Glasgowbury Despatches

It's 7am, Sunday morning and a busker serenades the campsite with a feeble version of 'I Will Survive'. The refrain is taken up from a series of tents, and soon the far end of the field is bleating out those words about the unquenchable human soul.

We need all the comfort we can get. The Sperrin Mountains are covered in eerie mist, disguising the mounds of beer cans, traffic cones and party detritus. Sleep is a mere memory. Saturday has found the Glasgowbury festival in magnificent effect, followed by a noisy and relentless night under canvas. A young lady in the queue for the pungent mobile toilets makes a strange, grunting sound and then vomits politely into her hand. It's time to go home.

The festival was more expansive this year, without losing that famous bonhomie. Oppenheimer were amusing and General Fiasco went off at a generous tilt. Ash had come from Tokyo via Galway and played their numerous hits. The fella from Lotion wore a fetching purple dress while the crepe van was doing excellent work.

The Radio Ulster squad had descended on Draperstown on the Friday night, bringing live music from Panama Kings, Rachel Austin and Grainne Duffy. The BBC technicians lashed together an awesome sound at the Cellar Bar, the artists were all in stellar form and the audience was a delight. It's all compressed in the head: the smiles, the tunes, the beautiful energy, the vast scenery and the trials in the tent. We'll be back, natch.

(Tim Wheeler photo by Phil O' Kane)