Glastonbury 2013 – the shop fronts

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Most years, at the end of June, 200,000 people are steered to pass by or/and encouraged not to go into the town of Glastonbury (logistics I assume) to instead  revel at the makeshift Glastonbury Festival, which, in reality, is 7 miles away from the town. In fact the festival is only 3 miles from the larger town of Shepton Mallet,  but a very clever someone, sometime, somewhere decided that ‘Shepton Mallet Festival’ simply wouldn’t have the same mystical ring to it and therefore wouldn’t be anywhere near as marketable – so Glastonbury Festival it became.
If you visit the town during what is said to be the world’s largest festival of performing arts, you would find it at its quietest.
Glastonbury the town is celebrated for many things – the legends surrounding the mystical Tor, the belief that the cup of the last supper also known as ‘the holy grail’  by Arthurians is buried at chalice Well and that King Arthur and his bride Guinevere are buried in the ruined Abbey – indeed Glastonbury is the Ancient Isle of Avalon -but in the end a town is judged primarily and possibly quite sadly by its shops,  and millions of people over the decades truly miss the Diagon alleyesque of the town itself – something the Tourist Board has seemingly and quite ignorantly never fathomed – so without further ado I attach a portfolio of some, but by no means all, of the shop fronts and maybe the red pill that awaits you.
Most speak for themselves of what’s inside…
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Natural Earthling is mostly a yoga shop

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Nicholas Cage, who has a home in Glastonbury, is a regular visitor to Little Imps but is yet to buy the phenomenal wooden castle in the window.

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the former Woolworth building put to a very non-paraben use!

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and if you have a shop front in mind – buildings for sale can be had at

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not a shop front per se, but great art on a Glastonbury mall/arcade wall.

So don’t pass by, spend a weekend in Glastonbury proper. There are many more shops than those posted here but very few ‘normal’ ones, I’m happy to say 🙂

see also ‘Drugs on the West Highland Way’
https://kevollier.com/2012/09/21/west-highland-way/

and the first post of 25 about the author’s experience in North India on the ‘spiritual trip’
https://kevollier.com/2014/04/12/north-india-in-23-days-day-1-glastonbury-to-delhi/

plus much more at
https://kevollier.com/

India and Imodium

When you tell others that you’re soon to head off to India, one word above all others that pops up is Imodium. This is usually followed by advice on what not to eat. So it looks like we will dodge the dreaded Delhi Belly as long as we avoid meat, vegetables, unpeeled fruit, water, anything that has been near water or has been left out in the rain. And it’s best not to touch anything, to shower with your mouth, ears and nostrils sealed and try not to breathe the air unless it’s absolutely necessary.
But regardless, I simply can’t wait to go. This is the first trip that doesn’t feel like it will be a holiday per se but more of a true adventure bordering on a re-birth, but hopefully not a literal one. Just yet.


We’ve been saying for years that we’d go to India once the kids have grown up and as the youngest is nineteen on the day we return, that time has to be right now.

I was ‘sold’ the idea many years ago when a friend came back from there and was recalling a moment he  had in a cafe in Mumbai, which at the time was still known as Bombay. He said he was sipping his Chai Tea in a crowed and noisy tea room as random cows were aimlessly wandering outside, amongst chaotic, technicolor people and traffic that included every mode of transport including the odd Elephant, whilst a beggar, without arms, was sat doing tricks on a skateboard at the cafe entrance and all the time monkeys were running in and out trying to steal food off the tables!

To see anything remotely like that in England you’d have to brave Stoke on Trent on a Friday night.

Mysore Palace (not Stoke on Trent)
We’re spending a week in Mysore before going where the universe sends us and where that will be we won’t know until the day arrives – which is very exciting and although we are going to Mysore, we’re not going for the yoga, even though the yoga will of course be practiced every day, we’re going there for its gateway into South India. The man at the Indian Visa centre was surprised and pleased that we were not thinking of going to Goa as that destination seems to be frowningly regarded by some as the Kavos/Ibiza of India.

I earlier had email confirmation from our taxi driver who will be taking us from Bangalore airport to Mysore and I smiled to learn the driver’s name is Ganesh. That seems like a good sign.


So we’re packing very light, we have to as we’re carrying it all on our back. In fact the heaviest things I will be carrying are books. I’ve opted not to take the kindle but instead a few paper books and apart from the reading material there will be enough clothes to last only a few days in the rucksack as Mysore allegedly has the very best street markets in India. Besides, any available space will be taken up with Alcohol gel, sun block, Deet, baby wipes, toilet rolls, 42 Ainsley Harriot cup a soups, a canary and enough Imodium to be able to take regular bus trips without embarrassment.

Partying Yogi.

That’s the point I find myself and dare I add, ‘yet again’.

I’ve been partaking in the practice of yoga, at least the Asana or posture ‘limb’ for fifteen years now and it has indeed brought on profound changes in that time. But at the ripe old age of 47 and now four months a Grandad, which may be the latest catalyst, I’m back in the zone.
My practice was originally a once a week Hatha which moved on to a once a week Ashtanga but since January it’s been a three times a week Ashtanga with a dash of the odd Kundalini plus actual home practice (!) and I’m currently in teacher training and all this has only accelerated the tumult. Not an unhappy tumult may I say but a sort of inevitable and a welcomed one, because sooner or later, as I would assume that any regular practitioner of yoga asanas would concur, one looks to see what the other seven limbs of yoga are all about – and they certainly don’t say, ‘eat, drink and be merry’!

The title of this, my first blog, is perhaps a bit misleading because although once a Prince of partying, and in Glastonbury as well no less, those days have become personal annals in history and if it wasn’t the yoga that put those hazy days behind me, then it was just that I eventually grew up somewhere along the way.  So the blog could have been called ‘Yoga versus Materialism’ as the materialism I refer to is the fashion following, money making, selfish, ego driven, image obsessed kind of materialism that on it’s nights off goes partying, a kind of partying that includes the aforementioned only with added alcohol, drugs and bollocks talking.

And I’m no stranger to this yin yanginess of agitation. I’ve been armchair studying Buddhist and Hindu philosophy for over twenty years with sojourns to retreat islands and meditation courses and the like and this tranquil and seemingly undisturbed lifestyle immediately makes one question ones own lifestyle and conditioning. In the past though, being younger, these considerations always got put on to the back burner but now I think that flame needs much more of my attention. I mean, I did it. In 1900 the life expectancy for men was 45 and 48 for women. I made 47 ! I met my wife when we were both sixteen, had two beautiful children, managed to get them to adulthood (through no fault of their own) and now the eldest has given us a lovely grandson – so I’m extremely appreciative and know that I’m living bonus time each and every second when compared to most people born before 1900 and I do think it is time to make a more serious effort to look ‘within’ and the yoga has made me – or more accurately is making me do it.

It seems that there is a kinder and more loving way to live out the second half or maybe the third, third of ones life and I’m pretty sure that the old shackles will be loosened somewhat by light. Here’s hoping.
And just for the record, that picture up there /\ the one of the thong wearer, isn’t of me. I wouldn’t wear orange for starters, it’s so 1980’s.