ON THE ROAD: Roddy Woomble

THERE was a brief time, around the age of 16, when my hair went unwashed until it congealed. Incense sticks burned in my bedroom as Levellers tapes blasted from the stereo. It was my "crusty" phase. I've never properly understood the terms "new-age traveller" or "crusty". Was it because their boots were often encrusted in mud, or was there a baking metaphor I was missing?

There's also an argument as to whether it is just a phase people go through, or if it's a thriving urban subculture and a way of life that we should be celebrating rather than mocking. The problem lies with the "trustafarians" as they're known. Well-to-do young men and women who adopt the vagabond look, grow dreadlocks as an "expression of personal creativity" and bum around Europe and Asia, playing acoustic guitars, getting stoned and sending wordy, impressionistic postcards home. All the while using their parents' money to do so.

The real travellers are third and fourth-generation nomads who travel around in caravans and converted buses, making a living from odd jobs, selling scrap, picking berries, operating sound systems. These resourceful people live life on their own terms, on the fringes of mainstream society. They're not harming anyone, and I think it's quite noble to choose a lifestyle that goes against the popular trends. Being a crusty is brilliantly unfashionable. In fact, it's almost impossible to make it fashionable. That's the point. "There's only one way of life, and that's your own," sing the Levellers. It's become a travellers' anthem.

Last weekend I got to dip my toes (or wellies) into that world when we went to Cornwall to play at the Levellers' own festival, Beautiful Days. I was hoping to get more of an insight into the crusty condition. I was expecting to meet my fair share of trustafarians, but also plenty of the real crusty deal.

Having your own festival must be a good feeling. Especially one with a comfortable capacity of 12,000 that sells out every year. It's almost as if everyone in the audience knows them and has contributed to how the festival looks and feels. Big metal objects of art, fire-breathers, organic falafel stalls: the whole place feels like a circus crossed with a village fete and there are more children than I've ever seen at a festival. Despite the showery weather and muddy ground everyone's in waterproofs and wellies and enjoying themselves. There's a community feeling at work. It's nice.

The backstage bar has obviously been designed by a band who've spent a couple of decades standing in characterless bars backstage with over-priced watery beer, thinking: "If I ran a festival I'd make sure the backstage bar was full of old armchairs and haystacks to sit on, with good music playing, night lighting and local cider and beers served in glasses", because that's exactly what it was like.

Still on my search to find out more about the travelling lifestyle I end up at the bar standing next to man who looks 100% authentic - a badly shaved mohican, numerous piercings, a ripped oversized Dennis the Menace-style jumper, muddy boots, his face painted bright blue.

"What's the black rat cider like?" I ask, hoping to find some instant common ground. He looks at me, then replies in an accent so posh it would make Little Lord Fauntleroy blush: "A little dry for my taste buds."

It's as if David Cameron is inhabiting the body of a Levellers fan. This man is a Trustafarian Jedi. He's the dictionary definition. Later, I conclude that it doesn't matter if I don't learn anything more about travellers. Where you choose to go and why you choose to go there is your own business. And the fact that every year 12,000 people, some of whom spend all their days on the road, choose to stop here just shows it's a festival worth making a detour for.