The first time I went to a British music festival, I made what can only be described as a series of catastrophic fashion choices. Picture this: white linen trousers (WHITE! At a FESTIVAL!), a silky camisole that immediately showed every drop of sweat, and—the pièce de résistance—suede ankle boots that were ruined approximately seven minutes after I stepped off the shuttle bus. It was Reading 2008, I was 20, and I genuinely thought I’d cracked the code of looking “effortlessly cool” while standing in a field for three days.
Cut to me, six hours later, covered in mud up to my knees, wearing my boyfriend’s hoodie over my now-transparent top, and sobbing quietly into a lukewarm cup of cider because my feet hurt so badly I was considering amputation as a viable option. Nearby, girls in wellies and practical waterproofs were dancing without a care in the world. I hated them with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
God, I was an idiot.
Fourteen years and thirty-seven festivals later (yes, I counted—I have a spreadsheet, don’t judge me), I’ve learned a few things about festival fashion the hard way. And since we’re entering festival season and I’ve just watched three separate TikTok influencers recommend crop tops and cowboy boots for Download Festival (sweet Jesus, no), I feel morally obligated to share my hard-won wisdom.
Because here’s the thing about British festival fashion that nobody on Instagram wants to admit: it’s not about looking like you’re at Coachella. It’s about not getting trench foot while still maintaining a shred of personal dignity. It’s a delicate balance, but I promise it can be done.
First up—and I cannot stress this enough—waterproof footwear is non-negotiable. Not water-resistant. Not “they’ll probably be fine.” WATERPROOF. I don’t care if the forecast says sunny all weekend. This is Britain. The weather forecasters are lying to you, probably because they’re sadists who enjoy watching footage of people wading through mud in flip-flops.
My go-to festival footwear has evolved over the years. I started with classic Hunter wellies, which are fine, but after walking 20,000 steps a day, they’ll give you blisters that’ll make you question your life choices. I then graduated to hiking boots (practical but make it fashion, yeah?), which served me well until that scorching Wilderness weekend when my feet nearly combusted from heat. These days, I swear by my chunky waterproof walking trainers—not the sexiest things alive, but after eight hours in the folk tent, nobody’s looking at your feet anyway.
But let’s talk about what they ARE looking at—the actual outfit. And this is where people tend to go one of two ways: either full-on fancy dress (unicorn onesies, fairy wings, glitter beards) or “I’ve just stepped off a 70s album cover” (crochet, fringing, flares). Both valid choices! But neither particularly practical when you’re queuing forty minutes for a toilet that looks like it’s witnessed war crimes.
My personal formula, honed through years of trial and humiliating error, is this: practical base layer + one statement piece + emergency options.
The practical base should be comfortable, ideally quick-drying, and not prone to showing every splash of mud/beer/mysterious festival liquid. Dark denim shorts (not too short—chafing is real, my friends), black leggings, or combat trousers are my usual go-to. Up top, I’ll do a breathable t-shirt or a light cotton button-up that can be tied up if it gets hot or buttoned down over a vest if I’ve catastrophically misjudged the British summer.
Then comes the statement piece—the thing that says “I’m at a festival” without screaming “I’ve bought my entire outfit from the festival stall selling synthetic tie-dye.” A vintage kimono, an oversized embroidered shirt, a sequined jacket, that sort of thing. Something that can be whipped off and tied around your waist when you’re dancing but makes you look put-together for the inevitable Instagram photo that you’ll take in the only five minutes of sunshine all weekend.
The emergency options are where my festival bag becomes something of a Mary Poppins situation. I always pack: a light waterproof jacket that can be scrunched up tiny (learned after Latitude 2016 when I had to fashion a rain poncho out of a bin bag, which then melted onto my skin in a brief moment of sunshine—not recommended); a warm layer for when the temperature plummets at 9pm; and a spare pair of socks because there is nothing—NOTHING—more miserable than wet socks inside your wellies for three days straight.
