Free Web Hosting Provider - Web Hosting - E-commerce - High Speed Internet - Free Web Page
Search the Web

The Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts, to give it its full title, is a three day festival held most years on a 700 acre site in rural Somerset. The core of the site is Michael Eavis' dairy farm, augmented by land rented from adjoining farms. The entertainment consists of rock and pop on numerous stages, an acoustic stage, a jazz stage, the Avalon stage, a theatre/cabaret/comedy stage, a cinema tent, dance tent, circus, juggling and just about anything else anybody considers entertaining. This years' festival will be the 17th held across a period of 27 years.

Dateline Monday 22nd June 1998 Worthy Farm, Pilton, Somerset - sun and blue skies

Sue, her daughter Joni and I arrived at around 5 p.m. after a tense journey from Weymouth in an illegal van (too late to argue when you’ve just swapped it for your prized BMW for a week).  No problem getting onto the site, the queue for Gate 2 (the traders entrance) was not too long, although it was amusing to watch huge lorries trying to negotiate the narrow country lane entrance.  A posse of men in yellow security jackets jokingly asked us if we had any Rumanians in the van, an obvious reference to the world cup game due to kick off in a couple of hours.  We giggled along with them as they eyed our belongings.  Not one seemed to be under fifty, probably why Sue was so keen to get the van past so quickly - or perhaps she was worried about the cans of Special Brew and glass bottles of wine we had stashed in the cold box….

Coming into the festival site at this point, you enter from the north-east via Muddy Lane, flanked on both sides by camping fields, to its’ foot, the junction of The Causeway and Stage Road known as Meeting Point.  On this grassy corner, wooden benches erected under colourful flags and hanging baskets, provide a rare rest spot to meet friends. During the festival proper it would be constantly crowded with people, but now, a peaceful wind blew amongst the few stalls presently lining the grassy verges.Turning right to move along Stage Road toward the Pyramid Stage, Fiona’s tie-dye stall has lived on the field called The Shambles for many festivals, selling brightly coloured wares to the world.  It was a relief to see the shop already erected and at the rear, a waiting circle of tents. Thankfully I would not have to risk my fingernails struggling with massive tarpaulins and poles - The Queen of Tie-Dye and her skeleton crew had spent five days readying the area for the coming influx of willing helpers.  An adjoining trailer tent provided a sleeping place for the extremely clever Gordon and his lovely lady, Heather, plus a kitchen/lounge for the rest of the crew. This made things quite comfortable.  Outside, a portable gas boiler provided hot water, and in the "TV lounge" a monochrome telly was setting the atmosphere for the World Cup game between England and Romania - just because we’re in the middle of a field doesn’t mean we have to rough it!

The first trip to the lavatory was a daunting prospect; on previous visits to this festival I had been appalled to use the public toilets, easily the biggest health risk in the area; I was therefore pleasantly surprised to find traders used flushing porta-loos with washbasins and even soap.  However, this was only the first day on site, things could rapidly deteriorate when the music started in three days’ time.
Our old pal Simon was already on duty organising the camp for the following members of the company who would trickle in over the next 72 hours.  Helping this project was Neil, with his great off-beat sense of humour and a heart as big as his beer belly.  Lovely man and a fellow non-tobacco smoker with a pipe that soon sends me into a near coma.  England lose the game, much to the chagrin of the men.  Meanwhile, the girls play at shop fitters with Ralph and his 14 year old son, Alex, erecting rails.  Later in the evening, sitting around a campfire nursing a drink is always great fun once you can work out how to keep the back and front parts at the same temperature.  I suffer burned knees and a cold bum, so it’s not long before I nod my yawning way into my snug sleeping bag.

Tuesday 23rd June - Pipes and Peace
Early rising was hard, why I can’t imagine.  At ten-thirty I sit upright with a shock as my eyes focus on a bright, sunny morning.  On with the sandals and festival sweater, out into the morning.  In the ‘kitchen’, a joint is passed to me before my first cup of tea.  It normally takes 3 cups to get me going.   Soon, a large white van pulls up, driven by Steve (Woody) while another Steve - (Frosty), Carl, and Danelle climb out and work begins in earnest.  The next hours are spent unloading box upon box of brightly coloured tie-dye clothes, smoking cannabis, and occasional lines of encouragement from the boss lady (just to keep people’s spirits up).  The festival had begun.

