They messed up the camping. And the car parking. And probably the toilets. I'll get those out of the way first because aside from those three quibbles (oh, and the prevelance of sickly-sweet Swedish cider instead of something proper and local - in the West Country of all places), the inaugural Camp Bestival was a winner. More and more since Glastonbury's last year off in 2006, small to medium-sized festivals have sprung up all over the place, and not all of them have survived. In an increasingly saturated market a new festival needs a selling point, something that makes it stand out.

The cover of the programme, or almanac to give it its proper title, provides a clue as to what's in store. There's a vardo - the brightly coloured horse-drawn wooden wagons the old fashioned Romany types used - outside which is an equally vibrant family: dad clad in Mad Hatter's attire, mum and smiley kids dressed with simlar colouful joviality. Rob da Bank and the rest of the Bestival team struck upon an idea - they decided, in the words of Sylvestor Stewart, to make Camp Bestival a family affair. It doesn't sound that adventurous on the face of it and there are plenty of other festivals, large and small, that attempt to cater for families and children. I've been to a few of them but none put as much thought or effort into this idea as Camp Bestival obviously did, and there were proportionately more children at this event than any other festival I've been to.

They had their own dedicated garden at the back of Lulworth Castle, with glorious sea views, a kids' disco, dressing up and bouncy castles - and for much of the weekend it was busiest spot of the site. I don't have kids but they were a real joy to be around and they helped give the festival a very relaxed, unpretentious air. You could even have argued - maybe justifiably - that the Sunday line-up was a bit weak musically, but there was great fun to be had away from the main stage headliners. Of which more later. But first let's go back to the start of the weekend ...

Friday

It's raining. Sideways. And I can't help wondering when, if ever, the workshy English summer is going to make an appearance. And Twisted Ear is in a traffic queue, a mile and a half from Lulworth Castle, the scenic spot chosen for Camp Bestival. Being young(ish) and sprightly, we could run a mile and a half quite easily, though perhaps not laden down with tents and gallons of cider. It is therefore frustrating that it takes over two hours to get from this point, less than two miles out, to the car park. Which, a steward tells us, is the "overflow overflow car park" - clearly they didn't anticpiate so many cars.

Or tents, it would seem, because all the campsites are full too. And we're in an overflow overflow campsite, which is actually just a roped-off field full of sheep shit and long grass. But said long grass (maybe not the shit) provides a nice bouncy cushion on top of which to place Thermarests and the like, and we're closer to the car, so on reflection, we've come up trumps landing in this hastily put-together area.

It's almost dark on site, but Camp Bestival is still pretty, if a little bedraggled in the rain. It's not nasty fat rain, though, just wet air, giving you the false sense of security that it isn't actually raining at all. Both time and the elements make the first footsteps seem exciting and disorientating, as though you're wearing permanently smeared happy-glasses. Nothing's obvious - or rather, everything is reassuringly understated: you pass a camp fire only to realise it's part of the Strummerville Campfire Sessions on a double take. Elsewhere, there's the less emphasis on peddling the usual festival bric-a-brac (I know this, because I could not find a silly hat for love nor money), and more space given over to the actual entertainment, good food and good times. Drink ranges from innovative I-can't-believe-it's-not-fruit-juice cocktails to thinking drinking man's brews; the food, too, encompasses Gujarati cuisine, local farmers' fayre and all eye-popping, mouth-watering culinary points in between (and yes, they did have that cast-iron festival favourite Pieminister).

Getting about the site isn't the attrition-yomp that the heavyweight fests like to set: the tents with ents draw to close by a jousting strip which pleasingly unfolds into a delightfuly small but perfectly formed arena for the live music, with the equally small but perfectly formed Lulworth Castle proudly overlooking proceedings. It's here Cubans jive talk, octagenarians duck walk, Oklahomans plot a dungeon escape and septagenarians spend their free time in the park drinking cider. 

Another thing that's different about Camp Bestival is that instead of a standard PA between acts, DJs play proper sets on the main stage whilst the roadies are dismantling and setting up. Andrew Weatherall, the punk/dance/rockabilly Gok Wan for Primal Scream's career, eases us into proceedings with a DJ set of fiesty early 60s rock cuts; our pleasure presets adjusted to 'gaga', it's time to welcome the main event.

