The trip to outweigh all others. The biggest festival in the world. Features Editor Ben Tibbits finds himself and discovers the magic of Worthy Farm at Glastonbury 2025. Keep reading…

We know each other well enough now, dear readers, to be honest. So let’s: life is monotonous. It’s full of doing things that you don’t want to do. It drowns you in stress, bakes you in anxiety, straddles you with fear. 

But it’s also fucking beautiful. It bubbles with surprise, delights in the unexpected, searches for the unanswerable. 

And — most importantly — it’s all that we have. 

Occasionally a chance comes to be temporarily freed from the boredom, the struggles, and the repetition of existence. To let our inner most inhabitations breathe; to find an Eden that can be interpreted and experienced however you wish. This circumstance is widely known as festivals. Or more specifically — Glastonbury. 

In 1970, to a crowd shy of 2000 people, Glastonbury made its debut on Worthy Farm in Somerset — an Arcadian county in the sleepy South-West corner of England. In the 55 years since, the festival, owned by the Eavis family, has become the largest greenfield music and arts event, not only in Britain, but worldwide. 

Nowadays, 210,000 lucky attendees scramble their way into the constructed paradise of hedonism for five days of pure, unadulterated fun. The rest of the population sit at home, either trying to keep up with the antics by watching on the BBC, or sulking silently in the dark, murmuring under their breath that there’s always next year. 

But actually in this year’s case, there’s not a next year. Every half decade or so, the festival takes a year off — a fallow year — to allow for the farmland to recover. And so this edition of Glastonbury feels extra quintessential — unmissable for lovers of music and festivals such as myself. 

I attended once before, two years ago, when I was given a last minute invite by a brand, quite literally on the Wednesday that the festival began. I dropped all my work, cancelled my plans, brought a tent from Halfords, and hopped on a train south the following morning. It was undoubtedly a life altering experience (not just because of the sunstroke and paradigmatic destruction of brain cells); one of joy, new friendships, and music discovery. Although it was also ultimately rushed, chaotic, and difficult. 

But now with the peripatetic nature of the past few years of my life — with sprawling trips ranging from Mexico to South Korea, Barcelona to Berlin, Lost Village to Tramlines — I felt ready to make amends for fainting at Earl Sweatshirt two summers prior (a long story for another time). I will be the paragon of Glastonbury-ed — whatever it takes.

I make list upon list, buy multifarious vitamins, scour the line-up for hidden gems, schmooze publicists into giving me time with their artists for social media content. I even buy a blow up inflatable pillow. I give myself mirror pep talks, put on a cheeky OOO message, pack and re-pack. The anticipation takes hold. 

First port of call — travel. Whilst some people will drive, hitch rides, hire buses, etc, me and my lucky companion for the week (kind of my boss, always my bestie) meet at Paddington, buoyed by ridiculously heavy bags, for an early train on Thursday morning. From there, it’s onwards to Castle Cary, an otherwise obscure station that is metamorphosed into a military-style HQ for scores of shuttle buses driving excited festival goers the 10 or so miles to the secluded site. 

As the downwards path unwinds itself and trees become sparser, Glastonbury comes into view. It’s massive, spread across several miles, fields of cow-grazing grasslands transformed into a utopian playground, refined over many years into a practical, well-oiled and fool-proof machine. 

We slog our way to the campsite, finding a neat spot at the top of a field. I haven’t opened my tent since Glastonbury two years ago and it’s seen better days — muddy, pegs bent into miraculous angles — and it’s somewhat of a struggle to erect, with inconsistent rainy showers not helping proceedings. Eventually though, success. 

We set out on exploring the festival grounds and getting a lay of the land. There’s already thousands of people wandering around, checking out the bits and pieces of music and activities taking place today before everything kicks fully into gear the following day. The bar queues are long and winding, the sun beams down gregariously, and there’s an infectious energy in the air. 

Before long, we must embark on a journey to the furthest west corner, stepping temporarily off festival grounds for a visit to the Pop Up Hotel and clothing brand Free People’s pool party. A dazzling, summery set up sees a DJ raising the mood, a barbecue cooking up all sorts of mouth-watering goodies, and Free People hosting a pop up shop full of garms, jewellery and the like. 

