Over the years, I suspect, I have spent too much time in tents. I have tightened my flaps on the veldt, as lions yawned 20 feet away. I have hurled bottles of shampoo at marauding Indian monkeys. Thanks to an accommodation mix-up as a teenager, I once spent a month living in a two-man tent with three boys, a girl, and a small, flatulent dog. And yet, when I am asked to consider the true horror of camping, it is to Pilton that I always return. The Glastonbury Festival, 2005. Friday morning. The flood.
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