Oh, and hats! Broad-brimmed in sunshine to avoid the distinctive “festival burn” (red face, white body), beanie for the cold, and something waterproof for rain. I once spent £35 on a bucket hat from a festival stall out of desperation during a downpour. It had cannabis leaves printed on it. I don’t even smoke. I had to wear it to a family lunch the following week because it wouldn’t stop raining. My nan asked if I’d “taken up gardening special plants.” Mortifying.
Accessories-wise, less is more. No one needs giant hooped earrings when you’re trying to squeeze into a sweaty tent to see your favourite band. They’re just asking to get caught on someone’s backpack, leaving you performing an impromptu piercing removal that’ll make your eyes water. A simple cross-body bag (zipped and preferably positioned where you can see it—festival pickpockets are real) is essential. Mine usually contains: biodegradable wet wipes (not just for makeup removal—they’re multipurpose festival gold), hand sanitiser (no explanation needed if you’ve ever seen a festival toilet on day three), and a portable phone charger because your phone will die just when you’ve lost all your friends.
The real secret to festival fashion, though? Layering. British weather is bipolar at the best of times, but festivals exist in some kind of meteorological Bermuda Triangle where you can experience all four seasons in a single afternoon. I’ve been sunburned and hailed on within the same Arctic Monkeys set. Last year at Green Man, I watched a woman strip from full winter gear down to a bikini top and back again over the course of Florence + The Machine’s performance. She was my spirit animal.
But the absolute non-negotiable? Good quality waterproofing spray. I douse EVERYTHING before a festival—clothes, shoes, tent, boyfriend. After being caught in what I can only describe as an apocalyptic downpour at Isle of Wight Festival (while wearing a white broderie anglaise dress because I am, occasionally, still an idiot), I now approach waterproofing with the zeal of someone who’s seen the face of God in a particularly damp field in Newport.
Look, I know this isn’t the sexiest advice. The fashion magazines will tell you festival style is all about crochet bras and flower crowns and looking like you’ve just stepped off a Pinterest board titled “Boho Chic Dreams.” And that’s lovely. Truly. But those shoots are done in California, or they’re carefully staged in the only patch of dry grass at Glastonbury, and the models get to go home to a hot shower and clean sheets afterward.
Real festival fashion—British festival fashion—is about finding the sweet spot between looking decent in photos and not ending up in the medical tent with exposure. It’s about self-expression that acknowledges the reality of standing in a field in Britain for several days straight.
My most successful festival outfit ever? Black denim shorts, a vintage band t-shirt, a shimmery sequined kimono jacket thing I found in a charity shop in Brighton, waterproof hiking trainers, a bum bag (yes, I said it—practical AND trendy again, what a time to be alive), and a wide-brimmed hat that kept off both sun and rain. I wore some variation of this for three days at End of the Road last year, switching out the t-shirt and adding/removing layers as needed. Was I the most fashion-forward person there? No. But was I comfortable, relatively clean, and able to focus on the music rather than my increasingly tragic appearance? Absolutely.
And isn’t that the point? Festival fashion should enhance your experience, not detract from it. You want to look in the mirror (or more realistically, the reflection in your phone) and think “yeah, I look like me, but a slightly cooler, festival version of me” without spending the whole weekend worried about mud splatters or blisters or hypothermia.
So as you pack for this summer’s festivals—whether it’s the big hitters like Reading and Leeds or smaller gems like End of the Road or Green Man—remember: comfort first, style second, and always, ALWAYS pack more socks than you think you need. Trust me on that last one. I’ve sacrificed too many pairs of shoes to the festival gods to lead you astray now.
And if you see a woman in practical waterproof footwear with a slightly mad look in her eye, clutching a cup of overpriced cider and wearing what appears to be an entire capsule wardrobe simultaneously… come say hi. It’s probably me, ready for all meteorological eventualities and finally, after all these years, having a great time without risking trench foot. Festival fashion nirvana achieved.
