It was 11pm, Coldplay – who in fairness were great – had just finished their set and it was raining. Again. I was cold, tired, and just wanted my bed.
But rather than closing a door on the world and sinking into clean sheets and a soft mattress, I was trudging along muddy makeshift paths to find our tent. As we searched I remember fearing that I’d fallen victim to the common stories of people having their tents wee’d in – or worse, destroyed and set fire to – by fellow campers enjoying a no-holds-barred weekend. Luckily, when we did locate our temporary lodgings at least an hour later, it was still in one piece.
But I knew I’d still have a sleepless night ahead of me where I’d be woken by the noise of people who sounded like they were enjoying themselves much more than I was. It’s not quite how I had imagined Glastonbury would be. Aged 28, I’d had ‘Glasto’ on my bucket list for some years – especially after other friends had declared how life-changing it was.
So, in 2010, despite not being entirely convinced it would be worth the then £195 ticket price, I joined my uni friends in losing a morning of our lives to desperately refreshing the website as we tried to get hold of tickets for the 2011 event. There was the inevitable rush of excitement when we realised we’d actually got our hands on some of the coveted tickets, albeit slightly marred by the huge dent it was about to make in my bank balance, and the stress we’d gone through trying to get .
