Secret Garden Party 2015: Saturday

“There you bloody are!” cries one guy to the sky, “You’re late!”. The sun brings its golden glow and festival goers start to photosynthesise - from beneath their woven blankets and black cagouls, sequined legs and body-painted arms begin to sprout, and big smiles bloom on people’s faces. The mud is so thick and sticky, people are rooted to the ground, resulting in dancing that is mostly swaying from side to side like a weeble wobble.

The entrancing Ibeyi begin on the Great Stage, the beautiful twins sing accapella in Yoruba, a Nigerian language. The stage is dark, and the French-Cuban sisters wear black with bright red lips, and are lit by minimal red spotlights. In "Ghosts" they patter on a cajon and sing “making words, making sounds, making songs… Now you can feel my heart spinning”. It rings true, the performance is emotive and I am transfixed, those red lips so mesmeric.

Costumes are now in full swing. There are many Peter Pans – the children that never grew up. There are Hemans, Superteds and even a Dangermouse. The best is a group of green army men - every millimeter is slicked in the same khaki paint and they freeze pose with their guns on command. Gold star to them!

By the lake, there’s a sandpit filled with spandangled adults making suncastles in the sky. A security man watches over them closely. When there’s security on the sandpit, you know you’ve come to a pretty serious party.A cosy Saturday afternoon was spent supping brandy coffees in Small World, where Snufkin soon had everyone cavorting to their twisted folk with stunning ethereal harmonies.

At the lake, fireworks become the main attraction. A video took us on a trip down memory lane, with a montage of cartoons running from Road Runner to Pink Panther with antiquated theme tunes. Then a Nintendo ‘Game Over’ branded the screen signaling the start of the explosions; red gold and green. Glasses were passed around the crowd, fracturing light into vibrant dancing hearts.

Hotly tipped Zola Blood took over the Where the Wild Things Are stage with their rippling and intricate low fi electronica. Tonight they play new material from the next EP - beautifully crafted, their haunting vocals and moody, murky riffs entwine and reverberate around dark echoey corners on a micro-journey of musical precision. The avid crowd pulses as industrial melancholy morphs seamlessly into euphoric spirals. For me, this was the highlight of the weekend. A perfect combination of synths and guitars. I could dance to this all night.

A flyby overhead drops paper helicopters with flashing bulbs. Hands desperately clutched at the air, as rumours spread that some of them were tickets for next year. It was suddenly the dome from the Crystal Maze. My fingers clasped on to one, it was a quote from J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan: ‘go straight on til morning’. And that’s exactly what I did.