As the day wore on, more people dropped in to say hello. I made tea and washed dishes (seemingly constantly) but didn’t mind.  The Steves had a serious pipe with them and my throat began to take on the timbre of gravel.  Occasionally I wandered off to inspect progress in the surrounding area, recognising some stalls as their names appeared over makeshift entrances.  The Save the Rhino boys were expected next door, a regular sight at both festival and London marathon, dressed in a huge Rhino costume (extremely hot I’d say) to dance about the place.  They also have a reputation as one of the loudest all-night raves on site, and I saw my hopes of a good night’s sleep evaporating into the grey blanket of cloud over my head.  Just then our stall’s sound system kicked in; hold on a minute - maybe ours would outdo the neighbours!

Sue, Joni and I walked up to look at the top fields, marvelling at the bustle of activity as stalls and stages were readied for the three-day onslaught which could bring up to 100,000 people spilling onto this green land. Moving along Causeway into Callins Way, we crossed the junction with Circus Road to the left, then Somerset Boulevard to the right, over Yeoman’s Bridge, entering the next field.  The Jazz Stage was immediately to the left, tucked into the far corner against the hedge.  Ahead, Tin Pan Alley borders Clapps Lane on the left, just before the junction with Avalon Avenue, the road to the Avalon Field.  To the right, Greenpeace now have their own field on the Holts, with a new addition to the live music venues: The New Bands Tent, at its rear.  We passed the familiar sign of The Tiny Tea Tent, as always pitched immediately on the left as you pass the hedge.  Some nice craft stalls here, I look at jewellery and balk at their prices.  This is becoming a bread-head’s festival, hardly the vision painted in 1970 when the marvellous madness began.

Further along, the old railway track, piled with firewood for campfires - marks the boundary of the Green Fields.  Security checkpoints stop all vehicles as here, none are allowed (supposedly).  Many structures already sport brightly-coloured flags and banners.  There’s a quiet here lacking in Babylon.  Solar panels fuel phones and showers, wind-turbines hum quietly, breathing life into many solar batteries. The Rainbow Tribes had already ensconced themselves under their familiar banner, there were one or two cafes being set up along the main routes.  The Golden Moon, a famous travelling restaurant and live music tent, has happy memories for me of delicious, organic menus for breakfast and dinner, and the puddings! Hmmm, scrumptious.  Another personal favourite - the Café Cairo - had not yet appeared, so the promise of Turkish coffee with a hookah on richly woven carpets would have to wait for another day.

Up at the farm’s northern boundary, King’s Meadow, the Sacred Space of standing stones was peaceful, as always, with the Vale of Avalon spread before like a green carpet.  A red canopy hung over the gate, newly erected since my last visit to prevent invasion by camping or vehicles.  Just inside this barrier, earth artists are busy creating a wonderful garden feature around which wooden benches have been erected.  Beyond, the circle of stones command respect, even if only for their mass.  We sat against one, staring down the site, smoking a joint, in warm summer air.

To one side of the Sacred Space, a little stream flows through the body of a huge stone dragon, resplendent at the entrance to Dragon Field.  Children screamed laughter, crawling over the mythological creature as it spat forth not flames, but water, into a natural rock pool.  The area over the water, reserved for women’ only camping, is quiet and serene, the whole atmosphere in this part of the farm is magical, as if ghosts of Camelot were ready to rise up out of the ancient ground.  A colourful, intricately designed tent shines in the afternoon sunlight, fabulous oriental designs cover another. I saw my first Yurt,  traditional tent home of Mongolian tribesmen on the central Asian plains. I’d love one of these white domes with their wooden lattice frames and central fireplace.

Moving on, we crossed back over the stream further down its course, using a small wooden bridge, into the Green Crafts Field.  I love this place, the display of all sorts of weird and wonderful ways -  metalwork; wood and stone carving; quilting; felt making; wicker weaving, and pottery, the list of crafts seems endless.  For a nominal fee one can have a go at anything, some artists were already in residence, displaying samples of their talents outside tents or next to converted buses.
Walking toward the lower fields, we crossed again over the old railway line at the point where it meets the Tipi and Avalon Fields, taking the right hand entrance into the Tipi field.  A large circle of tall, majestic Tipis stood around a central space reserved for meetings and song, in the tradition of the Indians, first to use the Tipi as a home.  Here was quiet, peaceful serenity and green, lush grass.  We took a beautifully painted bridge over into the Avalon Field with its alternative music stage, smaller than the main stages and surrounded by workshops and stalls.  As yet nothing happening here, most people could not get onto the farm for another two days.

