The concluding part of my Glastonbury chronicles - see also Part 1 and Part 2.On Saturday, being wet, grumpy and adrift in clarts, we figured that The Healing Field could provide blessed relief and joined an 'Introduction to Meditation' class. This seemed quite in keeping with the hippy vibe of Glastonbury, and the instructions to focus on the breath and prevent your mind yearning for sun, dryness and virginal toilets helped restore a certain sense of calm. This turned to mild wonder as we spotted Thom Yorke outside afterwards - diminutive, top-hatted and strutting foppishly like an amiable eccentric.
Suitably transcendent, we floated to the Cabaret Tent and caught both the impassioned politics of Jeremy Hardy, who lambasted 30-somethings such as myself who retreat into political apathy, and the surreal silliness of Kevin Eldon, a comedic actor whose CV is impeccable (I'm Alan Partridge, Brass Eye and Big Train among others) yet wider fame eludes him, assuming he even wants it in the first place.
I had intended to see Pulp, the weekend's other secret special guests, that evening but as I approached the stage towards where they were due to perform, my inner misanthrope decided that the baying crowds and current status of the mud (welly-devouring quicksand, sediment fans) were too much. Every fibre of my being insisted that I flee to the sanctity of the Acoustic Tent to see Pentangle, so I did precisely that.
This was not a decision I regretted, as it gave me an opportunity to see two of the best acoustic guitarists around in Bert Jansch and John Renbourn, plus the inimitable Danny Thompson, a man who has provided supreme double bass to Nick Drake and John Martyn amongst many others. Jackie McShee provided haunting vocals atop the lissom pastoral folkiness that eased gently into the night air, as I took sips of fine single malt from my girlfriend's Little Miss Sunshine bottle (a hipflask may be useful in future and less incongruous among fans of classic folk music.) Hindsight both reinforced my decision and added a sense of melancholy, as this was one of Bert Jansch's final performances prior to his sad passing in October this year.
I continued my rehabilitation with some fine local ales and exquisite carrot cake, as the avuncular strains of Elbow drifted over from a nearby field. I even found some toilets that were queue-free and serviceable – known as 'long drops', they are much cleaner than portaloos as all effluence is dropped into an unspeakable (and partially visible) pit several metres below. This may not sound great, but distance between yourself and raw sewage is a good thing and prevents the far greater hazard of overflow.
As the evening wore on, I gritted my teeth and returned to the Park to watch Wild Beasts, which was the musical highlight of the festival for me. Unfortunately, some members of the audience threw empty bottles and cans into the crowd, which beggared belief – how can you like this beautiful, intelligent music and yet be a callous blaggard who hurts people? A plague upon their tender portions.
Wild Beasts themselves were superb and rapturously received, to the extent that the audience loudly declared their love at regular intervals. The band seemed genuinely moved and slightly taken aback with the crowd's gushing approval. Musically, they were brilliantly tight and played note-perfect renditions of songs mostly taken from their last two albums, with only Devil's Crayon appearing from their 2008 debut, Limbo, Panto. They are something very special indeed, the best modern band around and quite capable of taking their place in the canon of great British groups.
Next was my attempt at what the youth call 'clubbing' – I was relieved to discover we wouldn't actually be bludgeoning small mammals, but rather dancing to repetitive music in makeshift discotheques. The Arcadia area was undeniably spectacular, despite queues that rivalled our Glasto arrival – enormous metal structures reformed from military scrap pierce the skyline, including a giant spider which belches fire and sears the night sky with lasers and channelled lightning. It's a visual and engineering masterpiece, but the accompanying music was trancey tat so we headed off to a roofless nightclub for DJ Yoda's set instead.
Elsewhere, the radical Block 9 area had some amazing sights, including a section of decaying tower-block with a lifesize tube train protruding from it. This was a 50ft structure and a functional nightclub to boot, so was a tad more impressive than simply dancing in a big tent. However, fatigue was defeating us so we were forced to camp, after a brief interlude of playing Head, Shoulders Knees & Toes with some flamboyant Germans. If you're reading Dad, don't worry - I am writing literally and not metaphorically.
I suspect my constant bemoaning of the weather will go hard with you, but honestly, Sunday was brutally hot. Our tents were as microwaves and shade elusive as water in a desert. I had hoped to see Laura Marling and others but it was too hot to move – we just grabbed a couple of hours sleep under a large public gazebo, securing just enough space to lay down and oblivious to the clatter and chatter around us. Eventually, we crawled to a sheltered area to hear The Bees' set without exposing ourselves to any harmful rays. When the heat became less oppressive, we headed up the hill next to The Park area for a 360 degree panorama of the entire festival.
We remained here for the duration and watched the sun set over Glastonbury. The valley below us illuminated as dusk fell and pulsed with revellers squeezing the last drops from this year's festival. In all, my first Glastonbury was a positive one and I'm very glad I finally attended. If you can't bear mud, rain, crowds, queues and feculent toilets then you may struggle, though to counteract this you will be armed with life-affirming music, great food and drink, amazingly ambitious spectacles to immerse yourself in and a good helping of hippy camaraderie. Worth a go I reckon.
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