Over the years I have become very picky about what I'll watch in the way of Morris dancers: dainty skipping, hoops twined with flowers and handkerchief-waving won't hold my attention are out, wild people with blacked-up faces, bells on their knees and ragged coats, doing obscenely phallic things with sticks, are in. Fortunately there was a lot of that going on. Plenty of rather frightening hobby-horses too, and one bloke dressed as a black panther which isn't very Merrie Englande but was awfully popular.
Did all those festival-type things: watched a team from Chesterfield do Appalachian dancing; drank at the British Legion; attempted unsuccessfully to find the odd-numbered ticket and win a large plush husky; bought unpasteurised blue cheese; had a cat tattooed on my forearm in henna. And, of course, complained about how commercialised it's all got in recent years.