Going to the UK’s craziest dog show without a dog felt a bit pervy

I checked in beside a man in red trousers with two Labradors. That was the first hint. The next was a Cockapoo being trained with duck treats in the hotel grounds. At breakfast the following morning, almost every table in the dining room had a dog underneath it, optimistically sticking their noses in the air every time a plate of bacon passed.

We’re into festival season but this wasn’t your usual festival: no mad scrabble for tent pitches, no mosh pits, no mud, no glow sticks, no grimy portaloos. Just dogs – literally thousands of dogs. Because this was Goodwoof, the two-day festival that celebrates all things dog, held on a Sussex estate that more normally reverberates with the roar of noisy cars doing the race-track but, last weekend, sounded more like 101 Dalmatians.

“Anyone know if a pet psychic and a crystal healer are the same thing?” one of the organisers mumbled as my other half and I arrived on Saturday morning, alongside Fat Tony, the celebrity DJ, and his Cavapoo Reenie. Both were available on site – a pet psychic in a small tepee supposedly communicating telepathically with dogs, as well as a crystal healer in another tepee, making helpful suggestions about rose quartz or amethyst for highly-strung dogs. There was also a separate dog tarot reader in yet another tepee, which is where I bumped into three Sussex friends, queuing with their lurcher.

“Where’s your dog? It’s a bit pervy to come here without a dog,” said my pal Emily, which was undeniably true. People kept frowning at Paul and me, walking around the site dogless, as if we were deviant or suspicious sorts not to be trusted.

He’s on his way, I told her, because it just so happened that the day before Goodwoof, I’d spent 12 hours in my car driving up to and around Birmingham to inspect a couple of puppy litters. Parson Terrier litters, to be precise, and I’m delighted to announce that I’ll be returning to just outside Birmingham at the end of next month to collect a chubby, rough-coated boy and bring him home to Crystal Palace. The festival was therefore excellent timing, like going to a baby show the day after finding out that you’re pregnant, except instead of cribs I was looking at orthopaedic dogs beds.

We left Emily and her wife in the tarot reader queue (she later texted to say her lurcher picked the maternal and nostalgia tarot cards with her nose), and moved on to Goodwoof’s myriad other attractions. The festival had opened that morning with a procession of 300 Labradors, led by a marching band and the estate’s owner, the Duke of Richmond. His family descends from Charles II, the spaniel obsessive whose Cavaliers were fed dove breast and had their own hairdressers, and the estate has been extremely doggy ever since. And because the current Duke of Richmond is a very dapper sort who once worked for Stanley Kubrick, loves vintage cars and is often found on best-dressed lists, everything was immaculate.

There was a “Barkitecture” marquee with fancy dog kennels on display that had been designed by the likes of Rolls Royce and David Linley. There was a literary area where doggy sorts including Clare Balding and Bill Bailey were speaking (“this is the only event I’ve ever been to which is designed for dogs and you have to fit in,” Balding told the crowd, in a natty silk shirt covered with canines). There was a Tattinger bar and “Gnawland” nannies in brown uniforms offering to look after people’s dogs for a spell if they wanted a break. There was also a wellness stage, where the TV vet Dr Bolu Eso was giving a talk on good oral health (for dogs), although I collared him just beforehand to ask puppy tips. “Get insured,” was Dr Eso’s first tip, along with socialising and exposing my puppy to as many noises as possible. Noted.

I told every single person I met about my puppy, repeatedly producing my phone to show them photos. Sorry (but not really), I’ve become that person already. I spotted James Middleton, the Princess of Wales’s brother, pushing his custom-made dog bike towards the literary tent (it has a trailer for his seven spaniels), and stopped to say hello. Instantly, out came my phone and we had a discussion about what I should call my puppy. James sensibly suggested I go and have a look at the leaderboard beside the “Fastest Dog” competition, where festival goers of all ages were queueing to race their dogs alongside others. So I did, but they all seemed to be girls’ names – Millie, Margot, Isla, Gracie. I’ve wondered about Willoughby, after my favourite romantic literary character, but I’m not sure I can stand in Crystal Palace Park and shout that in the manner of Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility shortly before she tumbles into a fever.

The most touching area of all was the Ruby Tree, named after the Duke and Duchess of Richmond’s working cocker, who died last year. Here, you could give a nice chap behind a laptop your late dog’s name and he would print it on an orange ribbon to hang on the tree in remembrance. “In loving memory of Jack, loyal companion,” said one orange ribbon. “We miss you, Bear,” said another. “Can mine just say “Trumpet”’ I said, thinking of my mother’s old Parson Russell Terrier, whereupon the nice chap did titter a little bit before printing it off, and I added my ribbon to the tree.

“You feel so safe,” Paul observed in wonder at one point, as we strolled around the site. It was true; if you left your handbag somewhere by accident, it would have been in exactly the same spot when you returned. These were people of all shapes and sizes, of all backgrounds, brought together by a common love of one thing. Good people, noble animals and a shared sense of joy and camaraderie which I’m just not sure you’d find at, for example, a cat festival. I only heard one scrap all day, otherwise everyone – dogs and owners – behaved perfectly.

As my puppy will when we go to the festival next year, obviously. He does need a name though, so suggestions are welcome.