Let's move to a Somerset town steeped in myth that isn't where the f**king festival is! This week: Glastonbury

What’s it about? 

Nestled among the rolling flatness of Somerset, Glastonbury is a retreat for lifestyle-choice hippies escaping the capitalist ideologies blighting our century and who are wealthy enough to do so.

Famous worldwide for the legendary drugfest of the Glastonbury Festival, which isn’t in the town at all but three miles up the road in Pilton. It stole the name because Glastonbury sounds all druidic and mystical while the Pilton Festival sounds plain wank.

Any good points?

Depends on your perspective. If when your child skins their knee your immediate reponse is to reach for crystals, you’ll fit right in. Whether shaman, Viking, Reiki healer or ley-line channeller, you’ll find kindred spirits. Which is a problem when you’ve build your whole persona around being different.

Here you’ll find unashamed white witches, self-professed wizards and ageing tree-huggers in badly-fitting, vaguely ethnic tie-dyed clothing, along with grown men dressed as Merlin who’s imprisoned in a tree somewhere nearby.

Two natural, supposedly healing springs emerge from the foot of the famous Tor on Wellhouse Lane. The White Spring is in an ancient cave where the heinous crime of photography is forbidden but nude swimming is near-compulsory.

The Red Spring, which meanders through the grounds of the idyllic Chalice Well and Gardens, is rich in iron, smells of sulphur and will have you shitting through the eye of a needle if a drop touches your lips.

But it’s not all dreamcatchers and genital piercings. The Clarks Village retail outlet is full of Barbour and Le Creuset almost as if this isn’t a spiritual place outside of time but is full of middle-class people affecting a non-materialistic lifestyle when nobody’s fucking looking.

Wonderful landscapes?

Certainly. Looking down from the top of the Tor on chilly mornings in ancient times, the low-lying mists over the town and surrounding farmland gave the eerie impression you were cast adrift from any mainland, earning it the mystical name of the Isle of Avalon.

Nowadays, when everyone has central heating and gas fires and shit, the cloying fug which enshrouds the town is generated by its entire population waking up, skinning up and exhaling high-grade skunk.

The Tor also gives a stunning view of the sprawling festival site, with the added benefit of only facing the back of the Pyramid Stage so you can enjoy Coldplay’s fireworks while not seeing the band.

You can also amble around the ruins of the town’s abbey, dating back to the 8th century, once one of the richest and most powerful monasteries in England. Every twat will be skinning up here as well.

Hang out at…

The King Arthur on Benedict Street has the largest beer garden in town, though the biggest outdoor drinking retreat is the slopes and fields surrounding the Tor.

It also boasts one of the county’s top restaurants, the Michelin-starred Queen of Cups, serving an eclectic mix middle-eastern, Oriental and Mediterranean food to a homeogenous crowd of blue-haired facially-pierced tattooed dope-smokers.

Where to buy?

House prices rise as you ascend towards the Tor, either in thrall to its spirituality or because they’re bigger and posher. But higher up there’s only an eco-friendly health shop selling vegan milks, while lower down there’s a big Morrisons.

From the streets:

Emma Bradford, lost tourist: “I took a wrong turn and ended up here. Everyone’s off their tits and once toured with The Levellers. I want to go home.”

Jack Brown, stoned local: “Glastonbury’s not a place, it’s a vibe. And the centre of a network of county lines drug gangs but mainly a vibe.”

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