There’s something strange and magical that happens at Glastonbury. One minute you’re in the queue for halloumi fries, minding your own business, and the next you’re deep in conversation with someone you’ve just met, bonding over your mutual fear of missing a secret Four Tet set.
You might not know their surname (or even their real name) but for one golden weekend, they become your person. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count. From the half-shouted conversations between strangers at the front of the Pyramid stage, to my friend’s thoroughly modern romance with a gorgeous man in a wedding dress. She became his groom for the night; they cruised the festival together in blissful fancy-dress harmony. But by morning he’d gone full runaway bride and vanished. More than 10 years later, she still refers to him as “the one that got away”.
