Glastonbury Rocks!
Gillian Thornton celebrates 50 fabulous years of Britain’s most famous music festival.
GLASTONBURY. A name that conjures up so many images to generations of music lovers. Big-name bands and emerging talent; campsite camaraderie and appreciative audiences; blazing sun, torrential rain and acres of sticky, bootsucking mud.
What began as a low-key two-day festival in 1970 with just 1,500 fans has morphed over the years into a five-day extravaganza with a weekend audience of 135,000.
Headline acts across the decades have included the Who and the Rolling Stones, Rod Stewart, Bob Dylan and Kylie. In 2019, tickets sold out in just 36 minutes.
The 2020 festival this June is, of course, now cancelled, sadly.
It promised to be something even more special as Glastonbury celebrated its half century. Headliners were to include Sir Paul McCartney, Taylor Swift and Diana Ross, and tickets sold out last October.
Modern Glastonbury moves on well-oiled wheels, a highlight of the summer music calendar for everyone from students to grandparents.
The single stage has been replaced by multiple music venues, each with its own special atmosphere, and many of those early supporters now return with their own families.
I never made it to Worthy Farm myself, but I’ve loved hearing stories from friends who did, as I looked back at the festival’s history.
The first festival took place at Pilton in Somerset on September 19, 1970, the day after Jimi Hendrix died. The brainchild of dairy farmer Michael Eavis, it was inspired by the Blues Festival at the Bath & West Showground.
Among the acts were Marc Bolan, Stackridge and Al Stewart. The ticket price? Just £1 including free milk from the farm.
The following year, the festival moved to the time of the Summer Solstice and became the Glastonbury Fair, echoing the mediaeval tradition of music, dance and entertainment.
Amongst the acts were folk-rock band Fairport Convention, who still tour today and stage their own festival, Fairport’s Cropredy Convention, every August in Oxfordshire.
In 1981 the Fair became the Glastonbury Festival, raising around £20,000 for the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament.
Hundreds of thousands of pounds have been raised in the decades since for a broad range of charities.
My friend Tim remembers “a real hippy vibe in 1981 and antinuclear signs everywhere. The theme was one of promoting peace and the mood was very mellow!”
1979: the festival builds in special entertainment for children and launches the Children’s World charity, which still works in special schools throughout Somerset and Avon.
1983: strict rules are imposed about access roads, water supply and hygiene, with a crowd limit of 30,000.
1997: the BBC begins live broadcasts.
2003: fastest-selling Glastonbury Festival so far with tickets sold out in under 24 hours. Over £1 million is paid to local groups and charities including Greenpeace, Oxfam and WaterAid.
2010: Glastonbury celebrates its 40th anniversary with an exhibition of classic photographs from across the decades by local Somerset photographers.
2013: after a fallow year in 2012 with no festival taking place, huge improvements are seen in facilities all over Worthy Farm. Conditions are now far removed from the basic amenities of the early years.
2015: His Holiness the Dalai Lama makes a surprise appearance on the legendary Pyramid Stage in the middle of Patti Smith’s set, alongside a cake to celebrate his eightieth birthday.
2019: Sir David Attenborough reinforces his commitment to climate change action from the Pyramid Stage.
I’M in a shop I wouldn’t normally be in and I’m looking for a jumper. It’s the sort of place where ladies buy sensible trousers and men buy sweaters for the golf course.
There is a rack of chiffony scarves near the check-out and those sort of gift things that you always think you’ll use but never do, like hand-embellished photo frames.
I’m on a weekend writing retreat at Hadley Hall. It’s something I’ve looked forward to all year.
I’ve never been on a writing retreat before but I’m hoping it will be something like a hippy commune with lectures and workshops.
Not that I’m old enough to have been in a hippy commune, but they sounded like fun, all flared jeans and vegetarian stew.
I’ve been skirting around the edges of my writing for years but all I’ve managed are some short stories, a poem or two and half a novel.
The thing about being a writer is that unless you’re Danielle Steel, you usually have to do other things to make a living.
Look at Anthony Trollope. He managed to write all those huge thick novels and work for the post office.
I work as an office administrator for a university. I enjoy my job and I get on with my colleagues, apart from the new head of department, but that’s a whole other story.
