Much too much, much too young ? Why Camp Bestival was perfect, except for the hangover

I’m still getting over Camp Bestival. Partly it’s because Tom’s brother-in-law and their two small children turned up from Australia the day after we got back, mitigating our ability to sleep past 6.00am. Partly, it’s because I spent Sunday getting well and truly mullered, and then had to pack a massive tent, stick it on a wagon and drag what had been our sleep cave and multifarious belongings from the previous four days up a big hill. Partly it’s because I had a mild falling out with my daughter on the last day, because I managed to upset her when I was pissed. Kids, that’s why it’s never a good idea to be sober around your parents. But that’s the risk you take when you go somewhere like Camp Bestival.

For four glorious days, the world was turned upside down for our family, where anything went: we slept in glitter, sequins and and ugly purple fleeces, wore tails and feathers all day, kept the kids up with fizzy drinks and sweets on the advice of other parents, who then danced round them like handbags in the rave tent. It was misbehaviour at its best, and for once parents were leading the charge.

I must admit to having concerns about taking my kids to what is essentially a big rave up in a field, for all its glitter and glow sticks and kids’ entertainment, of which there was plenty – though much of it for an additional fee. I felt it might be somehow unwholesome, plenty hard work, and might all be too much, when, so often, in my book, less is more where kids are concerned. Yet here I was subjecting them to technicolour maximalism, with alcohol thrown in for good measure (although they were only drunk on sugar and sunshine). I expect they might now grow up square. But to be honest, at nearly seven and nearly ten, I almost feel we might have missed the boat. So much of this is set up for younger children, with parents lugging them round in beautifully decorated trailers, which even at a festival this well organised seemed a lot like hard work. At least with them at this age, we could relax a bit and enjoy ourselves. And oh, how we did.

To be fair we started slow, arriving, after a three and a half hour journey into wildest Dorset to summery breezes and rather more inhibited parents wondering how on earth they were going to lug all their stuff to the campsite up the hill. Luckily, there was a tractor, manned by someone who may or may not have been Rob Da Bank, who towed us up to the wristband queue – the longest in the whole festival, which is to say most were good and short. This was followed by a trek down to our camping plus pitch – a relatively civilised camping space with luxury toilets (well, until day three when they reeked to high heaven) and hot showers (except that the morning queues made them inaccessible), but it was well worth it for an additional £195.

Lucky for me, I bought giant baby wipes, dry shampoo and glitter because the whole point of this event is about glamping it up. Most people wore costumes, at least once over the four days. This year’s theme was “going wild”, so I brought feathers, homemade head-dresses, animals tails and hats – and though my kids don’t even like dressing up, they soon got in the swing of it. For those who weren’t as organised, there were beauty and pamper parlours, costume shops – where, for a price, you could buy a tail, tutu or have your face, or even beard gilded.

The problem was that so much came at a cost. We rinsed through £500, easily, on cider, kids’ activities, rides and fripperies. The idea was that you had to stay cheerful the whole time, and with kids in tow, that can get expensive. But to be fair we did a lot in the time. There were bushcraft activities, set in wooded encampments where actual ‘Red Indians’ (yes, I know it’s ‘first nationers’ these days) showed kids how to make spears and daggers from wood and string. Ava made a shield taught by a bluff Yorkshireman who was probably a genuine smithy, while Jonah played Championship Manager in the Young Gunners tent, manned by, naturally, Gunnersaurus Rex.

Of the freebies (or rather, what was included in the price of the ticket, which for adults was £195, and for children was £20), there was much to enjoy, including daily parades of fierce but stunning drummers trailed by giant pandas, skeleton horses, swans and other wonderful creatures; there were real life stunt horses, falcons, epic fireworks, Born Slippy, Dick n’ Dom doing a wonderfully irreverent rendition of the Jungle Book (by far the kids’ favourite thing), philosophy with Nigel Warburton (who follows me on Twitter @philosophybites), and who managed to engage the kids for a full half hour with his talk about why killing Cecil the lion may not have been such a bad thing after all, science activities, such as gamer sessions by Technology Will Save Us – which we never managed to arrive in time for, dance workshops, and the wonderfully wholesome Dingly Dell where Amelia made a carrot whistle, they both took part in building a boat, rolled down hills and lots of other kids made mud pies, all set in beautiful forest, complete with fairy lights, giant toadstools and butterflies. Oh, and I forgot the llamas.

At times, it felt like this was childhood by numbers – the 50 things a child should do by 11 3/4, hosted by the National Trust felt as though we were literally ticking the boxes that a normal childhood – now sadly blighted by computer games, homework, and parental prosecution for unaccompanied minors – should provide. But for the most part, it felt like something beautifully progressive: parents and children together in cahoots;  the oldies rediscovering their youth while the youngies got to hang out with the grownups in a joyous democracy, promoted by the beautiful fact of no VIP area (we even managed to sneak into the artists’ area behind the main stage, so gorgeously lackadaisical was security) – that sadly, real life does not reflect.

As for the music, it was plentiful, the silent disco with the kids epic(as well as the bit where we sneaked back later for more discrete raving), the main stage was relatively uncrowded (one of the best things about the whole event was that it was really underpopulated compared to your average over packed festival), and there were plenty of safe spaces for the kids to run around, or climb things, which my kids became really rather adept at over the course of the weekend. Which all meant , for us adults, the opportunity to sit around, drink beer and make new friends – so much easier to do when you’re three sheets to the wind, and just start playing hackey sack with some kids who turn out to be called Jonah, Amelie, Phoenix and Indigo and their wonderfully relaxed Devonshire parents – of which the day spent just getting tipsy with was by far one of the most pleasant of my life, not least the festival experience.

Of course the danger was that I became rather too philosophical, which I tend to on booze, proudly telling several parents that my children get their pole dancing skills from me, and discussing the relative merits of my offspring at length (I love them both but differently) – managing to, somehow, upset Ava in the process – so much for being pissed around the kids. So by Monday, and with a tent to pack and things to lug and a hangover to boot, it all got a bit too much, and literally ended in tears. But looking back, after a decent night’s sleep, a day without cider, a day in the office, some hugs and normality, there were so many beautiful moments at Camp Bestival, I could cry.