This summer, for the first time in three, the Glastonbury Festival returned, the curse of covid bringing about its cancellation in 2020 and ’21. Most people welcomed the return of this world-famous, three-day feast of music, although, I believe, some local folk would be glad to see the back of it as what it often means to them is congested roads, pollution and anti-social – even criminal – behaviour.

I am not without sympathy for this view. For this is a relatively sparsely populated area of rural Somerset with an infrastructure more suited to the accommodation of cows and sheep than of vast crowds of revellers and pleasure seekers. Yet for a few days in most years since the 1970s, land owned by Michael Eavis – the pleasingly named ‘Worthy Farm’ – has been transformed into possibly the most congested square mile on Earth, with a quarter of a million and more travelling not just from all corners of Britain, but from the far reaches of the globe, to attend this, the planet’s biggest and most well known music extravaganza.

In forcing the axing of this unique jamboree, coronavirus achieved that which the erratic British weather has never been able to do, for over the decades the music has valiantly ‘played on’ in the face of all that a British summer can throw at it. There have been heatwaves and droughts which have made the event a challenge to even the most enthusiastic sun-worshippers, whilst gales and excessive rain have at times turned Worthy Farm into a large muddy paddy field with tents underwater and vehicles marooned in car parks and unreachable without a decent pair of waders. Indeed, just about every climate condition has beset Glastonbury except for snow, ice and earthquakes.

Perhaps, though, the challenge that this peerless event represents adds to its allure; for embedded in our national psyche is the notion that there is ‘no gain without pain’. Indeed, just reaching this obscure location in the far south west (use of a sat-nav very desirable) is an achievement in itself. Add to this facilities and home comforts which are, to put it kindly, not of 5 star standards, sleepless nights in flimsy tents and highly priced fast foods and alcohol and the ‘pain’ element can quickly earn top billing. But undeterred, folk still come in their multiple thousands determined to have a good time regardless and to create those ‘I was there’ memories which last a lifetime. Having said all this, it is time, I feel, for a confession – my description of, and views on this gala, are all second hand, all gained from observing television coverage and listening to the chatter of those who have attended; for in reality I have never been to this famed fiesta or to any other musical ‘rave’. Partly this is because I am not a lover of modern pop music; indeed, there have been no performers I have really appreciated since The Beatles and Roy Orbison; plus I do not enjoy being part of a large crowd; why, I know not. There is an exception to this mind you and that is when the folk by whom one is surrounded are clothed in green scarves and shirts with the Mayflower crest proudly emblazoned upon them, all of us occupying the temple that is Home Park, Plymouth.

Also, even if I were inclined to join the happy hordes swaying in front of the state of the art stages on this massive site, I would feel now that I am too old – although when watching TV it was reassuring to see a number of folk, long past youth, with the tastes, mindset and determination to ignore the years and still enjoy themselves. With this in mind, perhaps I should have made an attempt to attend as the star of the entire event was a gent only six months younger than myself, that legendary Beatle Sir Paul McCartney; I watched him on television – still brilliant.

There is much legend, perhaps myth, surrounding the town of Glastonbury. It is said that Joseph of Arimathea, who buried the body of Jesus Christ in his own family tomb, once visited this small town. On arriving, tired from the journey, he planted his staff into the ground on the famous tor and rested. By morning the walking aid had rooted and become a thorn tree. This seems a somewhat unlikely tale – but who knows. One thing for certain, though, is that due to the acumen and foresight of the entrepreneurial Mr Eavis, this rural and traditional westcountry market town is thrust onto the world stage for one week every year – and whilst it clearly causes upheaval in the area, it must be a major boost to the local economy; all worth putting up with (one would feel) for just seven days. For the rest of the year, in the words of the hymn, ‘Sheep (and cows) may safely graze’.