Glastonbury: Where the Wind Howls and Your Inner Dragon Awaits

The journey began in Bristol, where I barely had time to grab a coffee before catching my bus to Glastonbury. Just as I settled in, my phone started buzzing with weather alerts. A surreal storm was rolling in—high winds, heavy rain, warnings of falling branches.

By the time I arrived, the wind was already howling through the streets, sending rain sideways. It didn’t just soak—it attacked, swirling around corners and drenching even those huddled under shop awnings. The Abbey? Closed for safety. All weekend. Too many old trees, too many old branches, and apparently, too much risk of them deciding to fall at the wrong moment.

Fine. No Abbey. But this was Glastonbury, where history wasn’t confined to ruins—it hovered in the air, crackled in the shopfronts, and twinkled in the eyes of the locals.

The town felt like a place where Harry Potter might shop for secondhand robes while bumping into a long-lost hippie aunt. The streets were lined with shops selling crystals, tarot cards, and promises of “magic for all occasions.” Herbalists and mystics outnumbered coffee shops, and every other sign seemed to advertise workshops on “unlocking your inner dragon.” Avalon? Oh, everyone assured me it was real—just over there, past the next hedge.

"You’ll feel it," one shopkeeper whispered, handing me a slightly crumpled map to the Chalice Well, said to be the resting place of King Arthur’s legendary healing waters.

And above it all, like the cherry on this magical cake, loomed the Tor.

Naturally, I had to climb it.

The Tor: A Stage for the Wind

The wind didn’t just whistle—it howled, like it was auditioning for a druid rock opera. Scarves flapped, umbrellas became useless sacrifices, and I swear I saw someone chasing their hat all the way back to town. When I reached the summit, the tower offered just enough shelter to house a small gathering of what I can only describe as musical free spirits. 

They weren’t exactly druids, but they came close—one played a wind chime, seemingly conducting the storm, while another strummed a strange, stringed instrument, the sound eerily in sync with the wind. A third swayed, eyes closed, as if entranced by a rhythm only they could hear.

For a moment, I half-expected the Tor to crack open and reveal a hidden portal. Then the wind nearly took off with my scarf, and reality returned.

And I laughed. A real, happy, unguarded laugh—the kind that bubbles up when you stop resisting and just let yourself be part of a moment.

Standing there, surrounded by the roaring wind and their odd symphony, I felt like I had accidentally wandered into a scene from some yet-to-be-written fantasy novel.

And I felt good.

The White Spring: A Different Kind of Magic

After the wild, wind-battered climb, the White Spring was something else entirely—dark, hushed, and flickering with candlelight. If the Tor was a stage for chaos, this was an invitation to silence.

Water dripped softly from unseen places, the air was cool, almost damp, and the walls—shadowy and uneven—made it feel less like a shrine and more like a forgotten grotto, carved into time itself. A few people were gathered inside, but unlike the windswept performers on the Tor, there was no shared rhythm here. Each person was absorbed in their own quiet ritual.
One woman knelt at the water’s edge, eyes closed, hands resting lightly on the stone. A man stood near the wall, whispering something just under his breath—a prayer, a spell, a conversation with the past? I took my place on one of the cool stone ledges, letting the stillness settle, letting the hush after the storm sink into my bones.

And then—just as I thought I’d found a moment of perfect peace—the wind-chime player from the Tor appeared.

The same long, flowing coat, the same absent-minded swaying, as if his feet barely touched the ground. He pulled out his instrument again—somewhere between a chime and a small hand harp—and began to play.

No one reacted. No one seemed surprised.

It was as if he had always been there.

For a moment, the sound felt like an echo of the wind from the Tor, softened and reshaped by the underground water. And just like that, Glastonbury whispered its final lesson: you don’t find the magic—you just let it happen.

Eventually, I stepped back into the daylight, the sounds of the White Spring fading behind me. And, of course, just a little bit of glitter still clinging to my coat.