Houghton Festival: came for the art, got lost in the magic

King’s Cross is always a sensory overload – even on a good day. But nothing quite says “peak Britain” like the sight of fully grown adults earnestly queuing to pose with a trolley at Platform 9¾. I ponder this phenomenon while glazing over by departures board, hunting for the train to King’s Lynn. No luck. All trains to Cambridge and beyond are cancelled. Not a great start, but the only way is up from here, kids.

I’m en route to Houghton Festival, dubbed the UK’s “best kept secret”. But judging by the sea of tote bags, carabiner water bottles, and curated outfits (mine included) gathering on the concourse, the secret’s well and truly out. When the trains are finally back on track, we shuffle toward platform eight like ravers on pilgrimage (which we are), and I pull up this year’s lineup. It’s stacked. Houghton is renowned for being the only UK festival with a 24-hour music license, which allows music to play continuously for 72 hours. It’s not for the faint-hearted. It’s the kind of weekend that promises no signal, no sleep, no sense of time – and let’s fookin’ ‘av it!

Houghton’s founder, Craig Richards is a Central Saint Martins alumnus and longtime Fabric resident. He started the festival back in 2017, and it’s since evolved into a multi-sensory playground of electronic heavyweights, live acts, and, unlike many other festivals, an emphasis on (genuinely good) experimental visual art. There’s something for everyone. As a self-proclaimed music bimbo – a proud sheeple, if you will – I usually just follow the crowd and gravitate toward anything with “at least a bit of lyric”. Full-blown, mind-bending sets? Not always my scene. But this weekend I was ready to challenge myself.

One thing about Houghton: its reputation precedes it. Festivals are – let’s be honest – a pretty middle-class luxury, but in the taxonomy of TikToks categorising “types,” Houghton always ranks the poshest. It’s Berghain meets the bucolic English countryside.

After an eavesdropping-rich coach ride, we entered Houghton territory. The first sign of arrival wasn’t a festival banner, but phone signal falling off a cliff. No more Instagram stories (god, how will I get dopamine hits now?). Houghton takes the trophy for the worst reception of any festival I’ve been to (and I’ve done the rounds). I bid a happy farewell to external comms and turned my attention to the imposing sight of Houghton Hall as we pulled through the grounds.

Houghton Hall was built in the 18th century for Britain’s first Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole. It really is an environment fit for royalty (Kate Middleton even made an appearance at the festival a few years back). If it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me. It’s also the setting for renowned sculpture garden tours – an impressive permanent collection including works by the likes of Anya Gallaccio, Jeppe Hein, Sean Scully, and Ryan Gander, that festival-goers can access via private guided walks throughout the weekend. This is, of course, what I came to see – visual art. It’s not just about the choons! Let’s see how I do.

Hedonism here we come. After pitching our nylon palace, it was around 7 pm. We’d have to save the sculpture tour for tomorrow. This night was about easing in slowly, figuring out the lay of the land, and hopefully locating a drink that wasn’t lukewarm tequila fished out of someone’s sleeping bag. I was also ready to start tracking down Craig.

The curation of a festival’s vibe isn’t just in perfecting an ear wobbling lineup, but in curating a visual identity that people can (literally) get lost in. This year Craig integrated sculpture, light and spatial design into the grounds. We made our way around the lake to the Pavilion stage, where the art seamlessly bled into the surroundings. Sculptures were dotted across the festival grounds, but one of the most striking sat just behind the Pavilion: an imposing metal structure that stretched skyward. Titled Trees Go Down, Andrew Goes Up, a piece by Richards, it was part tribute, part monument to the late, legendary producer Andrew Weatherall.

We kicked off the night with a set from Ogazón, spinning a beautifully bumpy, rolling mix, equal parts warm-up and warning shot. The calm before the inevitable, glorious storm of booty-shaking. Hello boys!

Polygonia’s set at Outburst was another highlight of the evening, mixing an instantly recognisable, haunting melody of Minnie Riperton’s Lovin’ You into sonic electro. “There’s a lot of posh hotties here, isn’t there?” Someone (whom I will let remain nameless) whispered in my ear.

My friends Grace and James came prepared with a laminated and highlighted print out of the Houghton schedule – thank god someone was prepared.

