There was a swing band, model battleships in a paddling-pool, and a canteen run by a bloke apparently chosen more for his resemblance to René Artois than for his ability to make sandwiches.
A reenactors' society put on a fearsome battle set post-D-Day in which a motley bunch of German soldiers attempted to hold their position under fire from snipers.
They held out bravely when a pair of US Army half-tracks trundled across the stream; then the British turned up from stage left, a Seafire flew over to loud cheers, and I knew it was all over for Jerry.
I was rather sorry, since we had been observing their goings-on close to and developed a relationship, while the arriving Allies were mere faceless killers. But then some dastardly German soldiers who had been hiding in the bushes opened fire on the British after the rest of their party had surrendered, and I lost all sympathy for them.
Gruesome and bloody though it would have been in real life, as fiction all the BANGs and casualties were strangely hilarious. How we laughed as one bloke graphically mimed getting hit in the guts by shrapnel!
At the end, everyone lined up and cheered, then the opposing forces shook hands.
On my way home on Sunday evening, I passed a stray Jeep which had made it as far as the A31 before conking out.