a (very) short extract from "Left Again at the Womble-The Adventures of a Middle-Aged Dad working at the Glastonbury Festival". This was the moment of arrival...
A
touch of nervous anticipation permeated throughout the coach and the laughter
and general jollity seemed to diminish somewhat. I was not immune from this. Another
point of no return. This was really, really it. I half-remembered that the
roads were quite hilly the closer that you got to the festival site itself, and
as the coach crested hill after hill, passing empty coaches coming away from
the site in the opposite direction with “Glastonbury” as their destination, I
knew that we were nearly there. One final hill and there it was; lying like a vast
twinkling beautiful bedspread of lights in front of me.
Seeing it from that
view, the sheer size of the place was overwhelming, not just for me, but I
think for everyone else on the coach. For a few seconds, not a sound could be
heard apart from the noise of tyres on tarmac and the low, constant thrum of
the engine.
Jaws collectively dropped.
Get/read/see "Left Again at the Womble" here:
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