foul odours, flooded tents and worse

‘My tent had been washed away overnight’

Dan Silver, Telegraph general manager, Puzzles and Games

As a punk kid operating at the heavier end of the UK music press spectrum I’d managed to avoid going to Glastonbury for a decade or so, but that glorious run came to a grim and gloopy end in 2005 following my appointment as Associate Editor of NME. 

My disdain for the festival was somewhat at odds with my new Glasto-crazed colleagues, who set off for Somerset mob-handed in the middle of the week in a specially chartered coach. One of them even volunteered to put up a tent for me. Determined to spend as little time on site as possible, I instead accepted the offer of a crack-of-dawn-ride from a friend on the Friday morning. 

After dozing off in the passenger seat of his car somewhere in sunny south London, I was woken by a thunderstorm a few miles outside of Yeovil, raindrops bouncing off the car bonnet like miniature mortar shells. Even this early Worthy Farm already resembled a warzone, its tractors press-ganged into rescuing cars stranded in the endless fields of mud.

Wary of Glastonbury’s hard-earned reputation for things like trench foot, I’d come prepared with a full complement of wet weather clothing. By contrast, my companion’s had brought a single change of shorts and an old tent with a hole in it. Dropping me off in what passed for a car park, he declared he was just popping into town to top up his mobile phone credit, which he would use to call me later that day. When he eventually did it was from Streatham, to where he’d immediately returned to watch the festival from the comfort of his front room.

Lost and alone, I dejectedly made my way through the outer fields in search of the backstage camping area, gingerly traversing literal rivers of what I dearly hoped was mud, the vibe more middle earth refugee camp than middle-class retreat. When I eventually found my NME colleagues they revealed my tent had washed away overnight. 

I’d love to say what ensued was a life-changing experience in which I found true enlightenment in the midst of a stone circle but in truth my most vivid memories are the mud, being told to “f–k” off by my then MP George Galloway, who was keeping a typically low profile one of the the VIP bars, and helping to push author Caitlin Moran’s camper van out of a backstage bog.

My one moment of genuine transcendence occurred, against all of the odds, during Coldplay’s Friday night headline slot on the Pyramid Stage. Tired and emotional but mercifully dry, thanks to my privileged and sheltered vantage point on the mixing desk podium, I watched Chris Martin’s career-making star turn with an increasing sense of awe – which may or may not have had something to do with the funny-looking pill I was given shortly before the start of their set. 

Come to think of it, that might also explain the rapturous review I wrote immediately afterwards, and which was preserved for all eternity on the front cover of the NME a few days later. Truly you’d struggle to find either a more positive Coldplay write-up published before or since, or a more on-the-nose advertisement for not doing drugs. Strangely I haven’t felt the urge to return to Glastonbury since. 

‘I watched Mumford and Sons on my own in tears’

Cara McGoogan, Telegraph narrative audio journalist

It was Glastonbury 2011. I had plans to see bands that were personally historic. U2 on the Friday night, because my parents met at a U2 gig in Paris back in 1989. Morrissey for my younger self who was still very much present. And City and Colour instead of Beyoncé just to be different. It started to go wrong on Friday; the day the rains came down. Camped atop a hill by the Pyramid stage we were at least free from a mud bath, even if our tent was at a right angle. We decided the safest thing was to ‘watch’ U2 from the safety of our tents in the campsite. Not quite the experience my parents had lived. 

By Saturday, the festival was a thick soup but I was excited for Morrissey. Alas, there was a clash. My boyfriend at the time wanted to see Mumford and Sons. We compromised – we would see half of Morrissey then speed around to the Other stage for the second half of Mumford. But when the time came I didn’t want to leave just as Morrissey was getting going. We ended up having a big argument on the walk, while sucking our wellies out of knee deep mud. A girl fell over. Then we got split up. I ended up watching Mumford and Sons on my own in tears. 

‘Every time I fell asleep my feet splashed into cold water’

Christopher Howse, Telegraph Letters editor

I thought at about 4am that now the music had subsided enough no longer to reverberate in my ribcage, I would be able to enjoy some sleep. I’d been sent by the Telegraph in a jocular way to cover Glastonbury in the rainy June of 2007. The joke was principally on me, though I tried to share it with readers. I pitched my little tent with its built-in groundsheet on a sloping field. The door-zip did not keep out all the heavy rain, but I settled down in the early hours on the upper reaches of the groundsheet. It was all right while I held on, but whenever sleep overcame me, I slipped down and my feet splashed into the surprisingly cold water. Da capo. My consolation next day would be to hear Arcade Fire, my current enthusiasm. But they were on when it was time for me to do some audio on how much I was enjoying myself. I just caught their last number: Wake Up.