Following a pit stop at camp and something to eat, we’re back in the festival for HiTech’s set at the Lonely Hearts Club stage. The Detroit trio put on a rip-roaringly rowdy performance, packed with familiar mixes of classics and bangers of their own, aided by the alluring George Riley. We head off early to meet Confidence Man, our first interview of the weekend. It turns into a quest of unparalleled proportions.  

At Glastonbury, security is everywhere. Which is great — until it isn’t. We try to reach an area that our wristband doesn’t allow us to, and are met with fierce rejection from a flustered man devoid of sympathy for the situation. Conman have arrived late and are in a rush before their fast approaching set, so a race across the festival from the interstage to the Silver Haynes backstage area begins. The Aussie duo and their team move at a frightening pace, as we weave through the early evening crowd, attempting to keep up, zigzagging and squeezing through gaps in spectators. It’s all very hectic and quietly exhilarating. We make it though, eventually, and Janet Planet and Sugar Bones deliver the goods. 

Bidding farewell, we venture out into the general grounds to find HiTech for a catch up. Easier said than done of course, as there is once again wristband issues, and the guys end up posted up in an area that we are very much not allowed to enter. But little can get in the way of a journalist and their interviewee opus. We haggle and humpf, persuade and plead until we’re finally sat in front of King Milo, Milf Melly, and 47Chops. They’re as raucous as we’ve come to expect.  

After a swig of Henny and a laugh with the fellas, we’re back in the madness of the festival. Darkness has come to play, and so have the loopy festival goers. It’s carnage left, right and centre. We spend the next few hours exploring small stages, meeting friends, having a dance to Joy Orbison, and later Pearson Sound at IICON stage. After a long day and much more to come, it’s back to camp before it’s too late for the first night in a tent. A roll mat, although far from a king-sized bed, does the job, and sleep greets me warmly. 

Perhaps the main advantage of securing a hospitality ticket — which is someway more expensive than the standard offering (which is still £350 plus I might add) — is that you can have a shower. I know what you’re thinking — a shower at a festival? That’s cheating. But when the opportunity for some smattering of civilization is bestowed upon you, you’d be a fool not to take it. 

Clean and refreshed, the new day begins with the inaugural set of this year’s festival — a surprise one at that. But to be frank, like all of the TBAs or fake aliases on the line-up, it’s not much of a secret. The ginormous crowd at Woodsies waiting impatiently, long in advance of kick off time, makes clear that everyone is here for Lorde. The Kiwi pop superstar has today released her fourth studio album, and takes to the opening performance like a duck to water, playing Virgin front-to-back, with the tented venue well overflowing, out into the late morning heat. “This is fucking sick,” she sighs in awe at one point. She’s right, it is.  

As we leave Lorde’s set, the festival is finding its swing. Many of the stages  are now open, including the most substantial of all, the Pyramid stage, which hosts the wonderful CMAT. Enjoying her year as one of the big mainstream breakouts, the Irish country singer-songwriter feels destined to play to sizable crowds, and seems to find this — maybe her grandest ever show — ever more joyful. Her and the exceptional supporting band bring heart, dance moves and Gaelic spirit throughout a set full of empowering anthems and warming song-smithery. 

Next we’re off to an On Repeat interview with the delightful Rachel Chinouriri, who surprises with her diverse taste — from K-Trap to Coldplay — before catching some of Bricknasty’s towering performance. Another gem plucked from across the Irish Sea, the Dublin-based experimental jazz-rap-soul five-piece pulls in a decent crowd at the Lonely Hearts Club stage, with idiosyncratic front-man Fatboy sprouting out jokes to discolour the hearts of the English — love.  

A pizza and a sit down is the setting for Wet Leg at The Other Stage, who sound galvanised even from a far away position of (sort of) comfort, building hype for their much anticipated forthcoming sophomore album. After hearing the final swirling guitars of recent single “CPR”, we catch some of UK rap favourite Bawo, who does an excellent job of showcasing his crafty and charming nuance at Lonely Hearts Club, before we’re escorted backstage for a brisk tête-à-tête with South London soul star Sasha Keable. We run into the aforementioned Bawo back there just after his set, and grab some time with him too. Finding our journalistic flow, you could say. 

