IT has come to that time again. With the nights drawing in and the first hint of autumn in the air, it’s time for us to pack away the tent and sleeping bag, wipe off the glitter, and replace the wellies with a comfortable pair of trainers.

Yep, after three glorious months, the summer festival season is fizzling out to a ragged, sweaty, and distinctly mildew-scented end.

But there is always time for just one more – and traditionally, that honour has always fallen to Bestival – which, as its name implies, is also the best. Draped over the rolling hills of the Isle of Wight, this gorgeous event, organised by dance music don Rob de Bank, is the perfect festival and a perennial favourite with Oxfordshire music-lovers.

Its appeal lies in its mix of big-name acts (Oxford’s Foals headlined on Saturday and disco legend Nile Rodgers and Chic closed the show last night), up-and-coming artists (including Jericho lads Glass Animals), and friendly, boutique atmosphere.

What really separates this man-size festival from the boys though, is its unique tradition of fancy dress.

Each year has a different theme; this time it was Desert Island Disco – almost all 55,000 people turning out as sparkly sailors, blinged-up buccaneers and cool-cat castaways, against a spangled backdrop featuring the world’s biggest disco ball (Guinness approved!).

Some of the best outfits will have taken their owners months to make; others a hasty few minutes of rummaging before the journey down or even a quick sweep of the on-site Oxfam shop the same day. But the important thing is, everyone’s involved. If you’re not (and I have friends who refuse to don fancy dress out of principal), you are going to look boring.

A 6ft-tall builder from Portsmouth shoe-horned into a ragged gold-lamé ballgown, with ripped fishnets and a glittery Titanic lifebelt around his neck is going to look a lot less conspicuous than his mate in jeans and hoodie.

Of course you can overdo it. Is it really worth spending weeks making a sequined wire and papier mache sea monster which is going to drop limbs the moment you pull it on, and ruin your day – and that of the other three people in it?

All of which brings me to a question which has often occupied my thoughts on such matters. What’s worse: to be the only one in fancy dress or the only one not?

For years I always thought it was the latter, until, that is, a friend told me of a pal’s birthday party in a pub at which he had urged everyone to come along in fancy dress – only to change his mind a week later when he realised hardly anyone was going to make the effort.

Inevitably the only people who hadn’t got the message were the plucky couple who turned up resplendent in full Stars Wars Darth Maul get-up.

To their credit I hear they carried on regardless, meeting curious gazes with a casual shrug. Now that takes courage.