I wasn’t conceived at Glastonbury, but for the first decade of my life I may as well have been. I was, in many respects, a Glastonbury baby.
Born and raised in nearby Bristol, I first visited in 1994, aged two with potty in hand, and attended for the five years that followed.
I have not been back since. But even if Glastonbury has changed hugely in the decades in between, it still exists as a joyous, creative paradise of jugglers, acrobats and enormous fire-breathing spiders for those lucky enough to experience it as a child.
Enough to grant it an almost mythical hold over many of the children who have passed through over the years, like a soothing imprint on the soul.
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