Next up, we pay a little visit to the amiable Gracie Abrams, who finds herself entertaining a large crowd — and Paul McCartney — on The Other Stage. The Taylor Swift disciple covers The Cure and brings sing-along moments within her own discography, and looks greatly assured doing so, the latest pit stop of her ever-quickening rise. Then we’re back up to Woodsies for the kaleidoscopic PinkPantheress in what feels like her crowning career moment to date. It’s both heart-warming and gritty, garage-fuelled and pop-centric. I’m impressed. 

It’s early evening. After trying and failing to meet up with a larger contingent of mates, we opt to go it alone, trekking over to West Holts for a boogie at Canadian jazz outfit BADBADNOTGOOD. Then to Other Stage for one of my most anticipated artists of the weekend, Loyle Carner. 

Fresh off the release of his intimate and heart-rendering fourth studio album hopefully !, the 30-year-old headlines the second stage in what is, again, perhaps the most important show of his career to date. I’ve seen him live several times, as a household fan of his, but this time felt different. His speeches feel more profound, documenting his growth through parenthood, the instrumental backdrops free-flow with intricacy, the guests (Sampha and Jorja Smith) are more consequential, and he sounds hungrier than ever. Everyone is blown away. 

After the depth and emotion of Carner, we need a break to mull, reflect, and measure. Then off we go, supported by the increasingly lively atmosphere that surrounds, exploring Glastonbury’s many weird and wonderful hidden crevices. There’s the Carhenge — exactly what it says on the tin, a Stonehenge-esque structure but made of cars instead — and Terminal 1 — which is both a sharp and satirical message of immigration hypocrisy (more relevant now than ever) and seemingly a location for the most colourful oddballs to find shelter. Some of the dance moves…wow. 

There’s cabaret, a circus, bars, and what seems to be a Time Machine stage that transports you back to the Acid House craze of the early 90s. These areas have a very different tone and mise-en-scene to the more party-focused Shangri-La and Block9 after-hours locations. It’s commendable how the festival caters for all types of people. It feels universal, and wholly accepting of whatever floats your boat. 

With over 65,000 sets in two days, our marathon for the evening comes to an end, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. 

The sun rises on another day at Worthy Farm. Showered and coffee’d, we wade through the sweltering heat to West Holts for an early show from Ninja Tune signee Nilüfer Yanya. The critically-acclaimed singer-songwriter delivers a subtly politically-charged showcase of her outstanding lyricism and musicality, flaunting why she is among the most decorated of her confrères. Then it’s up to Woodsies for the lively Fcukers — their electro clash-meets-New Yorkian indie sleaze is ear-catching and dynamic. 

The day is sticky warm — regular breathers are required. And where better to rest than the Healing Fields. It’s the calmest and gentlest area of the site, filled with fun stalls, workshops, and an array of oddly shaped but weirdly comfortable chairs. It’s, as well as The Kidz Field, a very family friendly area of the site, another example of the wholesome nature of Glasto and its ability to provide for all. All-in-all, it feels like home. Much like Lucy Dacus, who we wander over to see next at The Park stage. The boygenius alum delivers a set brimming with feeling and decadence in the mid afternoon. 

The music comes thick and fast for the next few hours. We see the Brightonian alt rap duo Frankie Stew and Harvey Gunn smashing it at Lonely Hearts Club, before catching the opening few songs of Westsideee Cowwwwboyyyy at BBC Introducing (please listen to them, they’re amazing). Then onto the Pyramid for ‘Patchwork’…another mystery set that wasn’t that ambiguous in the end. No complaints though — I fucking love Pulp. Classic on classic, hit on hit, and a quite incredible climax of “Common People”, backed by a trio of planes flying overhead. I truly lose my shit — the magic of Glasto fully descends, I am one with the fields.. 