Photo: Al Power

The backing band play their part, simulatneously laying down such memorable foundations and parading their chops. It's Berry's guitar playing that wows, though: bursts of ragged runs teasingly, almost lazily, cling to the beat on the cusp of collapse. It's as seductively salcious as its author, particularly when, towards the close of the set, he demands, and receives, a bevvy of beauties to cavort onstage to one of his equally lascivious jams.

Towards the end of the set most of the musicians disappear and only his son Charles remains on the stage. He introduces the band, which also includes his sister, leaving his father until last. It feels like a preamble to an encore - which, no doubt, would have included Johnny B. Goode - and then it just stops: this feels rather odd, as if it has finished more abruptly than planned, and it later transpires that the set had been curtailed because of a strict curfew imposed by the local council. Not the organisers' fault, but frustrating, because this turns out not to be the last time this happens over the weekend.

After hours, there are DJs playing in the Balearic Bollywood tent and the Come Dancing tent - which isn't actually a conventional tent at all but an impressive 'speigeltent', with a bouncy wooden dancefloor and mirrors all around (speigeltent is, fact fans, Dutch for 'mirror tent'). The mirrors give a strange impression of space, and there are wooden booths around the edge of the dancefloor. It's a great spot, and it does feel appropriate that the Shellac Collective are in here playing old '78s after Chuck Berry, and Andrew Weatherall continues the musical throwbackery, peeling off cuts to jitterbug, jive and lindy hop to. The confidence to attempt these moves (thanks Westons!) far exceeds the ability to execute, so it's off next door for something more contemporary.

The Bollywood Baleriac tent is an Asian-inspired, gaudy spectrum-blast. It's packed, steaming in fact, because this is the venue for the majority of Bestival's early hours DJ kicks. Former Hacienda and Wigan Pier vinyl professor Greg Wilson chucks out a mixture of northern soul and e-cstatic early acid house. As is customary on festival first night, the self-inflicted mottled recollections from one of your correspondents only include a limbo competition and the evening climaxing with 808 State's Pacific State. The next day's early morning call at Lost Property revealed that neither previous evening's memory nor his, er, their cash card had been handed in.

Saturday

Photo: Gideon Bullock: http://gid.tumblr.com/

There's the Seaview Inn to enjoy, which is more of a tent with painted tarpaulins than an inn, but it does have a sea view looking out over Lulworth Cove and it does also stock three different types of real ale. It's docked points for having Koppaberg and not real cider, but a nice plastic tumblerful of Durdle Door, Jurassic or Chesil ale (they're all named after things or places in Dorset and of course brewed locally) is infinitely more agreeable than a can of Red Stripe, which is ubiquitous everywhere else at Camp Bestival. It's still sunny, and people lounge about on straw bales watching children running around (the Seaview Inn is part of the kids' garden). With the farmers' market next door to this beer tent it's almost like a proper summer fete...

Further exploration takes your correspondents to the Dingly Dell Trail, a sort of art installation in the woodlands, beyond which is Lulworth Castle's animal farm, which has remained open throughout the festival and showcases some beautiful peacocks, massive turkeys (sorry, but I can only think of eating them), sheep and other creatures. It's another of those things that makes this festival feel a bit different.

In the Come Dancing tent there's a Singstar competition. Not heard of it? Well, it's like Guitar Hero except for singers. The compere is a cross between a hospital radio presenter and Keith Lemon and the standard of singing ranges from excellent to excrutiating. To the main stage it is, then...

Photo: Gideon Bullock: http://gid.tumblr.com/

Adding to Camp Bestival's charm thereafter is a one-hour break to allow a church service to take place in the site's chapel, something which has happened every Saturday for hundreds of years and which requires all amplified music to cease. Instead there's a Mad Hatter's tea party and everywhere you look there are rabbits, Alices, people dressed as playing cards...you get the feeling that if tonight's headliners The Flaming Lips aren't wandering about in fancy dress themselves they'd probably like to be.

