It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been to Glastonbury what makes it so special, yet here I sit, back at home and wrapped in the realms of reality trying to do just that.
I could say, ‘it’s the atmosphere that makes it special,’ or I might say ‘it’s the reputation it’s gained,’ or ‘the sun kissed rolling Somerset hills,’ but no matter what reason I come up with, I know I’ll undersell it.
A friend of mine described it as the festival that’s built by people who actually care. All over the country, festivals are becoming big business. Get more than 50,000 people into a field and you’re sure to make big money, but can we call the process of shipping people in, draining them of cash, and then shipping them out, a festival? Spend a week stumbling through the sites of Glastonbury and you’ll be as sure as I am; the answer to that question is no.
Waking up in a hot tent has never been a pleasant experience, there’s no escape from the heat and sweat hell bent on attaching itself to your lower back and face. If you want the rainbow, you’ve got to put up with the rain as Dolly Parton once said. Not so at Glastonbury. I’d heard there was a sauna and a shower that makes you feel magical. It’s only at a festival as welcoming as Glastonbury that I would consider getting my tackle out in the company of strangers. While the sound of wind chimes soothed my soul I spotted a peaceful hippy lounging next to a huge tipi with a fire blazing inside. “Can I use the sauna?” I whispered. “Sure you can, just get changed in here and then head through”.
I clambered under the silk laden tipi door into a foreign but welcoming world of nakedness and nature. It was like I’d just crawled through a tunnel into Narnia. I spotted a stocky man sporting a more than decent sized cock sprawled out on the grass outside what I assumed was the sauna. In any other world, this would have been weird, but at Glastonbury I threw caution to the wind and jumped in at the deep end. With the whipping flames of the tipi fire offering pleasant and peaceful encouragement I stripped down to my boxers, skin hugging neon yellow boxers to be precise.
I skimped across the grass towards the sprawled out man and opened the ornate hobbit sized door into the round organic sauna. In the loins of the sauna I was hugged into a sweat by the humid atmosphere and waited for my eyes to adjust to the impenetrable dark. “There’s space over here” someone said, “but… I can’t see” I replied. As my eyes adjusted I realised I was being guided to my seat by a naked 40 something male, “so is it rock out with your cocks out in here?” I uttered. “Seems to be the way…” he replied.
So there I was, at the foot of a hill in Somerset, in the company of both men and women I’d never met, stark bollock naked and sweating like the world was ending. The conversation flowed about who people wanted to see over the weekend, how wonderful the festival was, how the world would be a better place if only everyone had been to Glastonbury and how communities like this were springing up all over the country. As I sat in that dark and hot tent, I knew that outside there were people sharing similarly wonderful moments, but at that time I was soaking up my own moment. Within minitues I’d totally lost interest in my fear of being naked, it had been replaced with a genuine kindred for my fellow Glastonbury goers. I got so relaxed in there that strolling out into the unforgiving light completely starkers didn’t even fill me with anticipation, nor did it even raise an eyebrow. It just was. I thought nothing of showering with two European girls and our stocky cock heavy chap from earlier.
Something shifted in me while I was in that sauna. Contrary to popular belief, people are actually a wonderful bunch. Give them a tipi, a sauna and a shower, and they’ll just hang out naked.
If I were to try communicate the wonder of Glastonbury, I would say it’s magical moments like these stacked back to back for five days interrupted only by cider, spliffs, and the best bands in the world.
Take me back. The real world laughs at my cock.
