Sparks flying

She lay on her side and watched the people coming and going from the tented stalls and music stages. I lay on my back beside her and stared up at the billowing ceiling. We’d arrived at the Ragged Hedge Fair, put up the tent, had a series of unbelievably petty squabbles in the process, and were now paralysed by apathy. We lay in our tent, barely speaking, until it was dark.

The Ragged Hedge Fair, held in the Cotswolds each summer, is one of a growing number of small ‘green’ summer festivals springing up to cater for those disillusioned by the squalor, commercialism and criminality at Glastonbury. Power is supplied entirely by sun and wind, on-site transport by horse and cart. Generators aren’t allowed. Neither are dogs. Campfires must be raised off the ground on braziers. Film canisters are available from the information tent for smokers to use as portable ashtrays. ‘Leave no trace’ is the fair’s motto.

Hunger and thirst drove us out of the tent in the end. It was so dark outside we couldn’t see the ground or each other’s faces. I’d forgotten to bring a torch.

Tongues of fire flaring out on the hill drew our attention and we headed towards it. A lively display of fire-eating and juggling was in progress. We joined a half-circle of onlookers. ‘They’re going to set fire to the wicker man in a minute,’ said a silhouette next to me. He spoke as though we were co-religionists. Sure enough, a sinister, 12-feet-tall silhouette was standing nearby, its arms stretched towards us in mute supplication. And sure enough a few moments later one of the performers shoved a flaming torch into its guts and retired.