Oh dear I thought as I drove into the water-logged Solfest grounds.

It was raining heavily and the parking area at Tarnside Farms, Aspatria, had been churned into a bad chocolate mousse.

The festival site was slowly turning into the Lost City of Atlantis and my works car, a Ford Fiesta, did not appreciate being sent across the quagmire.

It struggled to our camping spot. Reality told me I should go home. However, I was quickly swept up with hundreds of people who had clearly left reality behind.

First off, there were two women mud-wrestling by the Solfest entrance. Then there were a pair of Queens, complete with royal robes and two inflatable corgis.

While I stared, a man dressed as an Egyptian mummy offered to share his punnet of sausage rolls with me.

The stalls sold vegan jerky, and offered head massages and Yerba Mate tea.

I went to find the bands, and found myself wandering beside a woman dressed as a crocodile and two convincing Daleks.

And when I heard Rob Heron and the Teapad Orchestra playing their 1930s swing at the Drystone Stage I was sure I had made the right decision to come.  They were my musical highlight of the weekend.

As Saturday evening developed, the rain continued and the grounds became the perfect habitat for hippos. My hair became soaked, my wellies cracked up and water seeped in. But everyone danced and no one seemed to care.

Hundreds gathered under the dark skies to watch Seth Lakeman play acoustic numbers.

And then protest musician Billy Bragg stepped on the main stage and sang a song that rhymed Margaret Thatcher with X Factor.

When I came to leave, the field I had parked in was soup and I got stuck. And that was when festival comraderie really played a part. Within minutes, five burly men, none of them wearing shirts, appeared from nearby and offered to push my car.

I was saved from the mud by music and the helpfulness of others and the madness of the Festival Dimension.