I remember my first visit to Glastonbury festival like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 1999, I was with six very excitable, bucket hat-wearing, student mates. We pitched our cheap tents underneath a pylon between the Pyramid Stage and the Guardian tent, and the weekend was filled with non-stop laughs, joyful bewilderment and music from the likes of Lenny Kravitz, Manic Street Preachers, Hole and Gomez.
There have been a further 18 pilgrimages to Worthy Farm since. I’ve done it in many different formations – with that same group of university friends, with just my boyfriend, taken my younger sister on her inaugural visit, and even camped out in a group of 20 – and each experience has been magical in its own way.
