It looked pretty unlikely that I'd get there at all with the whole of England grinding to a halt in the mid-summer floods. Somehow, miraculously, the Bristol to Plymouth trainline was unimpeded and I shuttled through on schedule.

Recognised at Plymouth as a festival-goer with my give-away back-pack and welly boots I was ushered into a taxi to take me directly onto site due to "any inconvenience I may have experienced." (I did tell them I hadn't experienced any inconvenience but you can only deter west-country hospitality so much!)

It's a tiny festival at Port Elliot that isn't quite like any other I've been to. There's music but it's low-key and lyrical, playing second fiddle to a deluge of performance poets of varying skill. The programme the weekend I was there was a bit thinner than published as a number of novelists had decided they couldn't swim past Gloucester but this gave the whole place a blitz spirit vibe that only served to intensify the experience (as if we weren't in-tents enough already!!)

We got ourselves involved in the House of Faiytales, which had rather too many over-privileged Taras and Tarquins running about for my liking but nevertheless provided plenty of distraction.

The organisers were fantastically bizarre and my highlight of the weekend had to be singing "Fairytale of New York" with the Apathy Band: a Fairy Godmother, The Queen of Hearts, a white rabbit, a host of 10-year old Shane McGowans with their teeth blacked out and a host of 10-year old Kirsty McCalls yelling "you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last!" without any idea of the reason or the tune!

But when we weren't entertaining the over-entertained and we explored the estate and beyond, we discovered that Port Elliot is like a Fairy Tale itself.

The long estuary winds its way through the bottom of the gardens, just below the labyrinth. Little white sails drift in the breeze beneath the epic viaduct.

An intimiditating Manor House, turns out to be a friendly home, with its doors open to the punters - it was very odd to tramp into the drawing room in your wellies to admire the family art collection and the modern mural still in progress.

My advice would be that if you are in the Plymouth area, get out of Plymouth and go to visit Port Elliot. Don't wait for the festival weekend - though if you're planning a trip, this is an excellent excuse to go that way. Pack your swimming trunks, your magic wand and leave your incredulity at home.