This summer saw my first trip to Glastonbury. I did plan to document the experience at the time, but circumstances, including that twin-headed demon procrastination and disorganisation, prevented this. However, it occurred to me that offering a different perspective by collecting my thoughts now, months later and detached from the summer festival maelstrom, may not be entirely without merit. Given the downpour today, it also seemed rather apposite. We drove down on the Tuesday through the night, attempting rather unsuccessfully to sleep in the van. I don't know when you last tried to get a full night's sleep while sitting up, but it's a ruddy nightmare of creeping leg cramps and ears numbed against window frames. On top of this, our plucky driver was still in the front seat and trying in vain to get some kip, but his momentary lapses into unconsciousness resulted in slapstick headbutts of the horn.
After a night of cranium-induced klaxon tooting, we 'woke' to Wednesday's gentle rain and thought we'd best join the already-huge queue, swollen with the many dedicated revellers who'd congregated through the night. Our Tuesday night travels were an attempt to beat the queues, though it appears that thousands had the same idea and got there first. Apparently, it gets worse every year due to the increased numbers of people – someday soon, Glastofolk will have to start queuing while still at home, though at least they'll be able to put the kettle on.
Having eventually located the end of the queue, and standing there in the grey drizzle around 90 minutes before the gates were even due to open, one of our party pointed out that we'd paid nearly £200 for the experience of being refugees. Thankfully, the gates opened early and the queue started to move, though having arrived at the brow of a hill we saw the queue snake for miles through the adjacent fields. Fully laden with enough camping gear to dislodge vertebrae, our hearts sank at the prospect of several hours slow trudge through the Somerset countryside.
However, some enterprising souls had noticed that a quick trawl through a ditch enabled the prospect of jumping the vast majority of the queue. Dodging mud, branches and my throbbing conscience, I followed those of our party who'd already decided that this was the only feasible way forward and 'joined' the queue near the entrance. A slight wait developed into purgatory thanks to a mad-eyed Scouser who, perhaps due to having taken a few liveners, seemed unaware of the concept of festivals and was perplexed as to why we had bags, tents and wellies. I think he was unaware of the concept of tickets too, as we never saw him once the queue surged forward and we were through the barricades into Glasters' golden fields.
We arrived at our chosen camping spot as the first in the field and it began to rain, so we hurriedly constructed the gazebo and took shelter inside, all nine of us dripping and steaming with our bags and tents piled in the centre like a futile offering to the spiteful god of festival camping. The rain eased off long enough for us to construct the tents, and with the sun coming out it looked like all was well. A quick sleep in the heat of the tent followed and upon waking, I saw that the vast expanse of green field had been filled with tents of all hues, with merry revellers cracking open their tins of ale and unwisely stoking barbecues under gazebos that threatened to melt inwards and consume the very consumers. And thus it begins.
Part 2 coming soon: I'll stop moaning and actually mention some music, so sit tight gentle readers (all three of you...)
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