Biig Piig brings the party at the Lonely Hearts Club, before we mosey over to Avalon for our friend Rachel Chinouriri. The euphoria is kicking in at this point — thanks to Rachel’s romantic and charismatic brilliance — drinks are spilled, tears gush, mind’s lost. 

But oh no! We’re late for Skepta. 

Yeah that’s right. Big Smoke himself has stepped up to the plate at the last minute for the ol’ switcharoo, replacing the ill Defttones for a major slot on The Other Stage. Playing to the biggest crowd we’ve seen so far, his short but impactful performance is scintillating — back-to-back UK rap anthems as well as his riotous new Fred again.. collaboration. We’re flying at this point. 

Now what — Neil Young? Charli xcx? Doechii? In our case, none. Instead, it’s floor sitting and deep chats. But isn’t that what festivals are all about? You can’t see it all, you know, and there’s always iPlayer. Sometimes things are bigger than music. 

Eventually awakening from our conversational slumber, we head to the south east corner for some late night antics (Fat Boy Slim is a vibe) before catching Jyoty at Levels, and calling it a night before the sun comes up. 

The next morning — the last day of festivities — is laboured, but I force myself out before midday to once again catch the back end of the band of the moment, Westside Cowboy’s set. We then meet Bambie Thug for an interview — a dig for dirt. They explains that their festival tradition is to carry around potatoes with the lyrics for Sinéad O’Connor’s “Famine” written on them. They gifts one to me. I’m touched. 

We saunter over to The Pyramid for some indie sentimentality with The Libertines. It’s great to see Carl and Pete friendly again — they still sound fresh and exciting. Next, an Aperol Spritz and a little hip jiggle to the luminous Joy Crookes on The Other Stage, before swinging over to Royel Otis at The Park. The crowd is huge and the Aussie boys put on quite the show, sing-along central and a few great covers, especially “Linger”. We catch up with the pair straight after their set too for a cheeky chat — our last of the weekend. Whoop! 

Taking it slower today, we enjoy some time in the Healing Fields, before a sunset date with Wolf Alice. Another one of my most anticipated of the weekend, the four-piece band just keep getting better. Frontwoman Ellie Roswell is utterly electric, the new songs from their upcoming album sound great, and there’s plenty of room for old favourites. “Bros”, ugh. 

We’d heard exciting things about a surprise TBA on BBC Introducing, but then feel slightly disappointed by Kate Nash — sorry Kate. So catch a little AJ Tracey at Woodsies before sticking around for Jorja Smith. The tent is full, despite competition elsewhere from The Prodigy, Overmono and Olivia Rodrigo. Jorja is the right pick though, in our humble opinion, with her incredible band and backing singers laying the foundations for Walsall’s own to exhibit her eclectic and ever-engaging discography.

There’s still time to see some of Rodrigo, so we head to The Pyramid for the last twenty or so minutes. The fireworks are fun and yes, the choruses are catchy. But personally, I don’t get it. It’s noughties pop punk for teenagers. Maybe I’m just not the target audience. Don’t hate me girls, I beg. 

Closing out the festival with a bit of Goldie, we take one last stroll through the festival, sharing a salty Mac and Cheese, savouring the magic.

After one last night cherishing the cold, hard floor and reminiscing on the time that’s been had, dawn breaks with the dull twang of reality. We pack up, and begin the trek home. It’s long, pain-inducing, but ultimately achievable. 

So where to begin? Sat in the humid Wonderland offices 48 hours later, epiloguing one of the best weekends of my life. Honestly, writing it back, reliving it again, has made me wistful. Things come and go before you can even realise that they’re fully there. I’ve been trying, in my everyday life, to not be within myself — to appreciate the opportunities I’m given, and to find meaning in my experiences. And I think I did that at Glastonbury. I found some part of myself that was hidden away; egged on by the excitement of my surroundings and the effervescence of my company. 

And so it’s difficult to put into words what Glastonbury means to me and to the countless other attendees throughout the years, despite it being my one sole task. If you’ve made it this far, then thank you. I know it feels like you’re at the bottom of a ceiling-less hill sometimes. It certainly does for me. But we can always climb higher. And the higher you get, the less likely you are to fall. Remember that the next time you’re slipping.