water. A sea mammal caught in the magnificent flash of Waveform 2010.

As Craig, Francesco and I puffed gently on a blueberry shisha pipe, passing the two hoses between ourselves and bumping along with other tribal Waveform members, an acoustic guitar was being lovingly tinkered with in the corner of Happy Hookahs. We floated for a while, right until that screaming point reached its apex, thought experiments bringing everybody's hands together and then the psychedelic trance would come weaving into your ears, lifting and carrying you out into the main arena of the festival.

The central dance area spread round in a semi-circle at one end; Tribe of Frog, Earthheart, Cat’s Cradle and the Electronica stage. Then, mimicking the Rougham disused airfield on which the festival was sited, Waveform stretched forth in a long line to the far camping fields. The sides lined with little stalls, selling oddities and colours. The flat, Suffolk ground swept out in every direction, only one, old bomb crater broke it up, at the bottom of which a fire roared for three days, sharing a little warmth with every passerby.

It was on Saturday morning that we ran into Raoul Duke; it was as if he’d been plucked straight from the middle of a postmodern motif:

“Raoul” Craig called out to him. Duke turned his head, a green poker visor and aviators shading his eyes, a black cigarette holder flapping up and down, up and down, between his lips, a hawain shirt blazing against beige combat shorts. “God damn man!” Duke shouted quietly. “This isn’t a 7/11. Get a grip!” He was right, this was three days of 24 hour partying. Before we could say anything he was off, taking long, extravagent strides across the bomb crater, looking half-charicature, half-madman. “Have you seen a Samoan with a knife and a wasted girl? God damn, have you seen him, man?” He called out...and with that Duke disappeared. “Will we see him again do you think?” Craig asked. “Not if he’s working. He’ll be knee deep in water by morning.”

Sometimes, when you lose most of what your brought to a festival, a moment of despair can take you, whisk you up like a typhoon to the sky. I may never have found my phone if it hadn’t been for Fallyrag’s competition winner Vicky – who in trying to get hold of me tracked my phone back to the Happy Hookah. Thank you Vicky.  And then, as if answering that despairing call to the sky, Zaphod landed with a caring, cradling friendship and dropped us back down onto the green, green grass of Waveform. From then on every knock was healed, every wave ridden, every problem resolved – the people of Waveform saw to it.

The saturday night psychedelia in Tribe of Frog was rapid and relentless. The energising music kept Fishboy, Thai and Tom dancing as if they were invoking some pagan God. Stomping. Skanking. Dancing. Some arms and heads bent to the sky, the colourful butterflies floating overhead, others to the floor, crashing out beats and bass with their feet, the rest grooving their bodies round, smiling and catching the faces of all the other tribe; sharing nods, hugs and winks – anything to further enlighten the empathy of a sparkling night.

And when that sweaty heat comes to overthrow you and you bimble outside, and the shocking shiver of a cold night runs through you like a knife, a group of hippies close by notice and in a wave they embrace you, form about you, cacoon you, until your heat starts pumping again. A drink of water from the delicious thai food stall close by and your restarted; a fresh drop realigns the tent’s reality and you’re back into the trance of a tribal movement. Glancing down to your left, between every sway, a different couple embrace, loved up by the side, soaking up the atmosphere as the night floats on and on.

Early mornings were quiet, shops stirring late, people sparse and only the odd acoustic guitar being played. A Bob Dylan medley in amongst a circle of trees, over the morning wake-up drink, eased one through the hazy madness and into the new day. Each tree was signed with its ancient attributes, for Equinox, for healing, for birth and for sadness: Back to Earth, Save the Earth.

In 2009, Waveform won the Greener Festival award and this year was no exception to their high standards of environmentalism. Strolling about early, the floor was clear of rubbish, cans, canisters, and even wasted people carked-out on the dry ground. Solar showers and interesting sustainable stalls, were peppered with meetings of interesting people helping the world be a better, cleaner, safer place. “We want to show that a festival can be run with no lasting environmental impact” Steve, my contact, had said to me. And they did – lessons could be learnt by the establishment festivals, with their façade of green consciousness. Waveform exemplified.

The police had begun the festival with their poor hypnotized dogs, bent to do the establishments will and a heavy force, whose presence unsettles – whether you have reason to be afraid or not. On the first night councillors roamed with little gadgets measuring the sounds. I’m sure it must have been hectic for the residents of the nearby industrial estate – wait, do people live on industrial estates? No matter, they failed to ruin this festival, unlike so many others they’ve destroyed in the past. Many a conversation about Glade. A stark reminder of how we need to protect our festivals, without needing to bring in sponsorship, establishment attitudes and generic mono-culture.

On the Sunday night, when the music had calmed and people began to amble through the end, Zaphod came and sat with us, buying the final round in the Happy Hookahs. So, the last few hours we floated and discussed the changing scene, the sadness that comes with finality and the baited breaths for next year’s festival. We had no need to leave the planet, we should surely stay, though Zaphod beamed out and away, leaving the night and us stragglers astray. Bless you Waveform – see you next year, aye?