The poetry tent, the woods, the poetry tent, the hotdog stand, the poetry tent, the poetry tent, the poetry tent.

I’d never been to a festival before. I’ve actively avoided that big festival, the one that seems increasingly red-taped and mainstream. In Latitude, I found a home. As one of my friends said “You’re surrounded by your people”. Sandal-wearing, floatily dressed, dreadlocked, Guardian readers… with little hippy children.

I ate pine cones in the woods, with ferns in my hair. I danced alone in a crowd; talked religion while listening to Swedish girls sing Leonard Cohen; shopped for rainbow socks with the Lawyer; wore flowers in my hair; high-fived teenagers by the fire; got lost and then found; heard some beautiful music and fell in love with a poet.

Why, why, was I not doing this before I turned 30??