"So, where did you come from?" the man who yelled at his phone asked the posh lady.

"Glastonbury," she told him. You wouldn't believe it if you saw her, all poisture and poise, fine gloves, peacock makeup, brand-new pink carry-on, but it was true. She had been getting on and off all the same stations as we were and we had boarded that first bus six hours away.

"Glastonbury? It must be like a nuthouse over there!" He lived half an hour away but he had never been. It's not the kind of place you go to if you're sane and practically sober.

No, it's a town for those who walk with chicken-hats on, for blonde troubadours with tye-dye ponchos, for hitch-hikers and hippy-van owners, for sixteen year old single mothers and their beautiful babies dressed like maharajas in Indian rags, for people who sell crystals to buy drinks, for men who don't believe the Russian beard fell out of fashion after the 19th century and for men who only wear them because it did. England's Berkeley, New-Age, spiritual, crazy Glastonbury: a town for the rest of us.