Personally I didn’t find it amusing. Word that I was to attend Fairport's Cropredy Convention 2011 was for family info, not a signal for near-hysteria from my younger son. Was this an attempt to return to the Swinging Sixties or the Hippies’ era that I had blatantly ignored when they were in vogue? The truth is I live two miles as the crow flies from Cropredy and for 20 years have heard it without experiencing the real thing. Besides someone gave me a three-day ticket! Truthfully, I enjoyed every second, even if turning up on day one in collar, tie, black jacket, trousers and shiny shoes, singled me out like a sore thumb.

What an opportunity for this habitual people watcher! There was a large banner on a fence, bearing the words ‘Lost & Found Children’. However, here children were noticeably absent. Instead, slumped below the banner were two aged rockers, both with long, white beards and one with a ponytail, sleeping off the cider in spite of countless decibels booming from the stage.

The field was packed with people of all ages, folding chairs, blankets and make-do shelters. Not everyone was transfixed by the music. Still, with 32 hours of it, even the most dedicated would want a break.

Veteran rockers abounded, paunches stretching monogrammed T-shirts. Women, who would normally dress soberly, were as outlandish as the men. One chap greeted me like an old friend, but I wasn’t aware of knowing someone of about 70 with long scruffy hair, untidy beard and loud Peruvian clothes. It was early next morning that it came to me; he was a former dark-suited deputy chairman of magistrates on a bench not 20 miles away.

Fairport is recognised as the family-friendliest of music festivals. It lived up to its reputation. The atmosphere was magical. The youngest Fairporter I found was three-week-old Melody, from Cumbria. She and her parents were camping. Mum and dad hadn’t missed a Cropredy for a decade. “She’s loving it,” said dad Iain. “Look at her face.” Wide awake, the child’s eyes sparkled. There was plenty to keep youngsters happy; diablo lessons, hula hoop contests, story telling and a cordoned-off area where children and adult helpers made a myriad of models from paper and sticky labels. One lasting memory is that I never heard one word of aggression over the three days – a pleasant end to a nationally depressing week. Three days? Oh yes, I returned on Friday and Saturday, wearing something more fitting that on Thursday. My multi-coloured Nepalese shirts and trousers came into their own.