THE FESTIVAL SURVIVAL GUIDE
Danann Swanton survives the mud of Glastonbury and shares her top tips on how…. Adele’s “Rolling in the deep” echoed from the bottom of my camping bag; after rummaging in the bottomless pit, I found my mobile. Mum. “Did you know Glastonbury is predicted to be the muddiest on record?” she gushed, the moment I answered the call. You don’t say, I thought, as I glanced around at my surroundings. I was in the middle of a bloody swamp. Mudbury had officially started.
I had this ridiculous notion at a young age that one should write a list of things to do before one died. (I was going through a morose, philosophical stage.) As well as learn a foreign language (crossed off the list the moment I learnt to swear vehemently in French) and take time out of each day to stare at the clouds (morose, philosophical and an emo), I had scrawled in barely legible handwriting ‘Go to Glastonbury.’ Standing in the middle of what could only be described as a bog, I cursed that Godforsaken list which, eleven years later, I still felt compelled to follow.
‘Wellie Henge’, a sculpture marking the sacrifices the fallen rubber comrades had made was constructed in the middle of a mud pond, as a reminder and a warning to all those trudging through the conditions to not buy cheap footwear.
The fields of Glastonbury resembled the Somme. Cheap wellies which had leaked or had been abandoned in an attempt to save their owner’s foot from being lost to the sticky mud were deserted as far as the eye could see. ‘Wellie Henge’, a sculpture marking the sacrifices the fallen rubber comrades had made was constructed in the middle of a mud pond, as a reminder and a warning to all those trudging through the conditions to not buy cheap footwear. On the edges of the camping grounds, single-skinned tents were cast aside after one night of downpour as their occupants feared they may drown if they continued to stay in their leaking tents. Bodies, hidden beneath rain macs bought from a near-by stall, moved in groups in-between stages bracing against the wind and rain in an attempt to keep warm.
Watching the quagmire (no giggidy, just supressed sobs) that was Glastonbury unfold, I started thinking about festival ‘must haves’ and what really gets you through- what can potentially be- camping torture. Yes, everyone knows that you need tents and wellies, but how can you be sure that your festival fun will not be affected by the temperamental British weather?
Double-lined tents are imperative; I know jelly baby and cow print tents look cool but the moment the rain starts, that tent will be leaking more than BP’s oil pipe. Get decent wellies; one of the top sellers at Glastonbury this year was anti-fungal cream for all the damp, suffering feet. Delightful. Get a decent sleeping bag and ventilation mats or a blow-up mattress; you lose body heat through the ground and there is nothing more miserable than having your cosy warm beer jacket stolen from you.
Toilet paper is gold dust; bring enough of it and who knows what you can barter it for.
Save your pennies by bringing your own alcohol but not in glass bottles; decant anything banned by the particular festival you are attending to avoid it being confiscated (check out your festival website for more details). Toothpaste, baby wipes and deodorant, are the essentials; do not go anywhere without these bad boys as five days can be a long time to go without showering or normal hygiene. Toilet paper is gold dust; bring enough of it and who knows what you can barter it for. Bring plenty of money (and keep it well hidden); Glastonbury provided enough food stalls for every diet and although many festivals will just have the standard burger vans, it will still beat lugging hundreds of pot noodles, stoves and kettles through your campsite. Bring a few breakfast bars to give you enough energy to drag yourself from your tent to the closest breakfast bar and then spoil yourself with the catering provided. Leave all valuables at home; swap your iPhone/iPod for your old Nokia (playing snake again will be a luxury) and cassette player as, unfortunately, crime can happen so do not be a victim.
Most importantly, choose the group you festival with wisely. These are the people who will pull your wellie out of the mud for you after you accidentally got your boot stuck and the only way to salvage the situation was to leave it behind and continue to walk through the squelch with one wellie on and a ski sock (with a hole in may I add). These are the people who, when the weather turns glorious (which it will- it is a condition of all festivals. Tease us for a few days with shoddy storms, then bring out the rays), they will love you despite the five day smell which lingers around you (no amount of baby wipes or deodorant can properly hide the smell). These are the people who will justify wearing ski gear, a cow boy hat and bright red lipstick whilst covered in muck by naming the look ‘festival chic’. These are the people who will escort you to the portaloos, despite the stench, just because you are too scared to face the grubbiness alone and cannot pee behind a bush due to stage fright.
Finally, enjoy it; you are living life on the edge, you are working on that list of things to do. Sure, there are people out there who do amazingly dangerous things such as wrestle with wild animals, (do not think of Steve Irwin as he is not the best example, we all know how that turned out.) But sod them. Ladies and gents, if you make it through Mudbury or similar festivals and survive, you are made of tough stuff. You are the true heroes. Campers, I salute you!
