WHAT a star-studded cast . . . a solitary buzzard suspended in the dreich, grey skies. Fidgety house martins weaving betwixt the trees. The fluttery butterfly that rested briefly on my T-cup. The beautiful flower girls . . . Ah, life lived in the wild. Oh, and there were 44,000 music fans and some pop bands here and there.

To go with the flow meant an inexorable sweep with the crowds towards the NME tent. And there to savour the apperitif that was Travis. ''They're the berries, so they are,'' I was assured by a 42-year-old with pigtails and ginger goatee.

Amid the belching bass notes one of these sweaty new gods of pop shouted: ''The Scottish Office requested this as a new national anthem!'' The belches became incessant, and the rock machine trundled into overdrive . . . meanwhile, over at the Talent Stage - surprisingly devoid of adoring mums and aunties - a small crowd gathered cross-legged on the ground in rapt anticipation - rather like a kindergarten waiting for the puppets.

East Kilbride combo, God's Boyfriend, popped up from behind the stage and battled amiably to give the kids what they wanted . . . girl power rockers, alright. Grrrr!

At the only point when they looked like stumbling and a-mumbling, Lisa Hutchinson, Lanarkshire's Alanis Morrisette, took the band by the throat and shook them back into angst overdrive with a petulant A Girl Sitting On A Bridge.

As GUN fired themselves up with blanks for a retro-rock salute on the main stage, curly wonder Phil Kay blunderbussed our attention within the confines of the hospitality tent - not only magnificent cartwheels, but performed in the world's baggiest trousers!

With GUN safely back in their holster it should have been time to target the main stage for Reef. Sadly, the R&B band with more lip than Mick, got into flying difficulties of some nature, and after a minor postponement managed only a three-course fret feast. Still, Lay Your Hands on Me tickled many a tonsil into fine fettle.

Next up were Dodgy, beach blond doyens of surf-pop and just the sort of happy chappies to put us in the real festival spirit, shaking their guitars at the storm clouds with a defiant Staying Out For The Summer.

And our good vibes could only be enhanced to discover ''Scotland's where it's at!'' and we swelled visibly to be told we were ''A bonnie crowd!''

Over in the dance tent, Slam were twiddling themselves to a frenzy, Daft Punk took many a stomping sole All Around The World, before techno guru Laurent Garnier followed up with his own brand of Gallic gusto.

And on to the letter K . . . for Karma, kookiness, and Kula Shaker. As the rains came down nobody minded, cos we were entranced, man, by the Sanskrit mantra, lost in the wah wah wonder of Crispian's belly-dancing fretwork.

The Charlatans are nothing of the sort, of course, and by the time tiny Tim was cleared for take-off, Balado airfield was already so awash with hugs, drugs, and libido, we were all true North Country Boys.

Yesterday the first highlight all the way from New Yoik was the Fun Lovin' Criminals with guitar licks slicker than the Exxon Valdez, and lyrics cooler than Don Corleone's meat locker. Enough said - omerta, if you like.

On a completely different planet, in the tent of unbridled happiness and wellie stomping, the Humff Family humffed their hearts out, leaving folkies full and feisty. Left broken hearted were local heroes hardbody, whose tour manager failed to turn up with the gear. A sad loss for both band and the huge turnout in the Radio 1 tent. If there is any justice, they'll come back with an even bigger bang than when the heavens opened and Kinross became a land of mud.

From this soup arose Bush. Allegedly huge in the US, despite the high giggle factor their name causes on college radio, they seemed to be making some deep roots over here.

''Hello Scotland!'' All the way from Glasgow, Texas came at Kinross via Detroit. So many familiar melodies, but you just can't help loving our Sharleen. Ocean Colourscene have some nice guitar riffs - including that one from that programme.

And then the main man himself, Uncle Paul Weller, who can do no wrong. And still no-one had the guts to tell him he has pop's silliest haircut. That swept aside, he and his famous friends were gulped down by the punters just like the T-stuff itself. Cheers!

Music