Fun that can't be topped

"Want some tea?" What? "Want some tea?" What on earth? For heaven's sake, can't you see I've been in the ring, flying through the air, riding horses? I've got sawdust all over me! "Want some tea?" And I wake up; feel the smile still on my face, feel the glow that spells happiness. I I can hear the roar from the crowd; the laughter, the spontaneous oohs and ahhs. The buzz reverberates in my head and even now my hands throb from clapping.

Yesterday I went to Gifford's Circus.

The spell is still with me: grease paint, sawdust, slapstick, loudness, whiz-bang, sparkle and smiles; ear to ear showmanship. I'd been trying to pencil in the circus for some time. It hadn't boded well.

Contact with Kirsty, their press officer had been a problem. I'd rung her mobile and her mailbox had been full. Waterlogged in fact... Her phone had been through the weekly wash. If she'd put it through the economy wash on the short cycle I suspect it might have survived, but hey...

I arrived at the circus mid afternoon. The lazy hot day had leached colour from the countryside and the big white top fluttered erratically, quivering as if gasping for breath.

The site was small; a knot of stalls, tents and old-fashioned caravans painted maroon and cream with coach-lines of pale blue. It was unexpectedly low key; circus folk wandered, appeared and disappeared, all quietly going about their business. A medley of dogs ambled aimlessly, content to savour the scents of summer.

Across the field, horses with silhouettes like cut-outs stood drinking drafts of cool shade in the stable tent where a large white goose and his entourage of three dabbling ducks busied themselves, muttering like gossips around the tent's skirts. In a coup nearby chickens scratched and pecked contentedly. A cockerel crowed, Cock a doodle doooooo! Apt... This year Gifford's Circus presents The Cockerel Show.

Despite the lethargy of the day there was an air of expectancy, like the promise of change before a storm or maybe it was a kind of pre-performance synergy accumulating. Or perhaps I was a romantic, reading too much into this assorted collection of stalls, tents and caravans scattered in this corner of Gloucestershire where skylarks fly and lorries thunder on adjacent dust-dry roads oblivious to the magic nearby.

I met with Kirsty and as we dawdled she introduced me to the world of Gifford and the ethos of this particular circus. She showed me a traditional 1940's roundabout - one of the Gifford's first purchases.

There were no cartoon characters painted in glaringly gauche graphics, no massive signs announcing prices. This hand cranked roundabout with simple bucket seats along with the boat swings is used to give children free rides pre-circus and during the interval.

We walked past the candy floss stall and nosed inside the restaurant tent, 'Circus Sauce.' The interior could have been an illustration from a child's story.

Bunches of flowers in spotted vases, pitchers and plates covered in stars, silver candelabras with coloured candles and napkins decorated with roosters were all neatly arranged on wooden trestle tables alongside yellow stacking chairs. At the back was a small dresser covered in a profusion (or maybe this should read a juggle?) of tea pots and jugs.

We walked by Coco's Caf its large red sign was embellished with lavish swirls of script. Inside there was a table with adult sized chairs and another with small chairs and hanging from hooks were assorted aprons and cloths and towels.

A gas burner, a large box of crisps and an industrial-sized tin of coffee was arranged on a serving table. This is where the circus eats.

We circumnavigated tents, wandered between caravans, stepped over guide ropes and cables, pegs and hooks, meandered around motorbikes and cycles, and avoided washing lines piled with a plenitude of tights.

We patted circus dogs with waggy tails and all the time we'd bump into circus people. I'd hear a mix of accents: there was Tweedy, a dizzy clown from Scotland with a shock of blond hair, quaffed like Tin Tin, an aloof Russian Cossack with a distinguished aquiline nose and a black kerchief tied tightly around his shaven head.

A lean, long girl cycled by, "Like your outfit!" She yelled grinning madly. It was no surprise to discover leggy Nancy Trotter's a dancer and singer. Those not introduced were pointed out to me "That's so and so..." And Kirsty would give me their circus pedigree. A lot of performers came from Russia.

At the big top a small boy stood peering inside the tent. He had pushed aside a door flap and was rooted to the spot, mute and motionless, mesmerised by two riders and their horses pounding the sawdust ring; their expressions intent, focussed on rehearsal.

"Nell's training a replacement horse for tonight. The grey. He's only had six hours training." As if in acknowledgement of my unspoken thoughts Kirsty said, "We'll have to leave them alone."

I'd wanted to speak to Nell, find out more about the birth of Gifford's Circus. I realised I wouldn't have the chance. I would simply have to look and listen and discover the footprints Nell Gifford and her husband, Totti, had left behind.

In the tent annexed to the big top were props and costumes and a television to relay the ringside performance. This is where performers assemble. A large velvet multi-coloured patchwork of pockets hung against a wall. The pockets served as pigeon holes for mail collection.

Piles of theatrical hats nestled in large boxes and on the grass stood a rail of costumes - flashes of gold epaulettes and glitz and a caterpillar of shoes, boxed and named lay beneath.

A springboard, practise mats and assorted unidentifiable apparatus were assembled around the edges of the tent and in a corner sat a large colourful rooster costume covered in sequins. Here was the unadulterated 'bling' of circus.

Dimitri, a Russian boy sat on the steps of a caravan, face cupped, surveying the scene. Grinning, he showed me some animal head props. There was no common language but words weren't necessary, his Slavic shoulder shrugs and hand gestures said everything.