Passing the flag-embellished Theatre and Cabaret tents at East Holts, the big tops were being filled with benches; in the next field, Butts Circus Arena, street performers would soon roam.  Ever onward, to the Glebeland theatre field with trapeze and high wires dangling over brightly coloured circus trailers. The Rhino Stage, to one side, is a new addition to the festival, its gleaming multi-coloured pyramid of lights blinking to the rhythm of dance music, played at a frightening level.  This would be drowned by the cacophony of surrounding sound once things really got under way.

The last field on this westerly side of the site, at the southerly end of farm, the Acoustic Field rubs fences with the kid’s field and the hot showers. Common Ground, a large café resembling a Swiss chalet was being constructed to one side, with the big blue tent of the Acoustic stage being the only other structure. In the Kids Field, the familiar brightly-painted double-decker bus was already in residence, its occupants building slides, swings, helter-skelter, and other delights for the festival’s energetic children. Over 700 people now work to make this a safe and exciting place for kids, the big top, clowns, story tellers, inflatables, and face painting being but a few of the activities available for the little ones.  We moved back along Stage Road past market I on the left and Goose Hall on the right, toward Meeting point after circumnavigating the whole site, a mere two hours on foot with occasional stops to admire. I cooked a big pot of chilli and rice - fourteen eventually had a portion - well received. I enjoyed playing Mum, and made sure all had a full belly.  The stall began to take shape as rails were erected, clothes hung.  Late in the evening, we all moved up to the Sacred Space to let off fireworks.  Wandering back, the site was even more together than last night - vehicles constantly pulling up to erect stalls or park catering vans in the few remaining spaces.  Music could be heard - drumming, along with a few tentative raves springing up where people were busy roping off tarps over hastily constructed frames.

Tired but contented, I crawled into the van to fall into a deep sleep.  The worst problem being the inevitable overnight trip to the toilets to be made in almost total darkness along rough terrain, 20 metres to the porta-loos.  Tent guy ropes make a nice snare for the ankles in the dark.

Wednesday 24th June - More maniacs join the fun asylum
Woke at 6 and returned to the sleeping bag again to wake at 11.30. Others were already busy hanging, arranging, and Joni was employed to price the wares. I decide to have a shower, at least a stand-up-in-a-basin job in Fiona’s tall tent, welcome under the circumstances.  Bless the boiler for its comfort, it was good to be clean again if only for a while.   Joni, Sue and I busied ourselves making a sign in tie-dye letters - Dyenosaurs, a twenty foot long declaration of our presence, visible for quite a distance.  It went down well, or should I say went up well.  Even the threat of rain can’t dampen our spirits as we boogie around, hanging clothes to the beat of the sound system rigged up from Woody’s van.  At this point, there’s still grass to be danced on.

There were more new arrivals in the shape of the lovely Kim, and her hunk of a husband - another Steve, who to avoid confusion was immediately named Deborah, (the name seemed appropriate).  A car full of nutters if ever I met them, laughter and copious amounts of cannabis resin went with the seemingly endless supply of Stella Artois beer, purchased from an unpublicised source at the back of one of the stalls.

I gratefully accept the loan of a pair of Fiona’s wellingtons even though 2 sizes too big - my blue suede shoes are now soaked by wet grass (yes, there was definitely grass, believe me).  I sat for a while in the big van with the Steves, while they stretch and string specialised conga drums, employing the same methods used for generations in African villages.  We laughed, smoked, and swapped stories.  These are such funny people, especially Carl, who ought to be certified as a danger to people of a nervous disposition.  Nell, resembling a seventies’ folk singer with her red curly hair and ‘John Lennon’ spectacles, is a quiet lady, she came here directly from a remote Tipi valley in Spain, knows nothing of England, and her first experience has to be this! She must be amazed by the goings-on around her. I wander into the stall where the other members sit, nursing cans of Stella, ruminating on the shop’s readiness a full day earlier than expected.  Tomorrow we sell in earnest.  Tonight, strolling up to the top fields was more of a push through crowds of people - some traders, some punters - all revelling in the warming up of the festival.  The weather, however, was having nothing to do with warming up - it remained damp and cool despite being high summer.  The underfoot grew soggy, talk was of last year’s mud and whether it could happen again this year.

