t was a beautiful sunny weekend at Glastonbury in 2010. I was 30, and it was the first time I’d been to the festival. I’m a sand sculptor and went there to work on transforming 60 tonnes of sand into a woman lying on her side, who’d deteriorate to muscle and bone as the festival progressed. Our installation was in the Park area; it’s at a busy intersection, so people had to funnel past us to get from one area to the next. Around lunchtime on the Friday, I’d been working for an hour or two, sculpting the guts. I was really focused, looking down at the sand. Then I heard someone call my name: “Jamie!” I thought nothing of it. It was a cockney accent; I’m from Bradford and I didn’t know any cockneys. There were thousands of people around me, so they could have been calling for anyone. I continued to work, but the voice shouted my name again. I looked up and saw a tall man wearing a cowboy hat with a beer in his hand. He was looking straight at me, so I went over. Before I had a chance to speak, he said: “Are you Jamie Wardley?” I’d never seen him before in my life. Then he asked something that shocked me: “Is your dad called Roger?” My mind was spinning. I’d only met my father once, a couple of years before – I grew up in a single-parent family and never really thought about him. “Yes,” I said, cautiously. “Well,” he said, “this is your sister.” He pointed his thumb towards the woman beside him. I had no idea I had a sister, but she had a hint of ginger in her hair and a pale complexion, just like me. She was clearly nervous, but had a big beaming smile on her face. I asked her what her name was and told her mine, but she already knew it. We chatted and exchanged phone numbers. She was shaking. As I went to put her number into my phone, I realised I’d forgotten her name and had to ask for it. “Emma,” she repeated. I knew my father was a musician and lived in Whitby, so in my early 20s I’d got in touch and we ended up meeting for the first time in a pub. We spoke about lots of things, but I didn’t ask if I had any siblings – meeting your father for the first time is such a big moment, I just didn’t think to. But my sister, who met him after I did, had asked the question and he’d told her that she had a brother called Jamie who was a sand sculptor. That’s all the information she had about me. So when she and her husband, Neil (the man in the cowboy hat), were at Glastonbury, walking down the hill, and he spotted me, he said to Emma: “Oh look, there’s a guy sculpting sand, shall we go and have a look? It might be your brother.” He shouted my name, thinking it would come to nothing. When I looked up, I imagine they were both quite shocked. Later that day, we went for a beer and took a photograph of us together. We got on really well: we share the same values and optimistic outlook on life. For the rest of the festival, we continued to hang out, getting to know each other. We sat around the campfire, told stories from our childhood and went to see the bands on the main stage. It’s the most amazing thing to find out you have a sister at the age of 30. This person who I never knew existed has come into my life, and it’s added something brilliant. That day, I also called my mum to tell her. She was a little surprised; she didn’t know I had a sister. Now she’s met Emma and loves her. Our friendship means we’ve both got better acquainted with our dad, who still lives in Whitby. We wanted to return to Glastonbury together this year, the 10-year anniversary of our meeting. Instead, we plan to camp out that weekend with our families in our respective gardens, make a flag, listen to music, drink a few beers. My wife and I have a sandpit in our garden, so I’ll make a sculpture. • As told to Sophie Haydock Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com