Over the past few months, there have been other things as well.
Uncle Harry (my mum’s last remaining sibling) has not been too well, and as he never married, I’m his carer.
This was fine until recently, when Uncle Harry had a fall, which meant a long spell in hospital and the realisation that he could not go on living independently in a great big barn of a house.
So months of dealing with doctors and housing officers and, of course, with Uncle Harry, ensued.
Then there was clearing out the great big barn of a house, getting an estate agent and all the rest of that.
In fact, it was dear Uncle Harry who suggested that I book on to this writing retreat.
As always, he heard about it from someone at the newspaper.
Uncle Harry was in newspapers all his life, working as a compositor and later a sub-editor, and is the only member of my family who doesn’t think I’m mad for tapping away at a laptop at the weekend.
But back to the jumper. It’s gone eight by the time
I arrive at Hadley Hall on the Friday night, by train and then a short taxi ride.
Driving long distances on my own only seems to raise my stress levels these days, especially after a busy working week, so I’ve left the car at home.
My room is a tiny single at the top of the house. I think it must have belonged to the lowliest maid and there is definitely a chill in the air.
I think I was expecting a rather plush country house hotel but Hadley Hall is – well, if you’ve read “Jane Eyre” it’s like the small country manor that Rochester goes to after all the shenanigans at
Thornfield Hall.
It’s clean and homely but certainly not the last word in luxury. Plus it’s wetter than I thought it would be.
I root through my suitcase. I’ve remembered to pack the floaty shirtwaister dress I picked up in a charity shop for a fiver and a cardigan that has more style than substance. I’ve also brought good boots for walking around the grounds.
So why didn’t I think to bring a jumper?
I do what I always do in such circumstances. I go in search of a cup of tea.
An artist called Daphne is in the kitchen and shows me where everything is.
“I’ve never been here before,” I say.
“Well, it’s more homely than plush, but then again, it’s supported by a charity, to help out writers and artists who can’t afford the fees,” Daphne says.
“The grounds are lovely if the rain would hold off. What workshop are you doing tomorrow?”
“Oh, Elfrida Mountjoy’s novel-writing one,” I say. “I did a dissertation on her first novel when I was at university donkey’s years ago. I’m really looking forward to meeting her.”
We chat for a while over tea and I feel myself start to thaw out.
“I’m a textile artist. I’m in one of the converted barns down near the lake,” Daphne says, donning her coat, scarf and beanie hat.
“You’re more prepared than me,” I say, telling her about the forgotten jumper.
“I’m going into town first thing tomorrow, as I’ve run out of silver thread and they have one of those artisan coffee and craft places.
“You might be able to pick something up there. I’ll give you a lift, if you like.”
“Oh, that would be great, thanks,” I say, starting to feel more at home. We arrange a time and, satisfied that I’ll sleep like a log after my epic journey, I carry my tea carefully upstairs. There are no kettles in the rooms.
****
At 2.30 a.m., I’m wide awake, frozen to my core. The plug-in radiator doesn’t seem to be working.
As quietly as I can (what I lack in height, my mother used to say, I make up for in noise), I search the wardrobe.
There is only an assortment of empty coat hangers and a towel that is as hard as a board. I put on socks and my flimsy cardigan and climb back into bed.
All sorts of thoughts are chasing each other. Will Uncle Harry be all right?
He does have carers coming in every morning, but he can get in a muddle over things like phone calls from sales folk.
And what about that e-mail I forgot to send at work – should I text them about it? Why hadn’t I thought to bring my sloppy Joe jumper?
I had hoped that this weekend would restore my writer’s equilibrium, that
I’d be able to get going with the novel that had stalled around the time the new head of department took over and Uncle Harry had his fall.
The novel is about a woman whose husband is having an affair, but it’s got stuck just before the part where she finds out.
****
Daphne is obviously a morning person, as her make-up is beautifully applied, her jeans hug her willowy frame and she is wearing an Aran jumper.
I finally got to sleep about 5.30 and subsequently just about managed to pull on some clothes. The first lecture is at 10.00 but it’s only
8.45, so I don’t feel too stressed.
“Thanks for this,” I say, climbing into Daphne’s car.
