Boy, was I glad to hear her voice – my daughter’s that is. She was out of radio contact for almost four days at the Wilderness Festival. Her phone ran out of battery. Oh, yeah? In all that amplified sound – was there no juice available?

It seemed an age ago that we loaded stuff into the car: the usual last minute scrum down. Rucksack packed, frantic texting – but in a weekend of storms, not even a Pac-A-Mac.

Screeching to a halt on the hot tarmac, we entered a large outdoor retailer where the combination of shorts, hair and wellies startled more crusty campers. But let’s face it. We all love the idea of beauty and the young having fun, so through the racks we ploughed, questing after a waterproof poncho.

“Just the job,” the festival goer said, twirling round. Protection was only partial. That’s all I’m going to say.

What about the hard, knobbly ground? A roll-up foam mat was located, and popped in the basket.

Ignoring the crampons, ropes and sailing gear, we passed swiftly through the check-out to the open road.

Cornbury looked beautiful: the cornfields golden, the grass mown, the serene avenue of oaks timeless and dependable. Security fences were everywhere. Staff in day-glo jackets buzzed busily, clutching walkie talkies directing traffic, patrolling camping areas – one was sitting on a high seat like a life guard surveying the lively scene below for incidents – perhaps by the lake.

From all directions, festival-goers came on foot, with children and backpacks, with hats and high expectations. I remember dancing to Scouting for Girls in the rain – and it was bliss. No one cared about the weather – the mood carried everyone with it, higher and higher as music filled the warm evening.

This year, Wilderness’s organisers have excelled themselves in the breadth of experiences – speakers, bands, creative projects: it’s a feast.

Driving away across a clipped meadow, I passed an encampment of white teepees. The sun shone, artists were arriving in blacked out 4x4s and in the distance, a tractor ploughed a field.

With so many festivals staged in Oxfordshire over the summer, we’re spoilt for choice. We live in a county which has shown itself to be a crucible of innovation and expertise.

But for now, my only contact with festival headliner Burt Bacharach will be replaying the Austin Powers movie, but when the festival-goer walks through the door – then I’ll get the first hand account of his live set.

And Sam Smith? I’m sure he was cool. And the acoustic stage? So much to enjoy… Did I ever tell you about listening to Don Maclean singing Vincent at the Cambridge Folk Festival? Just his voice – plangent and mellifluous – to an acoustic guitar under the stars. We lit candles. It was magic.

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