I think it’s fair to say that the Glastonbury festival of fifteen years ago wasn’t one of the best.
After a promising sunny start, the site swiftly degraded into a depressing brown landscape of sticky mud, quagmires, small lakes and boggy marshes. By heck it were grim – and here’s the photo evidence:
Lagoons were created and rivers had to be crossed to purchase essential supplies.
Wellies were at a premium, but given the conditions, slipping into a pair of dry boots was probably a more enjoyable experience than snorting a bumper line of the finest marching powder known to man.
Can you feel the fun?
Much of the festival was spent trudging through deep mud. some were ore prepared than others.
Seating areas became non existent, so you’d find yourself standing all day, unless you were unfortunate enough to overdo the beer/drugs and find yourself falling facedown into a gloppy abyss.
It really wasn’t flip-flop weather.
The never ending muddy trudge.
Some campers were woken up in the middle of the night to find torrents of water flowing down the hillside and into their sleeping bags.
Some tents were nearly entirely submerged, while some portaloos were reportedly upended in the height of the storm, spilling their grisly contents into the brown mix.
This was a bit like watching a lo-fi version of ‘Escape To The Country.’
A hug in the mud.
There’s only one who dives into the mud.
Mud as far as the eye can see.
A gazebo lost the will to live.
Venturing out into the night.
Naturally, the sun came out on the last day.
Despite the grim conditions, I still found plenty of pockets of fun and returned a couple of years later, full of optimism for better things. Sadly, I was proved wrong again.