Thursday 25 June - Where did all these people come from?
The ground gave way ominously under my boot as I climbed from the van at around 9 am. The sun showed his face really early in the morning but Mr Rain was having a field day (sic) as we opened for trade around 11 am. The proximity of the Cider Bus introduced me to hot, spiced, cider - downright delicious, it made the whole day seem much nicer with one of these for breakfast!  Venturing over to the compound water tap, I spot an unusual trader’s vehicle parked amongst others - a maroon Bentley Mulsanne.  What a cheek, turning up at Glastonbury in a Bentley!  Illustrative of what this festival is for some - an opportunity to make lots of money. It’s enough to make you sick, but without the payments from traders like this, there would be no site facilities at all.

On the stall, a constant stream of humanity wandered past, some came in and bought, others looked and left.  The crowd thickened with every hour.  I made my first sale of Ralph’s wonderful velvet coats, then another of his blanket jackets (that’s the only way to describe them) to a cold, wet man with a beard and dreadlocks.  All day, the stall rocked to a steady thud of dance beat and friendly banter; which increased following the arrival of two more complete clowns, Paul and Ben.  We just kept giggling at every inane thing that occurred, and if there had been any men in white coats they surely would have dragged us off to our personal strait-jackets!  Next to arrive, Ian and Daisy with their two children, swelling the supper line to nineteen.  The old black cook pot was fast filling up,  We were becoming an encampment to be reckoned with!

Wandering up to the top of the site, Sue and I laugh ourselves silly at the sight of a massive milk wagon stuck in the mud right across the Causeway.  Then we enjoyed a cup of chai in a lovely bell tent in the healing field where I came to find a chiropractor, but he had not yet arrived.  My poor old back creaked in frustration as we reclined on carpets and comfortable cushions watching raindrops, chewing delicious home made cake. Shower over, we make our way home again where I cook another communal pot of food, this time, pasta with sauce (and not a scrap left for seconds).  Again, everyone had a full stomach. I was by now sporting two blisters, but no other footwear could combat the muddy conditions, I was stuck in wellies for the next four days.  I patched up with plasters and tried to put on a brave face as rain drove customers under cover.  I later consoled my aching feet with a bowl of hot water and two pints of hot spiced cider - wonderful medicine. I drank the cider, by the way. We closed the stall before midnight and bed was a welcome relief, it had been a very long day.  Intermittent rain continued.  So did the rave music.  Until 7 in the morning (sigh).

Friday 24th June - Day One, the Mud Diaries
Early on parade, we opened at ten I think, people crowd into the stall, Fiona is having none of it, if they want to trample down the only decent floor on the site, they can just bloody well buy something!  She ejects the unwanted and closes the tarpaulin front until the rain stops.  Despite the conditions, people continue to buy the stuff, it’s that good.

Anxious to see old faces, at mid day I went to Goose Hall, (site crew eating place where I worked in 1994) to find Hank, official festival site artist and my old buddy.  He was well, pleased to see me and fun to listen to, still resembling the old man of the sea, painting signs and garbage bins - although now he had a staff of five to oversee.  Sitting under a huge awning in the small, protected compound, we sheltered from yet another heavy downpour as I recognised faces here and there.  Taffy was still on the payroll; once employed to keep the cows off the road where stage equipment comes in at gate 4 - seems Mr Eavis ships the cows out for the month these days, and Taffy was employed elsewhere.  We swap tales while the roof resounds with the roar of rain.  Good to see old friends.  Simon’s wife and family had arrived when I got back, more additions to the staff rota. Very necessary, as shoplifting is a common crime here, lots of eyes are needed to watch the stock.

