Dialogue: A music festival right off the planet

Words alone cannot do justice to the thrill that was the Glastonbury 2000 music festival - but I have to try. Perhaps if I use a truckload of superlatives, I'll get a fraction of the feeling across because it was incredible, awesome, mind-blowing and crazy - one of the true whacked-out wonders of the world.

Last Thursday all I knew was that Glastonbury was a big music festival. In 1970 it played host to 1500 hippies who were each given a free pint of milk for making the effort to attend. Since then it has grown to cover 600 acres (246ha) and house more than 100,000 people and half that again if the seas of humanity forever flowing over the fences were anything to go by. Some come for the music and the atmosphere, others the sheer buzz or the drugs. Many come to work, but most are there for the fun.

So, I'm fresh off the plane from Sydney, its early Thursday and rush- hour on the Tube to Brixton is a trip enough in itself. My host, Sarah, a veteran of big concerts, gives me one rule - if you don't want to lose it, don't take it along. Bearing that in mind I took the clothes I wore all weekend, clean undies for a treat, my toothbrush, some money and a flame retardant blanket I'd inadvertently borrowed from the aeroplane.

Arriving at night, we had to walk a few hours before making camp in an orchard, then it was non-stop, hardcore fun with more than 35 separate areas to lose oneself in. And considering the size of the place, you eventually had to get over the fact that you couldn't do and see it all. There were the pyramid and acoustic stages, jazz, cabaret and the tipi field; the theatre, a circus and amazing amusements for kids; the tents for dance, cinema and new bands; the piano bar, the champagnerie and Lost Vagueness .

There were also some highly compelling standing stones, the best place of all for the dawn and the sights you'd see there - the laughter, the spirit, the joy. And, while the action never let up for a minute, a person could still find peace in the healing or sacred fields, have a massage or sleep under a tree.

Four days and four nights of living life large and I think I'm still high. Ten hours' sleep the whole fabulous time, and barely a trace of the famous Glastonbury mud. Hardcore Glastonphiles would sometimes refer to the mud of 1998, the worst year for weather on record, but for us the sun shone ever brighter each day, the dawns breaking records for loveliness.

And, sure, some bad things happened: you can't have 100,000-plus people at an event and expect it to be trouble-free. With that many people en masse, some are on drugs and not all are on the up and up. But, still, my mother's claim that 11,000 people were arrested was a huge exaggeration. The man who got his wallet back complete with the hundred pounds, pills and a note from Rich Angel would never make front page news but that was more the way it was.

People everywhere tripping off their faces; the magician's white rabbit who followed me home; fields of tents as far as the eye could see; the naked folks; the fancy dressed - all of us solving the problems of the world and bonding with people we'd never cross paths with at home.

And the music - David Bowie, the Chemical Brothers, Moby, Groove Armada, Rolf Harris and Willie Nelson , who blew me a kiss. There was Leftfield, Travis - whom it didn't rain on - Macy Gray and the Pet Shop Boys, the Happy Mondays and the Wailers. The line-up, and that's just for starters, had to be seen to be believed.

But all good things must come to an end and on Monday our crew slowly disbanded. Barefoot, baking and filthy as sin, we headed back to civilisation, showers, beds and normality - whatever that might be.

And if I do suffer over the next few days that's a price I'm happy to pay for my introduction to life on the other side, to have seen so much strangeness and experienced such wonder for this thing called life. And I'm not alone in my fervour for the fest.

Everyone agreed - the organisers, the punters, my gang and the press - that Glastonbury 2000 was the best one yet.

* Contact Elizabeth Easther on her travels at imabroad@chickmail.com