40 years of Worthy Farm (blah, blah)

Ok, now I'm going to jump on the 40th anniversary band-wagon, because I WAS THERE - along with a handful of other people - most of whom I knew personally and was on 1st name terms with.  Also I am probably one of only about 7,000 people who is a close neighbor and friends with the man who played the first note at the first festival (Andy Davis of Stackridge) and the first D.J. who played the first set ('Mad' Mick Ringham).  Both Andy and Mick always hurridly cross the road when they see me coming, because they just cannot bear the emotion that trawling through the shared experiences of all the highs and lows of 40 years ago brings about, and I cannot say that I blame them.  No one should have to go through that on a daily basis, especially for 38 years.

I borrowed a friend's 500 cc motorcycle and made my way through Surrey, Hampshire, Buckinghamshire and Somerset (I got lost) and soon found myself on the outskirts of Wells, looking for signs to Glastonbury.  After a couple of hours, I found myself on the outskirts of Glastonbury, looking for signs to Pilton, but the sparcity of Pilton signage did not matter, because I soon found myself in a throng of God's children, all trying to find their way 'back to the garden' - they were golden, they were stardust, and you couldn't miss them because they all had huge rucksacks with saucepans tied to them.

I arrived at the entrance to the farm which the police called 'Check-point Charlie' and bribed one of the officers to let me take the bike on site - can you imagine that these days???

The scene which I beheld when I arrived was like something form Hell - tripped out hippies wandering from tent to tent, naked revellers carrying guitars without cases, smoke rising from vegetarian cafes, vicars wandering around trying to convert druggies - and it was all FREE!

I quickly found a large, brown paper bag which were being given away as sleeping bags, climbed into it and curled up at the foot of the main stage just as the main act began.  I managed to sleep right through it, so I cannot give you any idea of the music, save that it was sort of Heavy Metal, and involved a load of rubber chickens exploding on stage at the beginning of the set.

I arose next morning to find the band had gone, and only a few stragglers were wandering around in the carnage which looked like a scene from WW1, wisps of smoke coming through the vents in ragged tents.

That's it really, because I got back on the bike and went home just after dawn.  I think I captured the general feel though, and I really DO tell my grandchildren about it these days, so long as they don't see me first.