Early evening I want to see Rolf Harris on the Acoustic stage (it’s a cult thing) Joni also wants to go, so we set off together in rainwear and wellies to queue for half an hour to get into the tent, already packed.  The rain beats unmercifully on the roof as we are swept inside by the rush of people.  Joni can’t see of course, so I chat up a likely looking security guard for her to be lifted up to see the show, and one after another, she is hoisted onto the shoulders of consecutive blokes throughout the performance.  Her view  was better than mine as I strain to catch the merest glimpse of the Australian phenomenon and denizen of the wobble board.  The crowd were lively - lots of Special Brew being drunk next to me - the chap on my left was shouting out that he wanted to have Rolf’s children, and in his opinion the animal’s friend should be prime minister and president all rolled into one.  Everyone sang every word to his songs; after winning their hearts a year ago when opening on the main stage, Rolf had become a powerful cult figure.  I shed a tear when he sang ‘Two Little Boys’, and swayed to the strains of ‘Sun Arise’.  What a great gig.  The whole crowd left smiling, seemingly unaware of the rain.  We skipped and slid in worsening mud, back to the camp, passing people huddled under awnings to escape yet another heavy downpour while listening to a radio report of the England/Colombia game. Our "TV lounge" is full of eagerly cheering staff, urging on their side to no avail with a score line reading 2-0.  There is an air of failure around at this result, and very likely real tears were being shed in front of the big screen in the cinema field.

Joni safely asleep, Sue and I go for a walk to the top fields. Halfway, I demand a respite on the rickety wooden benches outside the Tiny Tea Tent, where I buy an incredibly overpriced cognac coffee and commandeer the cup - I’ll return it next year, the pricey scoundrels.  I fall into conversation with my neighbour, a chap claiming to be a taxi driver who picked up these other two boys in Yeovil town centre, asking to be taken to the to the Tiny Tea Tent at Glastonbury Festival.  So he brought them.  What a laugh - he says he got in over the fence and is on his way back in tomorrow with some good Manali hash.  I tell him to come and find us at the stall, and we part company.  Sue and I fall about laughing, certain we’ve seen the last of him, the nutter.  The things you hear at this festival!  We see Potter’s huge dome to the right in the green futures field, but on investigation, nobody is home.  Phil is part of a visual art and music set-up, working with natural energy sources only.  The weather closes in again and we decide our cosy camp is the best option, squishing back down to Babylon.

Later I accompany Frosty and Denelle (Nell) to the Golden Moon to see Global, with pal Sean on didgeridoo.  What a great gig and an incredibly talented outfit.  I wish I could get a CD but up to now this tight little band have not recorded professionally.  That will change, they were really kicking until their last note. Sue missed the gig but wants to dance, so after midnight we wander about looking for the best option which turns out to be a rave at the local Donut U Like - dance while you chomp.  The music’s good but there’s a lot of drunks about, and we decide to leave for our own rave, pounding out from the roast dinners stall. I think I saw my sleeping bag at about 3 am but can’t be sure, too much revelry will rot your memory cells.

Saturday 25th June - People actually pay to live like this?
Oh my.  Our personal mud lake, stretching ten metres across and twenty five wide, placed strategically in front of the stall, formed quite fast as overnight the site filled with trampling feet.  Rain showers continued all day turning the area to the consistency of tomato soup.  The poor grass, unable to cope with the pressure of 200,000 feet, just sank into the grey sludge.  Thankfully the site’s heavy vehicles are at work delivering bales of straw which we spread eagerly throughout the stall and living quarters.  It helped, at least there’s a kind of carpet for people to walk on and that means customers.

Expecting to work later, I went in search of old friends, living in a double-decker bus parked in the middle of the crafts field.  Ruben looks older, we smoke together before rain forces us to shelter in the communal Tipi where pretty soon my old friend Dominic arrives and we fall over each other in delight.  That’s what this festival is about, a chance to see old friends and touch long-unseen faces.  We laugh and compare notes, I admire the little son who was born the day after I last saw him, almost four years ago. After an hour’s chatting about life in Amsterdam, he promises to call and visit, before my rumbling stomach sends me off again.

