(by Andy Tate)

Greenbelt is like New Year's Eve without the mild sense of disappointment.

This is the best description of the festival that I know. They aren't my own words of Wildean wisdom, unfortunately, but those of Cole Moreton who told me that he, in turn, borrowed them from poet and priest Mal Doney. Unlike the 31st December, however, the Bank Holiday weekend seems genuinely charged with the possibility of change and less chance of dodgy television (though the advent of The Jesus Arms creates the risk of other, less holy, post-festive sensations). But, in the spirit of the best parties, you get to hear great music, reconnect with old friends and make new ones.

For an inveterate chatterbox like me, the plethora of opportunities to drink tea and gabble endlessly about music, books and ideas is very heaven. In my lifetime, Greenbelt has always existed on what Robert Browning once memorably named 'the dangerous edge of things'. One thing that keeps me coming back to Greenbelt is that it continues to wrestle with issues of faith and justice and to recognize that good questions are more important than easy answers. And it has been brave in hosting sessions by figures like Peter Tatchell, Billy Bragg and Iain Sinclair alongside the established, safer Christian speakers. And what's not to like about a festival that introduced me to the sounds of Duke Special and the writing of Fredrick Buechner (if you haven't read him, please do). I confess that I am a hopeless idealist when it comes to Greenbelt: it's simply the most inventive, warmest and riskiest place on earth – a place that, since my most awkward adolescent years has given me a sense that the church, in its broadest, messiest sense, is worth a wager of faith.