Suddenly, like a shock, two stallions, eyes bright, nostrils flaring, ears pricked stormed from the big top and were immediately upon us. Nell Gifford with her Nordic blond plait and Nicky with her tumble of gypsy-curls looked majestic, towering high above us on their steeds. Breathlessly they pulled their horses to a standstill and we rapidly backed off.

"Come and have a look at my caravan," Kirsty said, anxious to remove me from the scene, health and safety patently a prime concern of hers. "I've purposely not tidied up so that you can see what it's really like." The caravan was small. A shiny, satin patchwork of purples and pinks lay on a double bed, which filled most of the room.

Muted light filtered through drawn curtains and the room was lit by a string of pink fairy lights looped around the perimeter of the ceiling. A tiny black cat lay fast asleep, curled up on the bed amongst cushions.

Clothes lay across the bed, a fall of scarves hung from the wall, shoes and boots cast across the floor. A long false hairpiece dangled over a muddle of papers, make up and sparkly jewellery and the cleanest mobile phone ever.

We called on Nancy Wilson who lives in a horse box along with her pet chicken. Nancy danced in last year's show. This year she is the box office manager. Her head appeared at a window high up in the horse box. She came out and introduced me to Fatima. The spotted, feather-footed bantam fluffed up its feathers and settled on Nancy's shoulder as if this was the only place to roost. It probably was.

We headed for the caf and passed the bunk wagon with its rows of steps and doors where overnight visitors stay. How I would like to have stayed! We passed the shower caravans and skirted round the generator. A small dog peered out of a caravan window.

Nell and Nicky were hosing down the horses after their workout. A rainbow of light shimmered in the spray arcing across the horses' gleaming backs. Nicky hoses down Toska.

The circus seemed all enveloping, all consuming. Hard work. Kirsty agreed: "Circus is a way of life, a commitment, not something you dip in and out of."

We'd eaten outside, sitting on the caf terrace at the Farm Shop, Longborough. The sun was still brilliant and a constellation of twinkling plates were scattered across our table.

"We'll have to go," Kirsty said. "There's a board meeting at five." Board meeting? A vision of some stuffy egalitarian affair discussing finances loomed large. "It's private," Kirsty continued. "A get together for the circus. We take it in turns to run it. We start by holding hands and then play games - have fun."

Minutes later the still of the afternoon is shattered. From across the field there's a roar followed by shouts and hoots of laughter. Evidently the board meeting is going well.

I'm sitting in a field of dry, spiky grass watching and listening. It's well over an hour to the performance and already the atmosphere is charged. Warm-up rehearsals are taking pace in the big top.

The music booms. The sound is too big for the big top and singing bursts explosively from its white fluttering walls. "Roxanne..." The resonant voice is sultry and strong and rolls across the field like a spread of thick black chocolate... "Don't deceive me..." and stays lingering in a layer of sizzling energy. "When I say I love you..." Drums thunder. Cymbals crash.

The shadows are lengthening and people are beginning to arrive for the evening performance bringing with them their own performance: The Picnic. There's a mass of four by fours parking and a chunder of chattering classes; tans from exclusive holidays, designer clothes looking understatedly shabby and of course the ubiquitous greeting, kiss-kiss, kiss-kiss breathlessly emptying into the evening air.

I hear the chink of wine goblet against wine goblet as I swallow my fizzy water and my well-travelled banana looks decidedly unattractive. I wanted to say, did you see that? But there was no one to share the moment with, no one to see the family raising a Scottish flag on a flagpole alongside their Range Rover.

A dog races over to me. Its owner yells "Sorry!" I recognise the opera singer as she rushes to retrieve her dog. Tweedie, the clown threads between the picnickers as children laugh and giggle. The ringmaster sashays in and out of the gathering crowd. He's following a perky little Jack Russell wearing a white ruff.

He carries the dog's tiny top hat with the aplomb of a respectful valet. And still the music booms from the big top, the sound is reminiscent of Cabaret, the microphone making it almost Germanically guttural in flavour with it's strength and sophisticated gusto.

A glamorous showgirl saunters over: fishnet tights, high cut leotard, a military styled jacket with tails decorated with gold accessories, her pony tail swings as she smiles a smile luscious with lip-gloss. "Hi Jacquie, how you doing?" What? Who? For a moment I'm puzzled. Who? What? Ah... I see. It all becomes clear: It's Kirsty! The false hair piece, the make-up, the glitz. A transformation!

Apparently another of her jobs is welcoming the public and collecting their tickets at the entrance to the big top. "I'll let you in when you come to the tent." So I queued, and waited and she did.

As soon as I entered the big top I was enveloped by an overwhelmoimg pizzazz of excitement and I stopped. Stopped taking notes. Stopped trying to draw. Stopped everything in fact. I couldn't bear to be distracted, couldn't bear to be distracted from the dazzle of the lights, the smell of the sawdust, the thigh slapping rhythm of the music and the larger than life characters invading the ring... and the chickens pecking in the sawdust. Yes really! It was all so over the top. Or under in this case. I simply had to watch, absorb and enjoy.

So, Essence readers, go! Go see for yourselves. Discover the Gifford's Circus experience because it's absolutely wonderful.

Foot-note The footsteps... I think I found some. I think I understand where Nell's coming from. Her book, Josser, was an insight into circus life and Nell's own life.

Nell's mother figured greatly between the lines, and before the tragic accident depriving her of a normal life it strikes me she created a magical comfort zone in the minds of young Nell and her sisters.

There is a resonance here. In Gifford's Circus, Nell is creating a magical world for all of us - an escape from an all too often uncomfortable reality.