Last year was my first time at Houghton Festival, thanks to my younger brother, a fellow dance music lover. After he came back raving (pun slightly intended), I had to see it for myself. It wasn’t just the world-class DJ line-up that sold me, but everything else he described: the crowd, the atmosphere, and the surreal setting of Houghton Hall, a stately home in the Norfolk countryside.
When we arrived on the sprawling grounds of the former residence of the 7th Marquess of Cholmondeley, Jake took it upon himself to show me and my friends the ropes: where to camp, which stages to catch and when to head to each. He made sure we did Houghton “properly”. But there was one glaring omission in my debut year. I never made it to the Houghton holy grail; a stage that regulars speak about with reverence. If you know, you know: it’s Terminus.
This year, I was determined to change that. After three full glorious days of aching cheeks from laughing, listening to some of the best music of my life and losing all sense of time on the dance floor, we were hooked. So, the second Houghton 2025 tickets dropped, we made sure to secure them. And at the very top of our festival hitlist? Making it to Terminus.
Despite the stage being open 24 hours a day – from the Friday morning right through to the Monday – getting in is an ordeal, to say the least. Terminus is hidden on the far side of the campsite, totally cut off from the main arena. It’s legendary for its line-ups, energy and near-mythical status among the more committed ravers. But the queue can stretch for hours, winding toward the entrance like a pilgrimage. Once you’re in – down a spiral staircase into a gladiator pit dance floor – you don’t want to leave. People dedicate entire days of their festival just to hold their ground there.
Like Terminus, so much of the festival is hidden, slow-revealing, deliberately off the beaten path. And that’s no accident. The festival was founded in 2017 by renowned tech house DJ Craig Richards, just as he was nearing the end of his 18-year residency at Fabric. With a DJ at the helm of its curation, it shows in every detail. From the thoughtfully laid-out stages and world-class sound systems to the way each artist is placed according to their sound, Houghton feels like a festival built by and for people who truly understand dance music.
Most of the stages are nestled among towering trees in the woods, with partygoers weaving their way around the edge of Houghton’s stunning lake. One of the standout spots is the Pavilion, perched at the top end of the water. This year, it boasted a newly upgraded sound system, solidifying its place as one of the festival’s central hubs. Highlights included a sunrise set from American DJ Gene On Earth, who played from 5am to 7am, and an unforgettable appearance by Swiss favourite Sonja Moonear. But it’s at night when the place really comes into its own: think lasers slice through the trees, casting acid green, deep red and electric blue light across the canopy – like you’re in a club where the ceiling is made of branches. It’s spellbinding.
Another spot that had me transfixed this year was the Warehouse: a towering, cast-iron structure with an industrial feel – think North London’s Drumsheds, with its vast club-like room and immersive, trance-inducing visuals. Everyone inside moves in unison, pulled forward by the music and the shared intensity of the moment. It’s the kind of space where the crowd becomes part of the set – fully swept up in the sounds and the feeling of shared connection.
I’m someone who, in day-to-day life, struggles to fully let go. I’m always thinking about what’s next, or caught up in some half-formed worry. But inside Warehouse, that faded away thanks to Australian producer Reptant, known for his acidic blend of electro and techno. He played on Sunday night, just when we were starting to flag and wondering how we’d make it to the end of the weekend. But Reptant brought us back to life, making everything feel blissfully effortless. All we had to do was take in the atmosphere and enjoy the ride.
Outside of the raving, Houghton is a place of discovery – not just of new music and artists, but of new sides of yourself. It encourages those rare moments of introspection without ever making a big point of it. Part of the magic is that there’s virtually no signal anywhere on site, apart from the occasional miracle text from a friend you’ve been trying to find for hours. And Instagram? Forget it. But that’s the beauty of the weekend. You’re cut off from everything except the moment you’re in and the people you’re sharing it with.
