Joyous testaments of youth shared beside the Newport stage with Bob, Donovan and the straw-blonde smiling Mary Travers.
Meet cheery bearded Gypsy Dave proudly hunched over a steaming kettle in his modest festival tent, ready to offer tea and a warm welcome to anyone who pulls back the flap, bends and steps in.
In the rosy dawn, witness the world being born and everything gloriously unfold in liquid psychedelic swirls. Where the knowledge tree lowers a branch and - just in that moment - you think you can reach right up and take your pick of the mouthwatering apples.
Shoulder to shoulder in the ragged column of shadows tramping back from the Blackbushe fields, you look ahead to the top of the hill and wonder at the rising, billowing dustcloud illuminated by sentinel orbs of pure white light. And down we go to the train.
Excitedly sharing Van Morrison stories with wild-eyed Siobhan in her faded summer dress. Who desperately needs to pee, but refuses to cross the privet hedge and use the front gardens like the rest.
