I arrived at Glastonbury to find a man writhing around on the floor like a mad dog. The top half of his body lay under the shade of his tent; the bottom half was exposed to the sun. He looked hot, ill and much like a piece of Barrat Nougat.

I tried to ask if he was ok, but he only gurgled and babbled in response.

As an introduction to the festival, this worried me. I’d heard the stories and the first man I met fitted the bill precisely.

The camping situation wasn’t much better. I’d bought a quick pitch tent to get around my inability to assemble anything other than a two-piece jigsaw.

Disc shaped and flat packed, all I had to do was throw it in the air and then gloat in the face of other campers grappling with rods, poles and sheets as my tent landed gently back on the ground ready to inhabit. That was the theory anyway.

When I unfastened the elastic restraining strap, it exploded with such ferocity it damned near swiped my face off. Then it blew away. Then it filled with dust.

Then, when I’d finally got it steady, each and every peg I hammered into the hard dry ground bent and twisted out of shape. Clearly things were not going well, so I left the tent as it was and made my way down to the site.

I started with the Healing Fields, the place where the hippies and the bonhomies run wild and free. They offered everything from a massage to a meditation session.

The place had a strange feel to it, but as the warm stale air lingered over Worthy Farm, the healing fields provided shade and respite with their weird teas, tepee tents and trade-stalls.

After a day or so I adapted to the festival lifestyle. I didn’t mind that I smelt (a twice-daily cleaning routine involving baby wipes and some in-tent gymnastics kept me relatively clean), I no longer worried about the toilet (they had urinals for men) and camping wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be- even though I kept convincing myself I could hear a fox sniffing around the vestibule of my tent.

The best part was obviously the music. Nothing can prepare you for the site of the Pyramid Stage towards the end of the day. When the sun sets, a strong shaft of light thrusts out of its triangular peak. By nightfall the arena is brimming with 100,000 merry fans. Lanterns and flares and fireworks explode on the horizon.

The moon, tinged by the dust still hanging in the air, is full and beautifully alien. The atmosphere, and indeed the cider/beer (of with nearly one million pints are sold), is intoxicating, mystical and fantastical.

When Muse headlined on Saturday night I was right at the front. As an army of people surged and jumped and danced and sang, my back was pressed up against a security fence and my face was nestled into the sweaty armpit of a fellow fan.

Not that that really bothered me. But that’s what Glastonbury does to you. It makes you smile and laugh at things that would normally make you squirm and cry. It changes your perspective on life and encourages you to take a step back, to have a giggle and just enjoy yourself.

I was lucky this was the year Glastonbury basked in its hottest weekend to date. It was hotter than Mexico City - heatstroke claimed over five thousand fans.

Had I been wallowing in mud and filth, things might have been different. But probably not. Mud would have only made Glastonbury more like Glastonbury. And Glastonbury is a very special thing indeed.

Each year the Glastonbury festival sells out in less than one hour. Or, in other words, in the same amount of time it takes me to erect a quick pitch tent.

I will return.