Thousands of people are converging on the Pyramid Stage, arriving at what was a cow field last week. Impromptu guitar riffs are sung as women remove their knickers to throw at Keith Richards.

Anticipation has been building for days, weeks, months even. The English weather has been uncharacteristically benign and bright pink faces reflect the sun’s kindness.

After 50 years of performing, the world’s most famous band is making its debut at the world’s most iconic music festival: Glastonbury. And as five 70-year-old rockers take to the stage, and jump into Jumping Jack Flash, the collective roar of approval covers me in goose bumps.

Despite the drummer’s complete lack of teeth, this isn’t a festival for geriatric pensioners. This iconic festival started in 1970 as a gathering of 1,500 rebellious youth in the southwest of England, and this year it sky-rocketed to sell 180,000 tickets within four hours, months before the line-up was even announced.

Out in the Healing Fields, an assortment of characters in multi-coloured cotton trousers and organic jewellery offer lunar readings, vegan sandwiches and massages involving cow bells.

These indie characters have been attending for decades, perfuming the air with marijuana smoke and idealism. This year’s message is about saving the Arctic, but most people seem preoccupied with where they lost their sanity.

At the nearby Stone Circle, casualties gaze down upon the festive site with a teary eye, reminiscing about secret Fatboy Slim gigs, crazy golf courses, emotional bands at the acoustic stage, and various incumbent stages of madness.

Down in Shangri-La, a labyrinth of shoebox-sized clubs ensures the party truly never stops, blasting out eerily resplendent music without pause.

On the Park Stage, orchestral bands and soft guitars tease people from their camping chairs like a slow releasing dose of caffeine.

Dance arenas, a field of hammocks, Tibetan eateries and polar bear sculptures – there is always a niche experience to fit the mood.

The demographic never settles; youngsters start mosh pits to African instrumentalists, while middle-aged couples carry picnics to gigs. Some boil the stove for morning coffee while others are passing out beside a burger van.

Eager first-timers mark their schedule with highlighters and seasoned pros take it easy, knowing the best performances are always the least expected.

Glastonbury is crowded, with people pitching their tents on every infinitesimal patch of grass. A continuous flurry of faces goes past, ranging from men covered in eye shadow, to a tiny Chinese girl dressed as a spaceman. There are mishmashes of colourful headwear, as well as stumbling nomads searching for home.

At all hours the crowds file past, onwards to another glimpse of amazement. Giant metallic DJ booths blast out bass and produce flames.

No campsite is immune to the 5am thumping of techno, no toilet is complete without a smattering of misguided faeces, and every so often I have to retreat into the anonymity of my tent just to pull myself together

Melancholic indie band The XX reduce grown men to tears with harmonic renditions, and a 1970s reggae band proves that grey dreadlocks can and will always be in fashion.

No campsite is immune to the 5am thumping of techno, no toilet is complete without a smattering of misguided faeces, and every so often I have to retreat into the anonymity of my tent just to pull myself together.

Hair mats, joints ache, mud blankets and muscles weaken, but this is all forgotten as another band comes out on stage. Glastonbury is the gig that bands want to play. Newcomers showcase their music to thousands, while established acts revel in the atmosphere of the festival. Responding to the screams of the crowd, lead singers rarely say more than “thank you… thank you Glastonbury”.

Standing on someone’s shoulders, I admire the view: tens of thousands of outstretched arms reaching towards their heroes, no space between heads in the mass of believers.

By the time Mick Jagger begins his on-stage peacock waltzes, the festival is three days in and I already have infinite musical memories.

Alt Jay rumbled bass through the fields, and the Foals had 50,000 people singing along to lyrics nobody understood. Nile Rodgers confirmed his status as the world’s most sought-after wedding DJ as his band Chic performed every disco classic.

The Glastonbury line-up reads like a who’s who of contemporary music, both past and present: the Hives, Arctic Monkeys, Elvis Costello, Primal Scream and Mumford and Sons.

Usually the organisers deliberately schedule bands to clash, forcing people into uncomfortable choices about who to watch and splitting the crowd across the 12 or so different stages.

But nobody is going anywhere else tonight. The BBC later claimed that the Rolling Stones attracted the biggest single audience in the festival’s history, despite band members qualifying for a pension. Brown Sugar, Gimme Shelter, Honkytonk Woman, the set list never relents and neither does the crowd.

Men lose their voices mid-rendition, women climb on shoulders and bare their breasts, and older couples consider how to contact the band’s nutritionist.

The BBC later claimed that the Rolling Stones attracted the biggest single audience in the festival’s history, despite the band members qualifying for a state pension

Returning for an encore, the Rolling Stones’ lyrics feel perfect for the festival: “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.”

Glastonbury isn’t an intimate festival, nor is it clean, relaxed, or hassle-free. Any hippy idealism has long been squashed by the sheer volume of wasted people.

If you come wanting flowery headbands, personal encounters with favourite bands and romance, you will be disappointed.

But if you wake up to a can of lager, purposely get lost, and forget your inhibitions, you find what we all need sometimes: moments of unrivalled euphoria.

Keith Richard’s guitar suddenly lurches into the world’s most famous riff, and over 100,000 people follow, jumping up and down to the distinctive sound of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”.

It’s another Glastonbury memory never to be forgotten. As the crowd leaves the arena in awe, all I can think is there’s still another day to go, another three arenas to explore, and who knows how many more impulsive explosions of joy...

Join the madness

These festivals offer the same risk of rain and similar free-spirited vibes to Glastonbury, albeit on a smaller scale.

Indiependence Festival
Where: Mitchelstown, Ireland
When: August 3-4
Price: Three-day camping €99; three-day non-camping €79
www.indiependencefestival.com

Indiependence is an annual award-winning indie music festival.

This year’s line-up includes De La Soul, Bastille and We Are Scientists.

Although it is no longer free, the festival remains an intimate one, with a laidback, hippy vibe.

To borrow a phrase from the Irish, the craic here is mighty. Lest you get the wrong idea, we’re talking about the atmosphere!

Shambala Festival
Where: Harbourough, Northamptonshire, England
When: August 22-25
Price: child – £38.50 (€44.60); teen – £83.99 (€97.26); adult – £134.99 (€156.32)
www.shambalafestival.org

A music festival suitable for dreamers, radicals and romanticists of all ages.

Besides heart-wrenching, thought-provoking, toe-tapping, fire-starting music, this festival has a host of other weird and wonderful attractions.

You can relax in the Shamabala Springs, be enchanted in the Storytelling Yurt and even send your kids off to fend for themselves for the night in the Wild Bush Camp!