I’m staring at a photo that my mate Jamie just sent me. It’s us, Reading Festival 2004, caked in mud that had somehow invaded places mud has no business being, wearing what can only be described as a crime scene of fashion choices. I’m sporting those impossibly baggy jeans that could house a family of four, a band t-shirt so obscure I was definitely pretending to like them, and—Christ almighty—a bucket hat that makes me look like a rejected extra from a Stone Roses video. No waterproofs. Not a single practical item between us. Just pure, unadulterated youthful idiocy and the unshakable belief that pneumonia was something that happened to other people.
Fast forward to last summer’s Glastonbury, and there I was—comfortable camping chair in one hand, vacuum flask in the other, discussing the merits of Gore-Tex with a bloke called Martin who works in IT. We bonded over our shared trauma of previous festivals spent huddling under plastic ponchos that immediately disintegrated upon contact with actual rain. “Never again,” he nodded sagely, showing me his waterproof hiking boots with the excitement most men reserve for sports cars or power tools.
The truth is, festival dressing in your 30s and beyond is a completely different game. It’s less about peacocking for the Instagram photos you’ll immediately regret, and more about the revolutionary concept of, you know, actually enjoying yourself without suffering. You want to look good—of course you do—but you also want to sit down occasionally without requiring a tetanus shot. You want to make it through three days without developing trench foot. You want—and I cannot stress this enough—to stay bloody dry.
So here’s what I’ve figured out after graduating from festival idiot to festival pragmatist (with only mild fashion casualties along the way).
First up, let’s tackle outerwear, because British weather is about as reliable as my first boyfriend. A proper waterproof jacket is non-negotiable. Not a “shower resistant” one, not a “water repellent” one—a proper, technical, honest-to-god waterproof. After years of trial and error (and one particularly traumatic downpour at Isle of Wight that I’m still having therapy for), I’ve found that the sweet spot is something like the Rains Jacket—Scandinavian minimalism that doesn’t scream “I’ve given up on life” but will actually keep you dry. Pair it with literally anything and you’ve instantly got that “I understand meteorology” vibe going on. For something with a bit more personality, Folk and YMC do some cracking options that say “I read interesting books and probably make my own sourdough” without sacrificing functionality.
The alternative is the classic British country approach. A Barbour waxed jacket has gone from posh farmer territory to legitimate festival staple. They’re genuinely waterproof if you maintain them properly, they age beautifully, and they’ve got enough pockets to smuggle in half the corner shop. The Bedale or Ashby cuts are slim enough to not swamp you but roomy enough for layers when the temperature drops faster than the headline act’s latest album.
Underneath, the key is layers that can be added or subtracted as required. A decent merino t-shirt—yes, I said merino, welcome to your 30s—will keep you warm, won’t stink after day two, and actually wicks moisture away from your body. Uniqlo does perfectly good ones that won’t bankrupt you, or Sunspel if you’re feeling flush. Throw a flannel shirt or light sweatshirt over the top, and you’re halfway to being a functional human being regardless of what the weather app is threatening.
Legwear is where it gets controversial. Shorts are an option if you’re feeling brave and the forecast isn’t apocalyptic, but they’re a commitment. Once you’re in shorts, you’re in shorts for the duration, even when the temperature decides to do its classic British plummet at sundown. The most versatile option is a pair of straight-leg chinos in a dark color that won’t show every speck of mud/beer/mystery festival substance. Dickies 874s have crossed over from workwear to festival-wear for good reason—they’re virtually indestructible, comfortable after multiple wears, and they’ve got a slightly wider leg that allows for desperate dancing when that one song comes on.
The footwear debate is one I’ve had with myself for years, and I’ve finally conceded that wellies aren’t actually the devil. They’re a necessary evil when the heavens truly open. But for those in-between days—which let’s face it, is most of the British summer—a pair of Gore-Tex lined walking boots provides the perfect balance. They’ll keep your feet dry without making you feel like you’re wearing fishing equipment. Danner, Fracap, and even Clarks have options that don’t scream “I’m about to lead a rambling society day trip.” Just make sure they’re worn in before the festival—nothing ruins your weekend faster than blisters the size of pound coins by day one.
Now, accessories. A cross-body bag is your best friend. Not a bumbag worn across your chest like you’re an off-duty roadman, but a proper bag with enough space for the essentials—phone, wallet, hand sanitizer (oh god, so much hand sanitizer), and whatever other questionable items you need for festival survival. Folk, Carhartt WIP, and even Eastpak make decent options that won’t make you look like you’re having a midlife crisis.
A hat is essential, but step away from the bucket hat unless you’re genuinely a fisherman or it’s 1994. A simple six-panel cap will keep the rain off your face and the sun off your increasingly vulnerable hairline (just me? Cool, cool). If it’s properly cold, a watch cap beanie in a neutral color works with everything and covers up the fact that your festival hair is eight different textures by day two.
The secret weapon in my festival arsenal is—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this in print—merino wool socks. I know, I know. But once you’ve experienced the joy of feet that stay warm even when wet, that don’t blister, and most importantly, don’t smell like something died in your boots, you’ll never go back. Bring at least one pair per day. It’s the kind of luxury that makes sleeping in a tent almost bearable.
There’s a fine line between practical festival wear and looking like you’re about to scale Everest, and it’s a line I’ve crossed more times than I care to admit. Last year at Green Man, I turned up in what my friend Vijay described as “full expedition gear” and was promptly told I looked like I was “applying for a job at Mountain Rescue.” The key is balance—one technical piece (the jacket, the boots) paired with normal clothes prevents the “just escaped from an outdoor pursuit center” look.
The beauty of festival dressing in your 30s and beyond is that comfort is no longer the enemy of style—it’s a crucial part of it. You’ve lived through enough fashion mistakes to know what actually works for you. You’ve endured enough downpours to understand the value of proper waterproofing. You’ve lost enough phones to appreciate a secure pocket.
A couple of years back, I found myself sharing a cider with a 21-year-old lad who was at his first Glastonbury, wearing nothing but shorts, a tank top, and—I swear to god—flip flops. FLIP FLOPS. It was due to rain all weekend. I felt like David Attenborough observing a particularly doomed species. Part of me envied his youthful optimism, his commitment to the bit, his complete disregard for the realities of spending 72 hours in a field in Somerset. But mostly, I was just grateful to be on the other side, with my waterproof jacket, my supportive footwear, and the knowledge that I’d be the one laughing when the mud came.
And I was, mate. I absolutely was.
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