Cornbury Park, that Arcadian stretch of rolling English dreamscape, once again hosted Wilderness Festival, a four-day revel in hedonism, hedgerows, and haberdashery. The 2025 theme was ostensibly “Glow” and “Glitter,” which a few took as a cue for celestial glamour. Many more interpreted it as “pirates, drag queens, and one particularly liberated couple who wore nothing but matching hats and sturdy footwear for the entire weekend.”

I, in a moment of sartorial delusion, purchased a red top hat adorned with a sort of feathered explosion, and spent the rest of the weekend peering out from under it, trying to look enigmatic. Spoiler: I looked like a circus ringmaster who’d taken a wrong turn into a modern bacchanal.

As always, the weather played its traditional English role: emotionally unstable. There was sunshine — glorious, vitamin-D-rich rays that made the sequins sparkle and the body paint glisten. There was also rain — sudden, determined, and entirely uninterested in your flimsy poncho. Still, when you’re elbow-deep in glitter and gin, meteorology becomes a secondary concern.

Now, let us talk about the music. Or rather, let us acknowledge its subtle retreat. There were, of course, DJs scattered like confetti through the trees,  some of whom played actual music, others who seemed to be experimenting with a genre I call “Ambient Existential Dread.” Bands were scarcer this year, which might disappoint purists, but honestly, no one noticed. Because Cornbury Park itself is the headliner. It is quite literally the show.

The trees alone deserve a standing ovation. Towering, ancient, and utterly unfazed by human nonsense, they form cathedrals of shade and secrets. Among their roots were pianos, real ones, where someone was always mid-Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, or an ambitious but flawed rendition of Chopsticks. I cried twice. Once from the beauty, and once from sitting on a wet log.

The spiritual core of the festival, as always, was The Playing Fields,  the chaotic heart and mildly hallucinogenic lungs of Wilderness. This is where the magic happens, the madness flourishes, and a certain Camilla de Ville — known affectionately as “she who steals husbands”  summoned me to judge cakes. I do not know how or why I was selected. I only know that I took the role with the gravity it deserved. The best cake? A lemon drizzle so zesty it nearly proposed to me.

And speaking of proposals,  Bon Bon. The iridescent icon, the lipstick-clad legend, was never more than a glitter trail away. I’ve never been so close to Bon Bon. Camilla was there too, looking suspiciously endearing. What is it about a man in lipstick that utterly rearranges your priorities?

Let us now briefly enter the realm of sport. Where else but Wilderness would one witness:

• Baby Races (Yes. Actual babies. Yes, they raced. No, they didn’t care.)
• Sheep Herding (Blindfolded humans dressed as sheep. The logic behind this remains elusive, but the commitment was absolute.)
• Cricket (Traditional, but lightly enhanced by 22 streakers. This year’s record, I’m told. One of them had a cape. It billowed.)

There was also wood-cutting, specifically, a masterclass from the reigning British Wood Cutting Champion (female, fierce, ferociously efficient).

As she sliced through a thick trunk in under 30 seconds, the commentary, provided by Bon Bon, `beret wearing, red stripy all in one with a little butt-cheek exposed) reached Wildean heights:

“And this is what it looks like to cut through the patriarchy,  very tough, and you ‘av to keep cutting away.”

A pause. A sip of something fizzy.

“Very dry, that patriarchy.”

We howled. It was, without question, the festival’s finest moment.

As for food, it was,  like the people, colourful, varied, and slightly absurd. There were wild mushroom risottos, duck-fat chips, and cocktails with names like Emotional Support Flamingo. I did not attend the famed Wilderness Banquet, choosing instead to eat something unidentifiable on a stick while crouching under a tarp. Regrets? Some.

Would I go again? Of course. Despite the rain, the streakers, and the ongoing trauma of seeing a middle-aged man in nothing but Doc Martens trying to do the worm, Wilderness remains a peculiar paradise. A place where trees sing, cakes compete, and gender is less of a construct and more of a costume change.

In the end, Wilderness isn’t about music or mud, or even whether your glitter is biodegradable. It’s about surrendering to the utterly surreal, utterly English charm of it all, where glow meets grime, glitter meets grass, and you meet a version of yourself who thinks a red feathered top hat is the answer.

See you next year. Bring cake. And trousers. Or don’t.