The main stage re-starts with The Cuban Brothers, a sort of Latino Goldie Lookin Chain. You'd have to have a heart of stone not to crack a smile at this comedy quartet, and the music's quite good too - cheesy and summery, like a bad cabaret act somewhere on the Costa del Sol, shipped in from South America to entertain tourists. The Brothers' characters are lovingly crafted. Frontman Miguel Mantovani is a middle-aged former porn star who quite often likes to strip naked and then stage dive but this afternoon, maybe in a nod of respect to the kids and families, he just strips to his pants, which have a tap attached to them. It is hard to believe that he is actually a thirtysomething Scotsman, or that Kengo San, 'Miguel's Okinawan lovechild and Cubano Freestyle Dance Champ', is also Kengo Oshima, an equities trader (he was once part of the UK breakdance champion crew, though). There is also Archerio Mantovani, a former Glaswegian welder who is also known as Archie Easton, and Clemente Mantovani - aka Russ H of the Sancho Panza Sound System. Together they are enormous fun and you get the feeling that the Lips would approve; the only real disappointment is that they're given just half an hour on stage.

Hercules & Love Affair are exotic and exciting to look at. They're a bold and interesting choice for Camp Bestival's second-on-the-bill Saturday slot, and the most fascinating part of their schtick is the two female singers: Kim Ann Foxmann, a diminutive Hawaiian lesbian jewellery designer with an enormous voice and Nomi, an iconic singing siren with massive stage presence and a body that women look at with undisguised envy and men just look at. They don't know that she used to be a boy - not that this matters either way - and you would never, ever figure this out unless someone had told you.

Musically, H & LA drag things back to disco, not the media disco distortion of mirrorballs and Kylie, but the live bands, extended DJ sets, androgynous exhibitionism, hedonism and hedonistic highs. Just like a night at the Loft or Paradise Garage, there are no pauses, only a seamless blend of inseparable live bass and drums orchestrating sporadic key changes of Cerrone synths and a Salsoul sweep. It's an admirable reimagining without ever being truly intoxicating; they're mighty real on the glamour front with two extremes of femininity, but musically it's one-paced, lusterless and shy of supernatural vitality. Next...

Photo: Gideon Bullock: http://gid.tumblr.com/

And of course, as they headline the Saturday night at Camp Bestival all of these things come true. But even I hadn't imagined quite how much of a spectacle Wayne's entrance would be; this time, instead of getting into his bubble at the side of the stage and rolling about across the crowd like a giant hamster, he descends down the steps of Lulworth Castle and walks - inside the bubble - towards and then over the crowd and onto the stage. Now that's what you call an entrance, folks.

They do of course then launch into Race For The Prize afterwards and Wayne still can't exactly sing, but as a frontman he is peerless, and tonight especially he's like a deranged children's entertainer with his usual artillery made up of confetti guns, dry ice, giant balloons and various dramatic lighting effects, videos and laser beams. They are also joined onstage by Chris Brown, Wimborne's town crier, who can be seen wandering across the festival all weekend and tonight introduces the band before they take to the stage (he's a bit of an old hand at this, having been onstage with the band - and other artists - before); and the 'Masters of the Kazooniverse' marching kazoo band, who join the Lips to sing happy birthday to someone.

As Flaming Lips sets go, this one is fairly standard, including various songs they've been playing live for a couple of years now (Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, Fight Test, The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song) but they do also throw in an older song, Mountain Side, and Led Zep's The Song Remains The Same - with Steven Drozd and drummer Kliph Scurlock putting in powerhouse perfromances. Aside from Yoshimi, which is stripped-down, the songs have a harder edge tonight - most notably the Drozd-led Pompeii Am Götterdämmerung, which positively rocks and sounds completely different to its recorded counterpart.

Although some of their videos (nekkid people chasing each other) might be a little risqué for the under 10s they're the perfect headliner for this sort of festival; Wayne Coyne exudes a childlike sort of glee in everything he does and is full of praise for the event and its setting, dedicating Yoshimi to the kids and suggesting that the Lips should become the house band and play Camp Bestival every year. The only disappointment about the set is that it gets cut short by two songs, the sound pulled just before She Don't Use Jelly as the band pause and look momentarily confused. Disappointed, they slope offstage. It's a shame to see the big confetti cannons, presumably intended for probable encore Do You Realize?, being discharged in silence and in front of a dispersing crowd. But again, this wasn't the organisers' fault - and a curfew's a curfew, after all.

