The Glastonbury 2005 Experience, Pt 1
Created | Updated Jul 21, 2005
The sunburn's started to peel, the brain has just about recovered, the mud's been washed from the clothes and the rucksack is back under the bed. A few weeks on and another Glastonbury festival has become a memory. However, the thing that separates Glastonbury from most other festivals, and makes it the greatest festival in the world, is that you always take a little bit of it with you when you leave (and I'm not just talking about the mud).
While most festivals are about the music, Glastonbury is about the vibe. Sure, some of the biggest artists in the world play there, and many count their Glastonbury sets as among the best they've played, but the music is to Glastonbury what a jukebox is to a pub. Have a listen if you like, but if that's what you're there for, you're in the wrong field. Glastonbury is about mooching about and enjoying whatever grabs you, be it a band, a juggler, a comedian, a sculpture, a burlesque show or even a political debate. Try finding that lot at Reading!
So how did Glasto 2005 compare to other years? Very well, here it goes.
My personal journey began when I left Paddington Station on Wednesday morning (already a little the worse for lager) and arrived at Castle Cary train station in blazing sunshine, rucksack on my back (with the Factor 40 ensconced safely inside) and with a bounce in my step (having missed the last two years' festivals, not even the rucksack was going to keep me earthbound). It was very, very hot. After queuing for a short while in the blazing sun, admiring the newly impassable wall, then getting my nice green Glasto wristband, I was in! Back where my heart belongs.
This is the first important thing to remember about Glasters: even though it only happens once a year (and not every year at that), and even after missing a few years, getting through those gates feels like coming home. The weight of the world lifts from your shoulders and a warm, fuzzy glow floods your body (although that could, of course, be the lager).
After spending a couple of hours mooching I found my friends (camped halfway up a high, steep hill - at the time this seemed like a bad thing!), dropped my rucksack, applied some of the aforementioned Factor 40 (in the nick of time), purloined a cold lager, and spent the next few hours hiding from the sun, contemplating pitching my tent. It was still very, very, very hot. Wednesday evening was spent sitting round the campfire chatting, and not pitching the tent.
Thursday continued as Wednesday left off - some more people turned up, some more lager (and Newcastle Brown, vodka and wine) was drunk, more chatting was done, and more sun avoidance was attempted. It remained very, very, very, very hot.
At about 10.00 on Thursday evening I decided that I didn't really want to spend another night out under the stars, so started to pitch my tent. After a shaky start, my mates gave a hand (erecting one's own tent whilst intoxicated can be problematic) and it was up in a matter of minutes. Turned out to be the best decision I made all weekend...
In the early hours of Friday morning, while we were sitting around the campfire, the first drops started. Graham, a farmer, and therefore one who should be knowledgeable about such things, said, 'It's okay, there won't be enough to put the fire out.'
At this point, I went to bed.
