British festivals can largely be divided into two camps: those that are about the music, and those that are about much more. The line-up of this year’s Bestival, which ranged from disco legends Chic, to the electronic magic of SBTRKT, to the surreal gymnastics of The Cuban Brothers, would suggest that it was the former. Do not be deceived.

This was Rob da Bank’s eleventh festival, and the excitement on the Desert Island Disco themed Robin Hill was palpable. As well as having its best acts yet, the added extras and the attention to detail made the weekend magical. Hardly a taste was left un-catered for: the reggae stage was consistently popular, the food on offer represented every corner of the world and an intoxicating forest dotted with hammocks, theatre and spoken-word poetry provided hazy wanderers with an ambient repose from aching hangovers.

As well as established mainstream stars such as Laura Mvula, and, heroes of 2005, The Kooks, Bestival provided a platform for more original and unusual talent. Take, for example, the genius that is Kate Tempest. Tempest is by no means a newcomer to the spoken-word poetry scene – since Bestival she has been nominated for a Mercury prize and named by the Poetry Book Society as one of the Next Generation poets. Her threefold appearance at Bestival, however, is testament to the variety and passion that the festival’s organisers put into their line-up.

Inclusivity is another special characteristic of Bestival. A host of family-friendly activities, such as Rob da Bank’s DJ master classes and face painting in the forest carried on alongside the pounding heavy metal of Skindred without either seeming to infringe on the other. As well as dozens of children dashing through the fields, I met one middle-aged woman who had come last year with her 16-year-old son, but this year left him at home so that she could have more fun.

A few, perhaps unforeseeable, errors were minor jars on an otherwise joyous weekend; Busta Rhymes didn’t seem to Know What We Wanted when he cancelled his main stage performance at a day’s notice. Even more sudden was Craig Charles’ set inexplicably ending an hour early on the last night, leaving desperate festivalgoers with nowhere to direct the last vestiges of their borrowed energy at 2am on Monday morning. Annie Mac’s DJ set, on the magnificent Port stage – a life-sized ship presiding over a sea of sequins and flares – was uncharacteristically dull.

These flaws, however, were no reflection on the festival as a whole. Over 50,000 people descended on Robin Hill for the weekend, and unhappy faces were few and far between – special credit to the dude keeled over on a busy pathway, having just downed a bottle of mouthwash as a dare, who was somewhat incapacitated by his retching, but still managed to throw up a thumbs up, along with all the vomit. He knew where the party was.