Saturday closes with a visit to the comedy tent. There's a big Canadian, Craig Campbell, on stage. He actually lives in Devon nowadays and his wryly-observed take on rural English life has the tent in stitches and bitchy camp compere Jonathan Mayor also holds his own with wit and aplomb. Festival stalwart Andrew Maxwell draws Twisted Ear's evening to a close.

Sunday

Photo: Gideon Bullock: http://gid.tumblr.com/

What is immediately noticeable is the slow pace; nobody's in a hurry to get anywhere and folk are happy to just mooch around, wandering from stall to stall, sitting in the sun (or cloud, as the two seem to alternate all day), people-watching, eating and drinking. The Dulwich Ukelele Club invite members of the audience to perform with them onstage as part of the Camp Bestival 'Jug Band', something anyone with a musical instrument was given the opportunity to be a part of.  And in the children's garden, the sky is falling down - of course it isn't; that's just a facile contrivance to tell you that the Chicken Licken Puppet Theatre were in action (and very good they were too).

There's jousting too - this is another Lulworth Castle offering that has not closed down for the weekend and it's good fun to watch; the 'knights' are genuinely skilful and everyone is hamming it up.

Around the corner from the jousting is Bramble FM, a tongue-in-cheek 'radio station' (actually a theatre troupe) playing records from a caravan, with two presenters cavorting on a podium and drawing quite a crowd, especially when a little girl, probably around 18 months old, hoists herself up onstage to dance with them, charming the audience. Afterwards the presenters throw teabags into the crowd - it was very funny, but you probably had to be there - and it's this sort of innocent fun that sums up what Camp Bestival is all about; if there is one single moment that epitomised the festival it was that girl and the presenters' attempts to mimic her moves as she strutted her stuff on the podium.

Photo: Gideon Bullock: http://gid.tumblr.com/

Distinctly non-electro is Eliza Carthy, who has been through many appearance overhauls in her time - flame haired punk and mystical blonde siren to name but a few - now though, she looks and sounds more and more like her equally lauded mother. Not a bad thing, as combining a beacon-like homely vocal radiance and enough Elbow-esque character narratives in her song, tempers any thought of mid-afternoon napping.

Beck. Radiohead. Paul McCartney. And now Twisted Ear. All touched by the hand of Godrich. We're here to hear the man who's touched the nobs for the big fellas spin his coolest cuts, which might afford a glimpse into the mind of the uber-producer. Starting with dub reggae the journey takes in a  few alt and pop standards (Paperback Writer, Living For The City, Once In A Lifetime) which at least show a certain impermeable, if obvious, cool. Heck. I thought he was going to be the next Brian Eno.

Over on the main stage, Ladyhawke is a bit worthy and energetic but without the tunes or anything memorable to hold interest. The real star of Sunday afternoon - and he draws an unusually large crowd for this time of day - is Beardyman...

Experiments in the Home #16: Switch on a large PA system. Swallow 350g of Space Dust. Your world will now take on lysergic Dali-esque properties wherein people become smoke and banjo-playing tractors chase your shoelaces. Ignore this: it's normal. Place microphone close to mouth. Congratulations. You have become Beardyman. Yep, the UK Beatbox champion is in full swing on Sunday afternoon, just the tonic with the music on the wane. Mash-ups, cut-ups, cover versions, dub-step, two-step, drum n' bass and plain old fashioned hip-hop are spat out at alarming speed. It's a fascinating spectacle enrichened by his dexterous improvisions: Beardyman takes roadies to task time and time again, surreptitiously nabbing a quick vocal sample and energetically replaying it at breakneck tempos. He's pitch perfect and any explanation is as pointless as lassooing motorway traffic, so have a look at the first minute or so of this:

Photo: etnobofin

Over in the comedy tent, Silky and ageing Jewish swearaholic Sol Bernstein warm up the audience for the main event (Roy Walker's Catchphrase, of course! - oh, and Andrew Maxwell's Full Mooners),  Kate Nash closes the main stage, joined onstage by Billy Bragg, and Twisted Ear bids a fond farewell to the best new festival on the UK scene. Yes, there were a few teething problems, but the organisers have already taken note and it's nothing they can't sort out for next year. Fingers crossed they'll get a licence for 2009; Camp Bestival is definitely one to pencil in if you didn't make it this year.

Thank you to Gideon Bullock, etnobofin and Al Power for the photos.

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