Glastonbury 2016 through the eyes of a first-time visitor

It was with extreme anticipation that I squeezed myself into a rental car filled with rucksacks, beer crates, multiple bags o' wine and four friends, eagerly setting off to Glastonbury Festival on a Tuesday evening despite it kicking off on Friday morning. "If I'm doing Glasto," I had told several confused friends in the weeks prior, "I am doing Glasto." 12 hours later amid a sea of unbearable queueing, torrential rain and unfettered mud, I arrived at Worthy Farm after years of desiring to be one of the fortunate 180,000 ticket holders. My jeans were ruined within ten minutes.

The Worthy Farm site had already been reduced to a wasteland of untraversable terrain by the time I pitched my tent on Wednesday morning, but as my party of five stumbled up the mudslide that was now Pennard Hill like some unwitting Total Wipeout contestants (well, four - we left a man down in the queue), what felt an apprehensive foray into the unknown on day one ended a brutal departure from what had become my home-away-from-home on day five. In less than a week, all inhibitions had vacated my bloodstream and, in its own tangible way, Glastonbury had realigned my world view.

Take this as a fitting example: from my tent, I had a clear view of the famous giant spider that marks the centre of popular nightlife area Arcadia. Hosting DJs blasting out drum and bass music for pretty much 24 hours, I made a silent vow to steer the hell clear of what I had heard was some kind of "rave spectacular." Three days later, I found myself under that very same spider balancing on the shoulders of a heavily inebriated man - dressed up as a Minion - wildly waving a pink glowstick (I know...), not unlike a conductor guiding Andy C towards his flame-bursting beat drop. The palpability of freedom - however beer-goggled - was effervescent.

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It fast became clear that the rulebook doesn't exist here. Only at Glastonbury would I be happy to waste 45 minutes trekking to party area Shangri-La - with a crowd of 20 people I don't know - only to be turned away and forced back the way I came. Only at Glastonbury would I get onto the TV singing along to one of my favourite bands of the moment (reassuring my watching parents that I am, in fact, still alive). Only at Glastonbury would you leave your mate watching Fatboy Slim only to return an hour later to find him dancing with Tilda Swinton.

Being privy to the many live music moments as opposed to sneakily scouring iPlayer for highlights at work was an easy treat to take for granted: from Two Door Cinema Club's storming Friday mid-afternoon set and The Last Shadow Puppets' electrifying rendition of David Bowie's "Moonage Daydream" through to Tame Impala and M83's unexpectedly electrifying performances and PJ Harvey's powerful recital of John Donne's "No Man is an Island" amid the result of the EU Referendum vote - these were all moments I would have watched at home, lamenting those organised enough to get a ticket.

Sure, the hefty walk between the many stages, the frustrating bustle of people attempting to navigate their way through the crowds and the heart wrenching realisation you need to embark upon an odyssey to the toilets three minutes before an act you love takes to the stage may irritate in the moment, but it's these small troubles you find yourself pining for once you step through your front door, collapse on the sofa and exhaustedly wonder whether any of it had happened at all.

Converging with disparate souls in a giant field provides you with a sense of unification at the best of times, but at Glastonbury, it carries a different weight. This festival is a celebration, not only of art, but of togetherness, and one that felt even stronger in light of the departure of a Britain we all knew we would never see again.

As the crowd in their thousands dispersed from the area following Coldplay's show-stopping Sunday night headline performance on the iconic Pyramid Stage, it dawned on me that there were not many more places on earth I would rather be. As we made our way to our final party destination of the weekend in the throes of the engulfing mud - strangers holding hands to help each other through - my friend loses his boot. A tear, induced by several emotions, springs to my eye; heavy laughter at his footwear plight, extreme sadness that it's all over and intense desire to live out these crazy, indescribable life-changing five days all over again.