The Ned Wood Archive

Sam

Up at the Glastonbury sign, the wind’s a bit strong and, to be honest, a little chillier than he’d hoped. At least the rain stopped when he got to the top. There are about thirty hardy folk up here, probably all various crew members with the same idea as him. He’s right at the top of the slope, looking north, back across the whole site. In the far distance, to the right, outside the fence, are tidy rows of glamping tents or fairly tidy rows of cars. Opposite him, he can make out the recycling crew’s site in Tom’s Field, already packed full. He can see the stages and stalls of the various areas laid out in front, the Park just below him, the Dance Village and Peel further away, the other areas sharing their spaces with the lines and the clumps of trees in the woods and the green fields and the river. The coloured striped tents of various venues in the distance to the right. And between all of those, wide patches of empty field that will soon be vibrant with a kaleidoscope of pop up tents and fun hungry people.

Sam mentally goes through identifying all of the stages. Peel, Circus, Acoustic, Avalon. He tries to pick out the railway line. He follows it to the left and spots the tentative streams of pack-laden humanity spilling into the festival from Ped Gate D. It’s started. A steady, relentless flood. Slow but inevitable, like when you help yourself to all the pancakes and pour maple syrup everywhere. It searches out every inch of your plate and explores every inch of your pancakes. Same with the flow of campers. Some move north in the direction of Peel and Silver Hayes, some move south in his direction. Some stop and mill around the gate as if merely getting into the site was their only goal. It’s hypnotic. He watches the currents wash into and across the virgin ground, and, just like flooding waters, find every gap and corner to rush into.

After a while, he needs to warm himself up and ease his bones from sitting on the ground. He stands up and walks back down the hill and across Pennard Hill Ground. All around him is the sound of recently arrived campers working out where and how to put up their tents. There’s one pair with a massive tent. They’ve got more tent than people, so he offers to give them a hand: Sam and one of the pair holding their poles while the other bangs in a few pegs. He finds out that they are the advance party. The other four will be arriving later and, he’s told, “they’ll bloody well owe us for this.” Job done, he leaves them.

It’s a Glastonbury Wednesday ritual of his – walking around helping folk with their tents if needed. It started when he bumped into some folk he knew from work. They’d come most years, so he’d try and find them on the Wednesday morning, to help them pitch up and have a chat. He doesn’t see them so often nowadays. And most of the other campers tend to come in fours or fives or bigger numbers, so he’s not really needed. Just once or twice.

The field fills up rapidly. Some punters arrive knowing exactly where they want to be, others wander around trying to decide on the best spot before realising they need to decide quickly or those best spots and the next best spots will be taken. He can spot the professionals, laying out the tents first then systematically putting them up in tight circles. These folk have been before. Whatever the skill factor, whatever the level of experience, these folk all share the same childish excitement and anticipation. The next few days will be magic. All your Christmases at once.