Reading James Delingpole’s fine piece about ‘the best music festival in the universe’ brought it all flooding back. Twenty years ago, buoyed by rave reviews such as James’s, I headed for Glastonbury full of starry-eyed hope and excitement. What followed were three days of unremitting misery, memories of which haunt me to this day. Torrential rain, swamp-like conditions, a pathetically inadequate tent, perpetually damp clothes, greasy burgers of dubious provenance, some ‘colourful’, frankly scary characters and unspeakable loos all conspired to make it an experience I vowed never to repeat. Even watching the Cure against a backdrop of forked lighting-scarred skies failed to numb the pain.
Fast-forward to 2006, when I finally caved in and agreed to attend the Green Man festival, then in its fourth year. What a difference two decades makes: not a dog on a string or a fire made of plastic cider bottles in sight. Think instead organic food stalls, Cath Kidston tents, eco-toddlers, girls in floaty dresses and wellingtons, and pristine loos. I didn’t even spot any of those annoying, self-consciously wacky jester’s hats so beloved of festival-goers.
This year I may even make it to the End of the Road festival, lured by the cracking combination of the Broken Family Band, King Creosote and Herman Dune, and the fact that it’s only in Dorset so still within striking distance of home should my Cath Kidston tent spring a leak.
The Observer recently ran a useful guide to smaller festivals, which includes End of the Road.
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