Look in the middle of the crowd. See the lanky, red-haired guy with the megaphone? That's Stuart Murdoch, Belle & Sebastian's singer and main songwriter. He's come out with some of the band to entertain the poor drenched souls with some impromptu sing-alongs. In this picture, I think he's singing Simon & Garfunkel's "Keep the Customer Satisfied." It's a very nice and very British gesture, a tonic for the troops.

This photo shows the inside of our "chalet," which came with the $140 tickets. As you can see, the ruthless efficiency barely holds the sofa bed for two, the narrow pallets, the miniature kitchen and the bathroom. (Electricity and hot water cost extra.) On the table are the two keys provided for the four of us. Why? "That's our policy, sir," said the matron at the front desk. We can't figure out if the idea is to prevent people from hooking up or to make it inevitable.

Through the window, you can just make out one of the canopied carts that roll along the winding footpaths of Pontin's, and a few of the lovely little signs that point the way to the store, the go-karts, the pool. You can't see the razor wire that surrounds the camp perimeter, or the gate that's greased to discourage escapees, or the bright orange wristbands we have to wear at all times. As a Yank who's never experienced English holiday camps before, I can't help but think of the prison compound in the British cult TV show "The Prisoner." ("Who is No. 1?" "You are No. 600.")

Everyone's striking a pose in this one, on the foggy dance floor by the main stage at Pontin's, a bit after 11 on Friday night. I'd never seen people voguing to Pavement records before. This room is essentially a pizza-scented sauna, thanks to its lack of decent ventilation and the pizza booth off to the side. Due to equipment problems, only two bands have played so far, both Belle & Sebastian's Scottish countrymen: hot young things the Delgados, who have a nifty he-sang-she-sang dynamic going on, and rapidly cooling not-so-young-anymore things Teenage Fanclub, who do variations on the same plaintive tune they've been writing since 1991. Judging by accents, half the audience is from Glasgow and the other half is from the States. The beer is flowing like wine, the dancing is going on until 3 a.m., the DJ has figured out that the quickest way to move the crowd is to put on the Pixies' "Debaser" and everyone's having a jolly old time. The non-dancers have mostly wandered over to the cinema in the next room, where "Paris, Texas" is showing -- the beginning of a weekend-long festival of geek-chic movies from "Naked" to "Dumbo" to "Life in a Scotch Sitting-Room."

This is the same room, but it's Saturday afternoon now. The band onstage is V-Twin, more Glasgow associates of Belle & Sebastian. I'm over by the edge of the picture, hanging out with some more friendly Glaswegians and picking up some slang that describes the band: "a bit crap really." V-Twin are essentially what B&S would be like if they weren't very good. They're a big crowd of musicians playing all sorts of keyboards and strings and horns to disguise a total absence of memorable tunes. Look at that pained squint on the frontguy's face. He's emoting like he wants to be a big ol' rock star. Ugh.

Here we are down in the merchandise room, after Sleater-Kinney's strangely distracted set. (Drummer Janet Weiss and guitarist Carrie Brownstein rocked with dogged conviction, but Corin Tucker was on autopilot, letting the tremulous keening in her voice do the work for her.) Obviously, the center of attention down here isn't the T-shirts and records that are tacked up on the wall on the right. It's the message board, where we're clustered around scores of little notes that have been tacked up with poster gum: The B&S fan mailing list Sinister is having a get-together; there's an expedition to a record store in nearby Rye; the boy with the red vinyl trousers should knock on the door of thus-and-such a chalet (rowrrr!!!). The guy with the floppy hair over on the left is using the most common pick-up line of the weekend on the girl next to him: "See your name anywhere?" There was a lot of that going on. I suppose that if you bring together a subculture that's mostly defined by being Not Like Everybody Else and pour lots of alcohol and a certain amount of ecstasy down their throats, you pretty much end up with mating season.

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