I'm back at Worthy Farm, a good while after the festival and I'm here because I thought it might be interesting to see what the place looks like when there's not a festival on it. I also lost my contact lenses and there's a possibility I might run into them while I'm here, fingers crossed. To the untrained eye it looks like a farm, right enough, that is until you spot the skeleton of the enormous pyramid stage, looming in the distance. I've done my background and what I'm seeing is not standard farm equipment. Massey Ferguson tractor, yes. Telecommunications infrastructure buried underground, mmmmno.

Driving past the farmhouse and wagonshed to the top of the festival site I drive through the gate and catch that unforgettable sight of the Pyramid Arena complete with gaunt framework just plonked there next to Michael Eavis' favourite tree. Surreal. As we pass the corner that is home to the portable NatWest banking facility during the festival I remark; "Difficult to imagine that there used to be a bank here."

At this, Roger, sitting in the back suddenly springs to life: "Closing them down all over the place these days…" Thanks, Rog. And here we are at the third incarnation of the Pyramid Stage, the biggest and most impressive so far. Placed, apparently, directly on the ley line that runs between Stonehenge and Glastonbury Tor and also a natural underground spring. The precise location of the spot dowsed in the traditional manner by Andrew Kerr, Randolf Churchill's one time P.A. and an instrumental figure during the festival's early years. Built by Bill Burroughs of Serious Structures, Bill is a local man and no stranger to Worthy Farm.

Moving on to examine the Dance Field, Dick explains that the festival comes under a lot of fire from conservationists and nature lovers for the supposed environmental damage it causes. Trying not to sound biased in any way at all I have to say that it looks tidy enough to me. Apparently the farm is teeming with wildlife, not to mention the more than 130 different flora on site, including Heath Spotted Orchids, no less. The deer are out there, I can't see them but I know they're there, watching. It's quite unnerving, really. I'm sure the naturalists think we're poisoning the ground and killing the poor little bunnies but the place looks positively thriving to me. It's very odd to imagine a place teeming with paws and hooves instead of Doc Martins.

The clean up teams have spent weeks on site doing a top flight job removing all evidence of the goings on of the festie. There's fresh grass growing everywhere, all the fire pits have been dug up, they've got every lump of glass, ring-pull and plastic moneybag up off the ground. Which is sort of cool really because you can hardly tell a cow that it's eating the wrong sort of grass. Moooo?

As we stroll along a peculiar sensation overcomes me, intangible, I can't easily put my finger on this. Never mind, I'll have a go anyway. Have you ever heard of Kirlian Photography? If you have then please pardon my hopelessly inadequate explanation to those that haven't.

Kirlian photography is a technique used from time to time by tired old acid casualties obsessed with, among other things, the paranormal. The process involves photography of organic matter using some weird technique I don't know the first thing about and whizz-bang, the results hopefully produce a colourful glowing aura around the subject on a black background. If this sounds vaguely familiar you've probably seen the picture of the handprint on the opening credits to the X-Files. I've seen it where they cut away part of a leaf and take a picture of the remains. Spookily enough the aura of the complete leaf is still visible. How does that work then? Way beyond my comprehension…

But honestly that's what this is like. I've not taken anything, I swear. I'm in the Jazz Field and I can almost see the stage, shimmering away over there. And look; I see the tip of the Avalon Field tent and look at all those market stalls…Blither…. Somebody sell me a can of Stella for a pound?

Next, we toddled off to have a look at the Glade, driving down the old railway tracks. That's another thing that's a bit odd; driving on site. Being able to get from A to B in a couple of minutes as opposed to dragging your heels everywhere, getting diverted by the market stalls, stopping for a beer and turning up to meet your friends/wife about two hours later than arranged, total waster that you are… Arriving at the entrance to the Glade and Pennard Hill, our way is blocked by a gate. From here onwards the land belongs to neighbouring farmer Fin Christianson who rents out a chunk of land to the festival for a few weeks every year. So we ditch the car and continue on foot. Standing at the gate leading into Pennard Hill I can see exactly where my crazy daft friends and I pitch our tents. The strip of aluminium vehicle track that runs along to the top has been taken up and new grass seed put down, this has resulted in a near fluorescent fat green stripe running all the way around the field. Cute. Making our way into the Glade and…. what can I say? It's a bunch of trees. It's nicely shaded from the sun and the sort of place you'd like to chill with your friends and listen to some music on a nice day so you could say they're making perfect use of it during the festival but at the moment it's strangely nondescript.

Sadly, our morning at the farm has drawn to a close and it is time to leave. It's been a glorious morning and I've even got a bit of a colour. I've also got that 'leaving Glastonbury' vibe. Pull yourself together, man. So what did I think of the farm? Well, it's a farm. With cows. And there's a festival on it once a year. It's got a pyramid stage, long drop toilet pits and a cracking view of Glastonbury Tor from the farmhouse. Most importantly, it's the memories associated with mad times you've had there over the summers. To someone that's never been to the festival or who doesn't know what it means to do this kind of thing every year it must seem pretty strange. But to everyone who does make that pilgrimage every year and who begins planning for the next year as they're cramming their tent into the washing machine, it would be madness to do anything else. Mooo!

Thanks to Dick Vernon for driving all the way out to meet me and for the invites. Thanks also to John Scott for setting it up. Images by Roger Dyson and Stalker (but the best ones are Roger's).