The last couple of weeks have seen our collective disappointment with public figures, institutions and the media reach an all time low. The hacking scandal has called into question the credibility of our politicians, the police and the media in equal measure. England, I had started to think, was beyond redemption. It was a mindset that had left me deeply troubled, questioning whether there was much left to feel good about in this country that I call home.
But then my pride in the English was reignited; in a field at the Secret Garden Party in Cambridgeshire.
So many parts of English culture and folklore have been lost from our lives. Our high streets, towns and cities are filled with chain stores and mass-designed produce, a world away from the England of the past. Our quintessential traditions, myths and heritage are barely remembered, drowned out by the countless chains of the same fast food joints, coffee shops, supermarkets and cinemas. Homogeneity is crushing the true individuality of our nation.
But last weekend, with some 10,000 others, I took a break from all of that. In the fields of Cambridgeshire, in what turned out to be a world away, I experienced the most innovative, entrepreneurial and magical events that one could imagine.
Lines of billowing flags, reminiscent of the courts at Camelot, greeted us as we entered the site. Music of all genres spilled from tepees, huts and stages, augmented by a vast array of impromptu activities and performances. And all around, elated, happy people, dressed in all manner of attire from giant ironic road signs to knights in armour, went in quest of the next unexpected sight or sound.
I was struck immediately by the craftsmanship and attention to detail of every installation, stage and ride. For all of this seemed to be connecting us back to our forgotten heritage. Our myths, our essential culture, our English soul was being rekindled in the Ferris wheels, the helter-skelters, the hay-bale stages and poetry readings.
As I walked toward a lake at the centre of the site, minutes after entering, I was almost run over by a man on a piano, playing Chopin. He stopped, begged my pardon, tipped his hat and was off again, wheeling and playing, playing and wheeling. A huge smile engulfed me as I finally left London society behind.
That evening, as lanterns and ferries wheels lit the night sky, I started to think how constrained, regimented and uniform the England outside of the festival had become. Mass culture can leave the imagination bereft of inspiration and yet, in these fields, we had made a collective effort to surprise and dazzle each other. Nostalgic 80s memorabilia loomed large in the shape of giant board games and movie characters brought to life with loving care. Each reveller's job, I realized, was to amaze another.
True acts of altruism are certainly not inherent on the average British street but during the festival a community of the like-minded ate, smiled and danced in harmony. Our collective imaginations, it felt, were being rebooted and nourished.
One of the festivals crowning achievements is the Colesillyum. An arena surrounded on each side by 15-metre-high haybales, stacked on top of one another. At one point, at least six thousand revellers packed inside like coffee beans on top of each other. A man dressed as a giant panda and a woman dressed as a chimney sweep caught my eye and lifted me fully 10 metres up to the heady heights of the gantry. The panda turned to me and said, "we're all family here". He was right. We were all one family. Rejecting the supreme laws of individualism and rampant self-interest and deciding instead to help strangers, love the randomness of chance encounters and add to each other's sense of security and joy. How often can you say something like that about England?
Now I know that there will be those who will parody my sentiment, who will dismiss it as loved-up garbage spouted by a pseudo-hippy who sees the silver lining in a commercial endeavour, fuelled by drug-induced sentimentality. Too those critics or cynics, I say this: the true nature of our country and our cultural heritage lies in those ancient tales of chivalry, good will and altruism. The tales of Camelot, Shakespeare's plays, Keats's poems; these used to be the mobilising narratives of our nation, where our basic ideals of fairness, gallantry and kindness came to life and were shared. What do we have now? X-Factor, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, East Enders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street. Our country's true nature is being suffocated. And yet, so many of us are willing to pay a substantial price (£160) to enter a space like the Secret Garden Party to rejoice in re-finding these forgotten principles with so many like minds.
This weekend has once again made me proud to be English. To be part of a country where people flock to safe havens of alternative culture. Where performance, music, poetry, environmentalism, art, design and love abound. It is spiritually uplifting and rejuvenating and will leave an indelible mark on my year - and I suspect - for many others too. I think it's safe to say that festivals are something the English know how to do better than anyone else in the world.