Sunflowered Up

You need to be bold to run a music festival. The weather will mock you, the bands will be flakey and the punters capricious. You will rage against the latrines, the planners will thwart you, the Councilors may mither while the health and safety guys will see a fatal consequence in every twig and cowpat.

That's why I admire these intrepid organisers. They have various reasons for putting music into a vacant space. In recent years, there was a silly notion that festivals were a license to make easy cash. Oh no. Also, I've met a few guys who were motivated by ego - looking to present themselves as the homegrown Michael Eavis - but that's a cracked idea as well. However I tend to side with the music obsessives who start small and ultimately fill the giant fields. Paddy Glasgow in Draperstown is the fizzing exemplar of that, and it's also been the rationale for Pigstock, Forfey and others.

That's why Sunflower Fest in Hillsborough is moving high in my affections. Last year I reported on its budding charm. This year it was tangible. The campfire stage crackled, the Bonnevilles delivered some fierce boogaloo in the barn, Pocket Billiards clicked with the audience and the enchanted glade combined magic and yoga with Buckfast on ice.

I'd seen reference to the Crochet Circle ahead of the event and I figured it was some post-modern jest. But no, there was plenty of fetching knitwear on the site, and the wool was worn in earnest. Handy for that late night encounter with the Narnia recreation in the glade, or the nearby woodland film experience.

There was rain, mud and a bit of consternation, but we also witnessed a startling rainbow and a sunset to remember forever. We saw shenanigans in the Electric Disco Shed and we were in raptures to the Lost Brothers singing the Saturday night in.

Bliss, altogether.