On the Sunday morning, my boyfriend and I decided to peel off from our group for a quiet wander. As we passed through the main arena, we noticed a small group of people sitting on the grass in front of the Derren Smart Stage, completely in awe. We stopped to watch – onstage was conceptual sound artist Peter Adjaye, known for his cross-disciplinary collaborations. He was joined by a singer, a saxophonist (Tyrone Isaac Stuart), two string players and two percussionists. Just hours earlier, we’d been under the tree-canopied Pavilion with Japanese DJ Masda, deep in a hypnotic techno set. Now, we were somewhere else entirely, sonically transported to a sun-drenched shoreline, surrounded by nature, where everything felt quiet and still. What made the experience even more surreal was when a young man came up to us – Peter’s son, as it turned out – and told us this was their first time playing together. The entire performance had been improvised, guided only by Peter’s expertise and intuition.
While we were lost in Peter Adjaye’s artistry, my friends were on their own unexpected journey of self-discovery: a guided sculpture tour through the grounds of Houghton Hall. Each year, Houghton commissions artists to exhibit, blurring the line between rave and gallery, this year British sculpture Stephen Cox was showing. They described it to me afterwards like they’d been “picked up and dropped into heaven”. It was silent, the grass impossibly green, and they were completely immersed in the surrounding art. They showed me photos, and honestly, it looked exactly as they described. What made the whole scene even more otherworldly was the fact my friend was dressed in a flowing, Victorian-style gown, curly hair piled on top of her head, elf ears poking out and a Moschino parasol in hand. She looked like something out of a fantasy novel, gracefully wafting through the manicured gardens of a stately home. But at Houghton, none of that feels out of place.
One of this year’s standout installations came from Chris Levine, whose dramatic laser display sent bright beams across the lake and into the night sky, perfectly aligned with the moon. Around that same lake is the Orchard area, where you’ll find a strangely perfect mix of deck chairs filled with people sipping pet-nat, morning yoga sessions, poetry readings and long chats over a cuppa at ‘Aunteas’. To an outsider, it might all seem a bit mad – rave recovery zones nestled beside wellness spaces and eccentric costumery – but when you’re there, it all just clicks.
Tucked behind the yoga lawn, there’s even a wood-fired sauna and a cold plunge pool, ideal for resetting your nervous system (and your lower back) after hours of two-stepping on uneven terrain. It’s commonly known as ‘disco back’ – and by day two, I was in need of that sauna. From there, it’s only a short stroll to the Armadillo stage, a beautifully crafted wooden structure, tucked into the trees, known for its more ambient, morning-friendly sets. It’s a place to ease into the day, and that Sunday morning, it’s where I ended up: lying back and letting Joe Muggs soundtrack my slow return to life. It was exactly what I needed; gentle, grounding and a reminder that Houghton is as much about space and stillness as it is about sound and movement.
I was in need of a restful start as the day before, I’d finally made it to Terminus. Let me rewind a little. (This journey needs a play-by-play recount, in case you’re looking for tips for 2026.) By Saturday morning, I’d clocked maybe ninety minutes of sleep. The tent was already an oven, and the campsite chatter made one thing clear: more rest wasn’t happening. I gave in, unzipped the tipi and poked my head into the bright morning – just in time to see my brother walking down the main path. We locked eyes. “Terminus?” I asked. “Give me 15 minutes to grab a coffee,” he laughed, “then we can go.”
We rallied our campmates, grabbed G&Ts for the road, and made the pilgrimage, half expecting the usual monster queue. But when we arrived, the gates were open. No line; it felt almost suspiciously easy. We descended the spiral staircase, towards the dance floor. And there it was: Terminus. Sunlight pouring through the trees down onto the circular wooden decking, the sound system humming with life and a crowd moving in total sync. Some had clearly been there for hours, others (like us) were just arriving. In that moment, as we danced, time dissolved and we all felt totally free.
So, is Houghton one of the last great festivals for true music lovers? After finally making it to Terminus – after the sunrise sets, the saunas, the lasers, the art, and the unplanned emotional resets – I think the answer is yes. Not because it’s the biggest or flashiest, but because it’s built on something deeper: a genuine love for music and the people who follow it. There’s no VIP culture, no corporate gloss, no curated Instagram moments. Just carefully crafted chaos – shared between strangers who become friends. In a world where festivals are becoming increasingly commercial, Houghton still feels – for me, anyway – sacred. It’s a return to what music festivals can be at their best.