Luckily, Chris Levine’s debut presentation at Houghton ‘Full Beam’ helped us to transcend into a sonic realm on Friday night. Known for his pioneering work with light and lasers, Levine had a full reflective setup tucked into the lake, complete with a mirrored VW van catching every flicker. You didn’t have to be tripping balls to appreciate that; it’s its own trip. What made it all feel especially otherworldly was the fact that the full moon aligned perfectly with the beam. The stars had literally aligned to create a giant lightsaber erupting from the woods. Add to that the distant howls and increasingly feral crowd behaviour and, as one punter poetically observed, “it was giving Team Jacob.”

We shuffled zombie-like back to Gene on Earth at Pavilion. Somewhere between the basslines and the sunrise, the guilt crept in: I really hadn’t seen enough art yet. Classic. I took that as my cue to slink off to bed and muttered a half-hearted “soz” to no one in particular.

When I woke up the next morning, it hit me: I’d forgotten to eat. I sprinted to the falafel stand and suddenly realised I was right next to the queue for the sculpture garden tour. Fate? Maybe. But after being denied entry three times (who knew rave-adjacent art tours were so in demand?) For now, I accepted defeat. But like any emotionally unavailable love interest, it only made me yearn harder. “We’ll go on it tomorrow,” I told myself.

After accepting defeat, I turned around and clocked poet and musician James Massiah, the certified loveliest person in the culture world, chilling on a bench opposite me. About an hour of nattering later, he casually mentioned he was about to play a set at The Gramophone – a small, low-ceilinged tent tucked just around the corner. We rounded up the crew and caught the set, a heady blend of James’ own track Charlie mixed seamlessly into some CASISDEAD. Between the vortex bench and that set, this was probably the highlight of the weekend.

Curious, I started asking nearby punters if they’d managed to catch any of the art yet. Most responses ranged from blank stares to polite confusion. I’d found the music heads, clearly. Wandering deeper into the woods, we stumbled across Joseph Dean’s Natural Symphony Mushroom Tree, a cluster of glowing, electric mushrooms arranged around the roots of an actual tree, responding to soundwaves in real-time. A gaggle of festival goers surrounded the tree transfixed, like they were about to perform a sacrifice.

Having visited Houghton a couple of times before, this year was definitely the busiest I’d seen. Social media whispers were circling, claiming the crowd had gone “more mainstream”. But honestly? Creamfields, Houghton – we’re all cut from the same cloth. Whether you’re from Bradford or Buckinghamshire, we all end up producing the same tactical chunder. Unity. Love. Oneness.

That said, the crowding did start to test my patience, especially when we tried to visit Houghton’s (supposedly) secret stage, Terminus. It’s famously elusive, tucked behind the campsite with no lineup revealed in advance. Back in my day (two years ago), you could wander over and slip right in. Simpler times. Instead, word of a two hour queue scurried around the dance floor. But we were willing to risk it (sobering up before making it in) for a biscuit (having a good time when we got there). Two hours flew by. We eventually made it and locked in, ready to get deep in the dance. Once in, the energy flipped. Behind the decks was BOBBY, surrounded by an entourage of people who looked like they hadn’t stood in a queue since 2014. A diva clad in pink fur and feathers kept floating up and down an ominous staircase behind the decks, disappearing into the woods like some kind of rave cryptid. I didn’t catch her name, but if anyone could be someone, it’s her.

After locking into Terminus until the early hours, everything became a bit of a blur. Chaos reigned. By the time I surfaced the next morning, the looming threat of the coach journey home hung heavy in the air. But I was determined – this was the day I’d finally see the elusive sculpture garden.

My hopes were quickly crushed by five cruel words on a notice board:
TOURS START AT 6 PM.

Brilliant. My coach was in a few hours, and that tent wasn’t going to pack itself. The art would have to wait another year.

That said, I had kept myself spiritually topped up with laser beams, glowing mushrooms, and the occasional surreal encounter in the woods. Maybe I hadn’t looked hard enough. Maybe I’d just partied a little too close to the sun. Either way, Houghton delivered. I forgot the brief – but had an unreal time doing it. Props to you, Craig.