Glastonbury, Revisited: Scratching under the Spiritual Surface.

Living in a place as beautiful as this makes it easy to take the familiar for granted. Yet Glastonbury Tor has a habit of demanding attention. At 518 feet it isn’t a mountain, but it dominates the landscape for miles, a constant presence you can’t quite ignore. Set within the mystical Isle of Avalon and crowned by St Michael’s Tower, it has drawn pilgrims, dreamers, and sceptics for centuries.

I’ve walked it many times before, but this visit felt different. Perhaps because I’ve never had much trouble finding things to be irritated by. When your friends start calling you an “old man” in your twenties, you either lean into it or fight it. I leaned in. Somewhere between curiosity and cynicism, I wanted to look at Glastonbury again with a questioning eye. To see whether the town still had something to teach me, or whether it would simply wake the inner Victor Meldrew I’ve spent years trying to keep in check.

I’ll admit I’ve leaned into a grumpy persona over the years. When your friends call you an “old man” in your twenties, there’s probably some truth in it. Maybe it’s upbringing, maybe it’s habit, but I’ve always enjoyed a good rant. The trouble is that what once felt like a parody of Victor Meldrew now risks becoming reality if I’m not careful.

Part of the challenge is letting things run off me more easily, controlling the controllables and not letting the rest wind me up. I can’t do anything about the behaviour of the general public, the state of the nation, or the weather ruining my plans. The world feels very different from the one I grew up in, and for a man in his fiftieth year, it can sometimes feel alien. I’m grateful I had the 90s the first time around, and that my memories of concerts and festivals live in my head rather than on a smartphone. Tickets cost a fortune; just watch the band play. Who treasures a shaky 78‑second clip with terrible sound?

Apologies, Meldrew mode creeping in.

Still, my generation is lucky. We enjoyed childhood and early adulthood without everything being documented or dissected online, yet we’ve also embraced the technological and cultural shifts that followed. I see how stranded my parents can feel, and how reluctant they are to shift their views. They’re lovely, generous people who, through today’s lens, appear hopelessly out of step. Moving with the times rather than resisting them feels essential for staying positive, open‑minded, and a little more carefree. And where better to practise that than Glastonbury, a place built on free spirits and alternative lifestyles.

For many, Glastonbury means the music festival, which, as locals will quickly point out, isn’t actually in Glastonbury at all. Pilton sits six miles east. Festival or not, Glastonbury itself remains a place like no other.

My aim today is to walk through the town, slow down, and observe. Using the Mural Trail as a loose guide, I start on the outskirts, where Glastonbury’s pull on the nomadic is immediately clear. Old caravans and van lifers line the edges of town. Scruffy and unconventional, yes, but also a sign of the town’s draw for those wanting to live off grid. A point of tension for residents, but today it simply sets the scene.

Murals appear everywhere, bold colours splashed across buildings and walls, offering an instant sense of what the town is about. I didn’t see them all, but they form an impressive gateway to a High Street unlike any other.

It’s here that my feelings become conflicted. What does Glastonbury want to be? On one side are the healing centres: counselling, massage, psychotherapy, Reiki, yoga, specialist bookshops, all promising serenity and spiritual exploration. Yet these often more discreet venues are somewhat overshadowed by shops cashing in on the “magic”. At times, it feels like Glastonbury-on-Sea, where sticks of rock and saucy postcards have simply been replaced by crystals, tie dye, and bongs.

I try to keep an open mind about the alternative therapies, but their authenticity feels diluted by the number of souvenir shops that punctuate the town. That impression isn’t helped by eight cider fuelled men arguing in the church grounds halfway up the street. For a place built on peace, freedom, and looking beyond the conventional, there’s an undeniable edge when you pause and watch.

Heading toward the Tor, I’m greeted by a man dressed as a wizard offering readings about your past animal self. I decline politely and move on, though I spend a few minutes wondering what creature I might once have been. I abandon this thought when the image of Donkey from Shrek refuses to leave my head.

Thankfully, the path toward the Tor brings me to two places that soften my scepticism. First is the Chalice Well, a discreet, beautiful garden fed by one of two underground springs rising from beneath the Tor. The Chalice Well Trust welcomes visitors of all beliefs, aiming to connect people with nature and the spirit of the place. This feels far more up my street.

Just around the corner sits the White Spring, an unassuming Victorian building hiding something extraordinary. Inside, candlelit pools fed by the red spring sit among shrines to Brigid, the Lady of Avalon, and the King of the World of Faerie. It’s atmospheric, unexpected, and steeped in folklore. The sunlit serenity of the Chalice Well and the shadowed mystery of the White Spring create a yin and yang effect, a balance that gives the town’s spirituality a credibility I hadn’t felt earlier. I wait my turn to sample the spring water. It tastes faintly metallic but refreshing enough to encourage another sip.

Finally, I make my way up the Tor. I’ve walked this grassy knoll many times, but today carries more weight. The stepped route has welcomed pilgrims for thousands of years, and while the climb isn’t difficult, the sense of significance at the top always feels profound. Looking out over the Levels, the distant Bristol Channel, and Wells Cathedral tucked beneath the Mendips, I take my time to reflect.

Parts of Glastonbury tried to spark the Meldrew in me, leaving me sceptical and a little cheated. But looking beyond the window dressing, I found myself trying, consciously, to understand what this place means to so many. It would be easy to scoff, even mock, elements of why some treasure this place. However, considering my own acceptance of how empowering being in nature is for me, I have found myself more open to why Glastonbury remains a ‘Mecca’ to those with deep-set spiritual beliefs and the curiosity to enquire.

Rounding the tower, the picture I am afforded the chance to take is striking. Glastonbury Tor perfectly signalling its shadow of dominance over the land below. It felt a fitting way to finish today’s wander.