“No problem,” she says, and as the countryside whizzes by, I start telling her how excited I am about Elfrida’s lecture and workshop.
“I’ve started writing a novel but I’ve got a bit stuck,” I say.
“Well, I’m the same with my textiles,” Daphne assures me, as she expertly pulls into a parking space.
“I seem to be producing cushion covers and wall hangings just because they sell well at craft fairs, but I’d love to do something different.
“Right, I’m going to the craft shop. Meet you back here in half an hour?”
“Sure, thanks, Daphne,” I say, thinking that will be more than enough time to buy a jumper.
I think back for a moment to my student days, when I thought I was the bee’s knees because I had a portable typewriter. I wanted desperately to be a writer, but as soon as I graduated, the need to be out earning overtook everything else.
The first shop sells gifts hand-made by local craft artists. There are silver brooches in Celtic designs and hand-knitted jumpers, none for less than £200.
There is another shop selling crystals and wind chimes.
As the minutes are ticking away, I have to give in and go into the aforementioned posh boutique. I explain my dilemma to the sales assistant and admit that I’m on a budget.
I expect the woman to snort, you know, like the snooty store owners on Rodeo Drive in “Pretty Woman”, but she doesn’t.
“Why don’t you have a look in that big basket at the back? That’s our sale stock and you might find something in there.”
A well-dressed couple come in and the lady goes to serve them.
The basket has all sorts of treasures but none of them in my size. Then I think back to my freezing night and pick a jade green jumper two sizes too big with a strange design of butterflies. I check the label: 70 per cent off.
With the sleeves rolled up, the jumper is not bad at all. I possibly look like I’m wearing a fabric sample for curtains, but as I’m now warm, I don’t care.
****
I grab a cup of tea and shortbread, which is on a table at the rear of the hall when we get back, feeling more able to face the day. I am so excited about meeting the novelist.
However, the woman who gets up to speak looks
I had hoped this weekend would restore my writer’s equilibrium
nothing like the author photograph of a glamorous, mysterious lady novelist.
Elfrida is wearing jeans and a T-shirt that is so old it’s the sort of thing I’d wear when painting the spare room.
She does not thank the kindly administrator who introduces her, nor does she thank anyone for coming. Shuffling her papers, Elfrida starts reading a chapter from her new novel.
It seems to be one of those dystopian efforts; you know, those grim stories where the internet has failed and everyone is living in tents.
I steal a glance around me. Everyone else is diligently taking notes.
Maybe it’s just me, I think, sipping the last of my tea. Uncle Harry always said that I was not good at functioning if I hadn’t got enough sleep.
The lecture is much shorter than I thought it would be. They open the floor for questions at the end. I pluck up my courage and ask Elfrida how she thinks her books have changed over the years.
“That is for my readers to assess,” she says airily. “Next question.”
Someone else asks about Elfrida’s literary heroes and she is equally snappy in her
response to the poor questioner.
However, this does not take away the sting of Elfrida’s rather dismissive remark. I’m cross at having paid all this money to hear from a woman who, until half an hour ago, was my literary heroine.
I am also booked to attend the novel-writing workshop with Elfrida, but I really do not wish to go now. And I’m darned if I’m going to stand in the long queue that is forming to buy a copy of her latest book.
I long, suddenly, fiercely, for the uncle Harry of a few years ago, who would have sat me down with a strong cup of tea and told me I should not let other people’s rudeness affect my day.
****
The rain is still on, so there will be no exploring the grounds. I weave through the book-signing queue and go out into the lobby, in search of more tea.
There’s a big board listing the events of the day. As well as the novelwriting lecture and workshop with Elfrida, there is a lecture on the history of textiles, followed by a workshop. That must be where Daphne is.
It’s as if Uncle Harry is tapping me on the shoulder. Go on, girl, give it a go. All they can do is throw you out.
Surely no-one would mind if I sneaked in for the last fifteen minutes? Well, I think it’s either that or have my poor fledgling chapters fall under the scrutiny of Elfrida’s cutting remarks.
Without giving myself time to think, I go up the stairs and slip into the back of the room.
