Port Elliot: Festival for wannabe-rebels and the ever-so-well-behaved

Port Elliot Festival: a small, bespoke literary affair perfectly suitable for the middle classes. Wind the clocks back 20 years and you'll see a very different turn of events at the same secluded location.

Port Elliot used to be the venue for the Elephant Fayre (http://www.ukrockfestivals.com/elephant-fayre-1986.html), which by many accounts was a bit of a hippy pilgrimage where free love, cheap drugs by the barrel load and anarchy reined supreme. The Elephant Fayre was a big, unpoliced alternative festival set in the grounds of a vast estate on the North Cornwall boarder. It got shut down in 1986 when a convoy of travellers refused to leave the site, causing a rather unfavourable raucous with the media and locals.

I didn't know anything about the Elephant Fayre until I left the site. I wish I'd done a little research, as it's a fascinating story and it would have been fun to retrace the steps of the aforementioned rebel outcasts. Port Elliot is now a literary soiree predominantly aimed at the middle classes; it's a tidy, close-knit event with a cosy attendance of around 5 thousand - the campsite is just a stone's throw from the main arena and you can walk the perimeter of the site in under 30 mins. Talks by the literary hoi-polloi don't necessarily take centre stage; Port Elliot has a programme that mixes artists, fashionistas and live music with impromptu creative gatherings, wild swimming and one-minute discos. As the festival is on such a small scale, it's highly likely that you'll actually get to attend most of the above... as many performers have repeat sets and off-the-programme sporadic gigs happened upon if you're in the right place at the right time.

This was very refreshing for me, as I'm used to going to Glastonbury where there is too much to see and the site is so big that you end up staying in the areas that you like best and not venturing too far from your safety blanket if you're too hot or hungover. Port Elliot has a smug ambiance that is so hard not to warm to: it's no wonder there are no crusties or hippies in sight.

I was amused and mildly shocked to wake up to silence, aside from the odd snore from one of our endearingly lovely neighbours. Ok, they were all mostly in their silver years... and oh so precious of their campsites (flowers and gingham table cloths on fold-away tables, incense sticks, tents decorated with bunting, ice-chilled champers etc...) but I think I'd rather deal with these trivialities than coping with people fighting/shagging/dumping rubbish on your temporary door step. My tent companion, Katie and I actually had cheerful banter with our neighbours on a daily basis... and if anything we were worried we'd get into trouble for being the 'wild ones'.

Being in such resplendent company made us more eager to be gracious campers, upping the ante by keeping our camp immaculate, cooking jealousy-inducing meals, and dressing as glamorously as our means would allow. Usually, at Glastonbury, I resign to the fact that I'm going to look and feel like a tramp for the week, so I don't make an effort with much aside from leaving our patch free of rubbish before we leave.

Such joy! To be surrounded by conscientious individuals in a beautiful secluded location: so safe we were not afraid to leave our box of wine outside at the end of a night. I thought I may have been a bit weary of all the families and stuffy rahs - there was a significant array of designer wellies on show and exceedingly well-behaved children being tightly guarded by yummy mummies. I laughed so hard waiting in a toilet queue when I observed a Port Elliot style (innocently tumultuous) family showdown. The situation follows thus:

Two little boys, two little girls and two mothers are dithering at the front of the queue. One boy and one girl are dressed normally in fleeces. One boy and one girl are dressed in some obscure green felt and sequin outfits obviously hand-crafted by mummy. One of them is refusing to go into a toilet: doesn't need to go. The more resilient of the two mothers starts squawking in a loud voice: "Eton, Eton. Come here, I want the fleeces in one loo and the monsters in this one." The kids aren't taking much notice, and the little girl monster replies: "Mummy, but I don't need to go!" Angry mummy will not back down, "Aurelia, come here. You're a monster, monsters must come in here with mummy." The poor child reluctantly plods into the loo with the other monster and monster mummy.

Too right I bet the two monsters belonged to her, and no doubt they will turn into bigger monsters when they're publicly harangued as they're growing up for having such pretentious names. I feel deeply sorry for them.

Other such over-protective mumsy behaviour that I witnessed over the weekend included a mother who wouldn't let her kid take a significant short cut over the fence to the car park, siting that it was: "too rusty darling". They had to walk the perimeter instead. I have to say this type of festival opened my eyes to modern middle class behaviour... being surrounded by rahs was eye-opening, thoroughly entertaining and provided me with a wealth of amusing writing fodder to boot. Katie and I made no effort to conform to such middle-Britain formalities: I suppose we were the rebels without a cause. We raved too hard on the first night, we got embarrassingly sick, we didn't have a shower. We even picked litter for our tickets (gasp!)... but more on that later...

Maybe we would have fitted in better had the Elephant Fayre made it into the 21st century. But sod it, we had every right to enjoy Port Elliot; we were there for the culture, the music, the inspiration that such events exude. I'm not saying that there felt like a divide: it's just that I'm not used to such civilised company at festivals. Even the celebrities seemed to be perfectly at ease in our presence. I witnessed Grayson Perry rocking out to a new local band in the 25 Tent, Tim Dowling from the Guardian flitting between talks up at the Bowling Green and Jarvis Cocker ambling idly along with family in tow. No mobbings took place. No paparazzi-induced break downs were reported. Just people being people minding their own business amongst the paying public.

The only dampening to my spirits over the weekend occurred when Katie and I discovered that we had to pay five pounds to snoop around the manor house which provides the focal point to the magnificent grounds. We've at a festival: therefore everything within that festival space should be free. We were rather perturbed, as we'd begrudgingly left Grayson Perry's superb performance in order to be at the house for the allotted tour time.

I think the picture below humourously sums up the way we felt. On the last night, we noticed a number of people standing on tip-toes in order to get a glimpse into a grand entrance room illuminated by this ridiculously grand candelabra. The resplendent figures in the portrait on the opposite wall look mockingly back at the dark individuals on the outside. A little like how I felt at this festival: Like a moth to a flame I wanted to be warmed by the splendor, appreciative of my surroundings, yet firmly (and unashamedly) left on the outside.

Port Elliot, I shall return and I shall find an alternative way to bask in your superior warmth.