Because I never write about Glastonbury

In all the time I’ve been going, I don’t think I’ve ever written about Glastonbury.
Even talking about it, I am conscious of not conveying how it feels, what it’s like, how it’s shaped my life, my attitude and my values. And I may fail here as well. But that’s no reason not to try.

Here are the consistencies:

• I have always bought a ticket – I just felt that it was such a privilege to be there and if Eavis was kind enough to create it, the least I could do was pay my way. Student, unemployed and working – always paid.
• I have always agreed with Eavis’s verdict at the end of every festival – best festival ever. The most recent is always the best. You want to yearn for the good old days, then stay away and nostalge all you like.

The sheer force of the creativity and dedication that hundreds, even thousands, of people bring to the festival awes and humbles me. Wicker sculptures, living arches, wooden scorpions, stone dragons, steampunk scrap metal edifices belching flame, every rubbish bin painted, silken flags, beaches, gardens, bike-powered mobile stages, glow-lit pools. Are only some. This year. Because every year brings new evolutions, new imaginations, new artisans motivated and inspired by past festivals and current interests. It floods me with serotonin and oxytocin.

It is the festival of the Moment. Always personal, but also often shared, sometimes communal. This year I was blessed with many.

( Cut for length. It appears I witter rather... )