Sloshing down the site, umbrella on high, I stop to buy a piece of garlic bread - a quid? Pardon? Lord save us from unscrupulous traders. Grrr!  Walking through the crowd, here and there you hear people shout out their proffered wares - mostly illegal substances of some sort or other.  Venturing down the liquid road of the Mall, I pass "The Dog’s Bollockx" and other strangely named stalls (this one sold clothes) until I reach the quagmire that is The Shambles.  More straw has arrived, thankfully we have connections on the site crew, ensuring a regular supply.  Others are not so fortunate, but the roast dinner stall opposite have devised an ingenious system of wooden pallets and odd bits of wood, making a rickety, sticky walkway, over which a constant stream of punters is edging its way in both directions.  The structure looks to be sinking into the mud along with everything else.  The boys continue to flood the surrounding area with their choice of rave music as the mud down to our lowland location.  Paul, Ben and I can’t help jigging about a bit, for which we receive a warning not to further trample down the precious carpet, all dancing has to stop.  Never mind, we sit and do the hand jive instead - a strange spectacle when you’re sitting in a camping chair trying to keep your feet still.

MUD, MUD, GLORIOUS MUD.............

The boys are hungry so I lead the way up to the green fields for breakfast at the Golden Moon which becomes early dinner as it’s now almost two in the afternoon.  We stagger around, trying to eat soup and veggie pie standing up on the restaurant’s mud floor.  As rain soaks the ground again, a deep rut just outside the door, dug to siphon off rain, has filled with soft mud.  Ben is alert to the prospect of a full frontal flop, or even a rear guard action - flat on your back in sludge - by any passing stranger.  Paul and I almost do it for him with the assistance of a 1-1/2 litre plastic bottle of rum and lemonade, brought along for sustenance on the way to breakfast.  Brunch consumed, I lead the way to the Café Cairo, its opulent Turkish rugs covered in mud. The colourful dome linings are however unblemished, and the hot port with spiced lemon sounds just the ticket to accompany a joint. While we sit, an old friend of Paul’s turns up for a chat, funny how people come out of thin air and walk up to you when you’re at Pilton.  We slurp our way back to the camp, singing (I think) and cavorting.  Ben is still anxious to see a flop, "anyone will do, just please could you fall down in the mud so I can laugh my socks off?"

here's our mud lake

My nephew Milton turned up at the stall at some point in the day, he’d apparently sneaked in with a van of others, and was thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. We smoked a pipe and chatted awhile before he wandered off to catch a band. With no interest in most of the groups on offer, I work the evening shift so that later, Paul, Ben and I can go to see Underworld, the last act on the Other stage.  This trio of electronic geniuses are one of my personal favourites, so I was ecstatic (but not chemically) and danced apace, even ankle deep in mud.  I found the best policy is plant your feet firmly and sway in any direction, anchored in the slime.  My entire body is aching after an hour and a half of excellent entertainment. The rain must have agreed because it stayed dry from the moment Karl Hyde began to sing!  Exhausted, I pretty soon fell asleep, with the assistance of a pint of hot spiced cider.

Sunday 26th June - Mud on a stick! Get it while it’s hot……
Well I certainly won’t be listening to the Archers this morning.  Even if I could get it on the van radio, I wouldn’t be able to hear it over the racket the Rhino boys have provided all night, they gave up at about 9 am.  The small stage twenty yards from the stall, where weather permitting, various types of music have been performed, is now booming out Frank Sinatra’s hits.  Hearing the strains of ‘Strangers In the Night’ I have this unstoppable urge to dance in the mud to the voice of Old Blue Eyes, and so for the next hour, provide a comic spectacle for all to see, doing a cabaret turn to ‘Strangers in the Mud’ and "New York, New York’. Twenty metres away, on the secure walkway of Stage Road, the passing crowd find my act very entertaining, judging by the large round of applause I receive.  I can say that I held up the morning traffic on the second busiest road on the site, that’s some achievement!  Things got even funnier as I tried to enlist the help of passing mad mud people, then Ralph and I performed a great waltz to the theme of Moon River.  Insanity reigned supreme at Dyenosaurs.  To add a spiritual note - a double rainbow formed a perfect arc over our heads.(see photo)

These two absolute idiots came along with golf clubs to play a game in the middle of the mud lake.  What a laugh, using al cola bottle for a tee, watch out - swing - Fore!  The other fool raises the home made flag but the champion fails to make a hole in one and seems to have problems finding his ball in the rough mud, ha ha.