The lecturer is a tall woman with cheekbones like Audrey Hepburn who is wearing a dress like the pretty ones I have just seen in the little boutique. I mouth, “Sorry” as I slip into a chair at the back, not as quietly as I might have hoped. However, the lecturer’s smile is warm.
“I’m just explaining about how women made quilts and rag rugs out of necessity because they couldn’t pop in the car and pick up a fleece blanket at
I’m rather cross, having paid all this money
the supermarket.”
As I listen to tales of how those intrepid quilt makers would gather up scraps from whatever they had to hand, I find myself writing down the names of the patchwork patterns: Irish Chain, Drunkard’s Path, Jacob’s Ladder, Shoo Fly.
I find myself thinking that there is a story or a poem in each of these beautiful names.
The lecturer is warm and friendly when ladies who know a lot more about sewing than I do ask their questions.
Suddenly I have one of those moments that I will remember for a long time, like the moment I realised I wanted to be a writer, even if it meant I would never be wealthy. You know, one of those moments when something chimes or shifts.
Taking my courage in my hands, I ask a question.
“What if you’re no good at sewing? I’m incapable of following a dressmaking pattern and can’t sew a straight seam to save my life.”
“I wouldn’t let that stop you,” the lecturer says. “If you really want to create something, you’ll find your own path to it.
“Those ladies in cottages or crowded boarding houses were not necessarily expert seamstresses. Plus, they didn’t have access to a fabric store or a quilter’s ruler!”
****
Lunch is in a big converted conservatory. Veggie broth, sandwiches and cheesecake help to fuel all these random ideas that are suddenly flying into my head.
I listen as everyone chats about their various projects: someone is “reinventing embroidery”; another woman is researching the history of beadwork.
I’m wondering if I can manage another slice of cheesecake when Daphne speaks.
“Why don’t you come to the textile art workshop?”
“I’m booked on the novel-writing course, and it’s not due to finish until five. And weren’t you meant to have brought your own materials?” I say.
I look across at the table where the novel writers are huddled, shuffling pages of their manuscripts. Elfrida is sitting slightly apart from them and I haven’t noticed any gales of laughter coming from the group.
I think of the shirtwaister dress that I picked up in a charity shop for a fiver, lying unworn in my holdall upstairs.
“I think I might have something after all,” I say.
****
I get back to my room at midnight. The housekeeper has found me a working heater and with my jumper (and I did have a tiny glass of wine – I was on the cooking roster and I was basting chicken half the evening), I feel positively cosy.
I’ve made a host of new friends. Daphne has introduced me to her textile artist pals and e-mail addresses have been exchanged as some folk are not staying till tomorrow.
The textile workshop was a blast. Everyone else was stitching intricate wall hangings or putting the finishing touches to beautiful quilts.
However, the group is warm and supportive. Someone gives me a bit of ribbon, and I acquire sequins, too.
I spent the afternoon sewing a simple drawstring bag, using my charity shop dress for fabric, and managed to appliqué on for Laura to the front, although the L is rather wonky. But still.
I get to sleep right away and in the morning, wearing my jumper over my pyjamas, I make myself a cup of tea and, in the kitchen, start to write about the bravery of the women who made patchwork quilts by candlelight to keep their families warm.
****
Uncle Harry shows me how to work the espresso machine in his new flat.
“Sounds like you had a fabulous time,” he says, as I fill him in on Hadley Hall. “Why don’t you send some of your stuff to the local paper?”
I had never written for the paper before as they don’t publish fiction, but I put together a short feature on how much fun I had at Hadley Hall, along with a few photos I’d snapped on my mobile.
It’s accepted. My name is finally in print.
I don’t find my university job as stressful as I’m now working four days a week. It was actually my head of department (the one I didn’t get on with) who suggested I apply for funding to do my writing, rather than just sending off half-baked novels to publishers.
So now, I travel to places like Hadley Hall, poking around their quilts and other textile treasures, photograph them and talk to folk who remembered their mothers and aunts and grandmothers making quilts with Singer sewing machines during the war.
As for the novel writing, my tale of a rather dreary woman whose husband was having an affair has been replaced by an intrepid nineteenth-century lady who starts making patchwork quilts when her husband abandons her shortly after they emigrate to Canada.
Uncle Harry is convinced it will be a bestseller.
The End.
L