You don’t beat the mud at Glastonbury. You come to terms with it. At some point, usually after your boots have given up and your socks are soaked through, you realise resisting it is pointless. The paths turn to thick, clinging sludge, every step a slow pull and release, and you either let it ruin your weekend or you lean into it. Once you stop caring, stop trying to stay clean, stopped dodging puddles, the mud becomes part of the adventure, : you laugh as slip, strangers hauling each other free, wellies abandoned, music still going no matter the state of the ground. It gets everywhere, yes. But so does the atmosphere. And if you can accept that, properly accept it, the mud stops being a problem and starts feeling like a magical rite of passage.