Most of the bands the crew wanted to see were a mystery to me; I just wanted to watch Tony Bennett at 4 PM on the Pyramid.  He was so professional, started precisely on time, had to be dragged off, his band of old geisers incredibly talented; a far cry from some of the other acts performing that day.  The thought of trudging off to see another band was too much for my blisters so I rested, and anyway if I’d gone I’d have missed Robbie Fox turning up.  Friends for years, he and I enjoyed a good yarn and a joint before Dylan came on, prompting both of us to stand for exactly eleven minutes in the mud, unable to ascertain if it was the real Bob Dylan or just a bloke miming to his records.  The big screen wasn’t working and the view was awful so we moved away to the Jazz Stage to see Dr John.  On the way we collected his son George and best friend, a pair of lively 12 year olds, and together we sloshed to the Jazz field’s hostelry.  I persuaded Rob to let the lads have a cider each and we actually managed to sit down to listen to the maestro.  I like this field, it’s the only one where you can see and hear the stage properly from the beer tent!

More delights as our mutual old friend Lee came trudging through the mud towards us, with another lunatic in tow.  Lee and I have not met for 7 years, he was delighted to see me as I was him. He and his buddy were offering piggy-backs through the mud for £1, some folk will buy anything. Laughter and cider are a good mix, except when you are 12 years old.  Rob’s son George and friend were quite tiddly and began to throw mud at each other - time to exercise a bit of parental discipline. Rob rounded them up for the journey home, he’d only brought them in for the day after all.  We hugged and parted just before Herbie Hancock was due on stage, an act I really wanted to see.  I took up position in the arena, a little forward of the mixer desk, to the left of Carl, cavorting with yet another pair of winsome ladies at his side (the man’s sex mad).  Excellent sound from one of the jazz greats.

Some stalls had already begun to pack up as I slid back to help shut the shop in preparation for the last night’s party - an annual, and apparently famous event.  Twenty-three people gathered in the stall, we had to improvise seating as nobody wanted to sit on the sludgy straw floor.  Debbie used his blow-up plastic chair, the fool. It worked though!  The wine and the beer flowed until dawn, at least it was dawn when I walked about the site with Simon and Daisy;  we covered so much ground, I had to go home - the blisters were getting the better of me, likewise Fiona’s thick, strategically holed socks.  I despaired of keeping them from disappearing down the wellies every 5 minutes.  Everything was strangely quiet at 7 am when I fell into the van for a couple of hours much-needed sleep.  Boy, was I smashed.

Monday 27th June - It’s going home, it’s going home, it’s going, Pilton’s going home…..
I slept in, not surprisingly with no more thudding bass to hypnotise me into a coma.  Conditions ridiculous for getting around more than two feet in any direction.  As I surfaced much was happening, customers were buying their last minute bargains, others were packing.  A stream of folk moved now in the other direction - towards the exits.  We slowly began to cover clothes with plastic, stowing everything into Woody’s big van, from whence it had come, 6 days ago - another world away.

As the afternoon wanes, tractors whirl around, hauling vehicles onto solid roads to stand in three mile traffic lines, waiting to get off the site. Trucks often break down in the narrow lanes or slew into any of a dozen ditches, blocking the road to everyone until rescue arrives.  Radio Avalon, the festival’s own station, broadcasts that thanks to a big stage equipment lorry sliding into a ditch, there’s a two-and-a-half hour delay at the nearest gate to the stall, Gate 4. Fortunately the neighbouring donut and tea stand remains, we can have hot tea and egg sandwiches while we wait.  I slop through the bog to deliver tea and donuts to our van, where Sue and Joni sit in the middle of the lake awaiting their slot in the line of vehicles.  I can’t remember seeing the festival site emptied so quickly. There are very few pedestrians left, most walked out overnight, abandoning tents and sodden bedding where they lay.

We swap addresses and numbers; hugs and kisses; smiles and waves. The gang breaks up. Carrying bedrolls and backpacks, they trudge off in the direction of the car parks, dirtier but happier for the experience. It takes us a mere three hours to drive about a mile to the main road, I ride with the Steves to the gate, they have a radio in their van, ha ha.  We drive home in fast time, desperate to sit in a hot bath. What a week, can’t wait for the next one.  Must remember to take my own wellies though!