Every summer, a quiet dairy farm off the A361 transforms into a vibrant, bustling city where music, dancing, and nonstop raving take center stage. People from across the globe journey to Glastonbury Festival to sing passionately, dance until dawn, forge connections, indulge in drink, or even tie the knot.
For many devoted attendees, Glastonbury is far more than just an event—it’s a sacred pilgrimage and a communal spiritual experience, with the iconic Pyramid Stage serving as its pulpit. Some describe it as their “spiritual home” or a kind of “Utopia.”
Terrie Smith, 38, recalls this year’s festival as a genuine escape: “You can wear whatever you want, dance all night if you please… It was a break from life.”
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But like all good things, it must end. On Monday, the magic fades away. Litter pickers sift through five days of festival remnants, stages are dismantled like ancient monuments, and attendees depart as if racing for the last helicopter out of a crisis zone.
Photographs of the deserted fields serve as poignant reminders of life’s fleeting nature. One week, 200,000 people unite to sing Lewis Capaldi’s tunes; the next, grazing cows resume their peaceful routine.
This bittersweet feeling doesn’t stay behind in the fields—it travels home with the attendees. Many experience what’s known as “The Glastonbury Blues,” a mix of fatigue, melancholy, nostalgia, and difficulty adjusting back to normal life.
Lucy Robinson, 47, a bartender from East Sussex with 21 Glastonbury appearances, likens leaving the festival to being “untimely ripped” from her favorite place. “I am at my most functional at Glastonbury. […] 51 weeks of the year I’m a mess.”
Living with ADHD and autism, Lucy challenges common stereotypes—she finds the bustling festival atmosphere more comfortable than a quiet wake with 30 people. For her, Glastonbury is a rare environment where she can truly be herself.
It’s no surprise then that returning to regular life is hard. The festival’s freedom and acceptance exist only one week a year, and only in certain years at that.
Meeting more festival veterans reinforced a broader realization: perhaps the blues aren’t just about missing Glastonbury, but about the stark contrast with everyday life. Ashley Peace, 49, a careers advisor from York, says, “You make so many amazing memories and then you’re back to work and child care. You’re hit with the real world and what a horrible place it can be.”
Ashley, a loyal attendee since 2000, combats the post-festival gloom by booking more concerts. Tickets to bands like Elbow and Oasis help lift her spirits: “I like to try and keep busy.”
Paul Farrugia, author of the definitive Glastonbury Festival Guidebook, offers other remedies in his blog—ranging from planning holidays and attending the Glastonbury Abbey Extravaganza to watching old festival performances and penciling in the next Glastonbury.
Interestingly, the solution to escaping reality often involves planning another escape, reflecting a yearning for the festival’s unique atmosphere.
When asked if the Glastonbury blues express dissatisfaction with wider society, Paul recalled a comment on his festival manifesto—someone suggested it should double as guidance for ‘real life.’
It’s worth considering whether the post-festival depression says more about the challenges of everyday life than about the festival itself. Attendees describe a jarring transition from an inclusive, energetic community to colder, more impersonal environments burdened by work and childcare responsibilities.
Physical demands also contribute to the blues. Terrie estimates she walked 55 miles during the festival and managed just two and a half hours sleep on the final night. Lucy, recovering from a bunion operation, found the festival a significant physical challenge.
One planned interview fell through due to a serious case of ‘Glasto flu,’ a widespread post-festival ailment marked by exhaustion and sickness, compounding mental health struggles.
Ultimately, the Glastonbury blues reveal a deeper question: why can’t our daily lives be as warm and welcoming as the festival? Why must freedom and happiness be confined to just a few days each year?
Paul’s final advice for those struggling to reintegrate is a reminder to cherish the experience: “We’re the lucky ones. I’d rather have the blues than the envy.”