There was something a bit post-apocalyptic about the lost world I entered on Sunday morning.

Outside was the modern world, filled with gizmos, gadgets, hustle and bustle. But in here it was eerily quiet, as a cluster of souls shuffled around, hunched and intense, faces set hard in concentration.

“You sure you want to do this? There’ll be some tragic specimens,” said my bloke.

I watched one of the shuffling souls scrutinise an Idle Race album sleeve, his face filled with wonder as if he’d just dug up some Viking gold. “I think I can handle a few vinyl nerds,” I said, taking a deep breath.

I’d been warned that record fairs were male-dominated and as I took tentative steps towards a box of albums marked “Late 70s New Wave” I became very conscious of being the only woman there. I thought I spotted a lone female, with long hair in a ponytail, but ‘she’ was a he, rifling through a stack of bluegrass CDs.

Everyone around me – mostly middle-aged blokes and a couple of hairy students (male) – looked uncannily similar. Like in pre-war photographs of crowds of men at football matches in raincoats and caps, there was a uniform look. It was mostly jeans and sensible fleeces, apart from a portly man clutching a Ziggy Stardust album who, in wax jacket and wellies, looked like he’d stumbled off a pheasant shoot.

I tried to look like I knew what I was doing, but I felt like an amateur. As I casually browsed through some old Blondie CDs a man next to me flicked his fingers through a box of singles at lightning speed, moving on to the next stack within seconds.

On the other side of me, two 50-something chaps in very similar fleeces were having a serious discussion about German prog rock imports. I was out of my depth.

Feeling a bit lost, I tried to find my bloke who was, unhelpfully, wearing jeans and a fleece top. Eventually I spotted him hunched over a Led Zeppelin box, rooted to the spot.

I was about to give up and head for the cafe when I spied an Eighties stall – it was like coming home.

Leafing through vintage Madonna, I felt 15 again. Spotting a few singles I remembered buying first time round, I basked in a nostalgic glow. I bit the bullet and bought a Duran Duran picture sleeve and a “rare Spanish import” of Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights.

It wasn’t exactly premier league, compared with the big guns surrounding me, but I was pleased with my little purchases.

I’d forgotten how lovely vinyl records are. Now all I need is something to play them on!