‘It won’t rain,’ declare the optimistic few amongst our party as we head towards the magnificent palace of Castle Howard on a typical blustery August afternoon. ‘And even if it does, it won’t last.’
OK. Let’s go with that. Who takes notice of the iPhone or BBC weather app anyway?
This iconic stately home, nestled within 1000 acres of exquisite parkland, is rightly conveyed as a haven of peace and tranquillity, offering extensive woodland walks, impressive 18th century temples and elaborate fountains creating spectacle and theatre amid the serenity of the great lakes.
But today, it is humming with the buzz of hundreds of excited Prommers, tramping across the grounds in search of the perfect pitch. Armed with camping chairs, picnic tables, cool boxes, brollies and a lorry load of alcohol, we join the throng heading towards the stage. It’s not difficult to spot those seasoned festival goers, whose extensive, ready for anything kit, is wheeled effortlessly along in custom-made trolleys. Some mark the boundaries of their home for the next five hours by planting lines of union jacks whilst others construct their outdoor room within a circle of fairy lights. We Scarborough lot are content to find a spot of hill offering a reasonable view of of the stage and big screen, with the house providing an elegant backdrop for the photos to be later posted on Facebook.
We set about making ready for the concert with anticipatory zeal. Folding chairs unfolded, picnic tables erected, booze extracted from boxes. ‘Never been to the Proms, before.’ ‘I’m really looking forward to the main event.’ ‘Lovely place this isn’t it?’ ‘Wonder who the first act will be?’ ‘Prosecco anyone?’ ‘Do you think they’ll play Nessun dorma?’ ‘Bound to.’ ‘Red or white?’ ‘Always makes me cry, that.’ ‘Me too.’ ‘Can’t wait.’
Then, Satan stubs his toe.
Joviality vanishes. Gloom descends. As one, we look back at the house. ‘My God,’ somebody says. ‘Shit,’ says another. As menacing as scenes from The Day After Tomorrow, the blackening sky looms above the glorious building like a sinister phantom, plunging all below into darkness.
‘Quick, get the lid on the box!’ ‘Cover the salad!’ ‘Watch the wine!’
Fay, our party’s Fairy Godmother, has just enough time to issue each one of us with a bright yellow emergency poncho, before the skies unleash a deluge that would worry Noah. We scramble inside these flimsy sheaths with a great deal of haste and varying degrees of efficiency. Becky, fiddling to secure the poncho hood neatly over her cap, forgets the plastic wine glass gripped between her teeth and succeeds in tipping pinot right in her eyes. Daz delays plonking himself into his unfolded chair by two seconds and is consequently obliged to sit in a puddle. I fail again and again, as I sip my wine, to prevent torrents of rainwater gushing up my sleeve.
So, as sodden as having swum two laps of the lake, with water dripping from the tips of our noses and splashing unchecked from our lashes, the concert begins. Well, once the orchestra has warmed up and the river has been swept from the stage. Then it begins.
Our host welcomes us to this brolly fest. Indeed, despite the website stating no golf umbrellas, a sea of these offending objects floods the grounds. Becky and I clutch our wholly inadequate pieces of kit, a mere step up from parasols, close to our drenched backs and long for the massive brollies we dutifully left at home.
Ah well. Make the best of it. Pour another wine.
Two lads from Leeds, The Forever Tenors, open the concert. As a virgin to the Proms, I am no expert on this type of music, but the guys interact easily with the audience and fusing classical with an Elvis number is impressive. When they do a similar fusion with Wet Wet Wet, I can’t help wondering if they’re taking the piss.
Victoria Joyce, soprano, is next to weave her magic, and as the rain turns to drizzle, we manage to stuff a sandwich and a pork pie in our faces. Food requiring a plate remains untouched – my dainty picnic of salad, coleslaw, potato salad, selection of meats and cheeses confined to the box - any attempt to free them would be simply stupid.
Despite the weather preventing the planned Spitfire flyover, our patriotic spirits are lifted as thousands of people wave their union jack flags to the RAF March and Dam Busters. By the time the orchestra has us jiggling about to Trumpeter’s Holiday, the crowd is divided into three groups: those with soggy bottoms; those with dry bottoms and those universally hated by all – snug and dry in full waterproof suit complete with golf brolly.
Tenor Wynne Evans has us laughing as he sings the Go Compare song, then reduces us to tears performing the duet Time to Say Goodbye, with Victoria Joyce. Tears are never far from spilling as the rousing music from Swan Lake – or, if you don’t know your classical ballet – that bit at the end of the film, Billy Elliot, stirs the soul. When the heart wrenching Nessun dorma is performed, you can no longer feel the water pouring down your neck. Once the fireworks start, 7000 sopping revellers wave their soggy flags in time to Land of Hope and Glory. If you haven’t got a flag – you just wave. The concert surges to its glorious crescendo with the theme from Superman, and I swear, having been profoundly moved by the music, you fully expect Superman himself to burst through the fireworks and soar over the entire Castle Howard estate.
That doesn’t happen. Obviously. Perhaps that’s the wine talking. As soaked now inside as I am out.
Oh, did I mention the rain?
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