Yes, she does let me use the cashpoint. And, back at the Premier Inn, no, My American Friend does not kill me. We even have a quite nice coffee with the John Betjeman guy in the "tavern". I must be catching up on my sleep.
At 9.05am, the taxi drops me and My American Friend outside a long grey Victorian building in Saint Germans. It could be a railway station. Then again, it could be a nursery school, or a village hall. We peer through the windows. There is no ticket office and no sign of rails. At the corner is a door with an official looking sign. We approach it. It says, TOILETS.
We look up and down the road. We can see for about half a mile in either direction. There is no train station. We have no idea where we are.
From the opposite side of the road we see the taxi returning with a new fare. We run towards it, MAF banging on its windows. I stand in front of the taxi until it stops. It nearly doesn't.
You dropped us in the wrong place! (MAF) Do you actually know where the train station is?
They said to drop you over there. They just said it was a green building.
That's not a train station, I bellow, loud enough for the passengers and most of passers-by to hear.It's a public lavatory!
For a split second this gives me immense satisfaction. But we have less than ten minutes to catch our train. We grab a passing dog walker who says the station is five minutes up that way. After thirty seconds, we realise he is walking much faster than us. We run up the hill, dragging tents, rucksacks, bags, wellies, swearing in French and English.
But we get there. We're ok. There are people we have met at the festival waiting on the platform. We fall into easy conversation. Did any of that stuff last night happen at all?
We board the train with people wearing fairy wings, rabbit masks and bison headdresses. My American Friend stays on the train for elsewhere. I change trains and change again until I'm the only traveller slumped in the corner of a carriage wearing round yellow sunglasses, muddy wellies and an oversized backpack.
When I get out, I'm met. By people who sleep in beds and have easy access to a change of clothes, but not such easy access to magic. I wonder that, in an inverse Rip Van Winkle effect, they're not five years older. For the last few days nothing has seemed to exist outside Port Eliot. And I seem to have been there for a very long time.
I feel stoned, exhausted and vaguely dirty. I feel great. Isn't that how you're meant to feel after a festival?
Goodbye Port Eliot. See you next year...