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(Pix: Nomad67, musical highlight of the festival; Alison and Lou duel with pugil sticks; love at first sight for my little boy and Jo’s little girl; me and Jo)

I am in recovery, rehab and detox simultaneously after a draining but memorable weekend at a music and beer festival in my native Worcestershire.

The festival – Bridge Bash 2010, at Stanford Bridge, seven miles from Stourport – was pleasant enough.

The music was mediocre, with highlights including the anthemic Calm Like a Riot by the band of the same name, still being sung by my four year old; and the whole set by Worcester boys Nomad67, my favourite act of the weekend.

Headliners Athlete, reportedly paid £10,000, were, sadly, lacking in charisma, personality and many festival-friendly tunes, but never mind – the beer and cider ran freely, the kids had a brilliant time, the rain stayed at bay, and the setting in the beautiful Teme Valley was truly gorgeous.

But what made it such an amazing weekend for me was the excellent, if rather disparate, gathering of friends.

I got to meet up and spend some long overdue time with one of my oldest chums, Liz, her fella Jonny and their beautiful boys, and a group of their lovely friends.

I also got to kick back and spend time with a couple of newer local friends, Alison and Louise, and their lovely families. I’m of the belief that friendships only deepen through shared experiences, so here’s to more like this (but maybe without the all night dance anthems and air-horns?!!)

But perhaps most memorably it was a chance to meet up with someone I last saw some 24 years ago.

Jo and I first met in 1986 when we moved in to Morton House, a small hall of residence for new students at Liverpool University.

We were among a group of about 20 teenagers, all newly arrived in the city, sharing a kitchen, communal loos and a first spell away from home.

We all quickly became friends to varying degrees, often going out en masse to local nightclubs, pubs and gigs. Of course, we slowly gravitated towards some people more than others.

At  the end of the year, when the time came to move out into rented flats and houses, we went off in our own splinter groups – Jo went her way, and I went mine.

We parted as friends, but somehow never got round to exchanging addresses or phone numbers. We went, probably with barely a backward glance, expecting to continue to bump into each other regularly throughout the next two years. We didn’t.

I was lucky enough to share the rest of my university years with a group of five of my old Morton House muckers, one of whom has remained a constant close friend since.The rest of our little gang have kept in touch to varying degrees.

But pretty much everyone else from that exciting, scary year became nothing more than distant, fondly recalled memories on hazy, fading photographs.

Then one day last year, while checking out Facebook, a friend request dropped in. It was from Mark, who had been on the “boys’ corridor” near the kitchen in Morton House. Over the next few months several more people turned up via Facebook – Catherine, Fiona, Pete, Catriona, Helen, Gareth, Andrew.

There was talk of a reunion in Liverpool. The talk became a reality. For a variety of reasons I didn’t make it.

We continued to swap stories and pictures on Facebook, and wondered what had become of the rest of the Morton House contingent.

About a month ago a new name appeared – Jo had emerged from the ether. Surprisingly  – and I think extremely bravely – she suggested joining me and my family at Bridge Bash, travelling up from London with her two kids specially.

Seeing her standing by her tent as we pulled in to set up camp last Friday was pretty amazing. The years rolled away and we were instantly at ease with each other, sharing a genuine “so good to see you” hug. I almost welled up. Seeing our kids meet up and get on really well was a real bonus.

The experience was so positive for me that I’m now itching to meet up with other former Morton House inmates. I guess I thought seeing these people from my distant past would feel like the end of something; or at least a daunting reminder of creeping old age and a wider girth.

But it didn’t. Enticingly, it felt like a new beginning.