Rule Britannia...

Clearly, London just can’t compete with Yorkshire. Dire warnings of thermals and unpredictable weather make me contemplate staying at home, it’s that time of year again. Time for the BBC Proms. This time, an exotic incursion towards Castle Howard in Yorkshire with my two favourite men. Man 1 and I forage for snack type items and wind up with a serious excess of dips and chips and fixings for many glasses of Pimms. Man 2, with military precision puts together the rest of the gear. Folding chairs, blanket, paper napkins, glasses, cutlery, lanterns, alcohol, waterproofs, brolly (since I incompetently presumed the sunshine would stay). I’m scrutinised and found wanting (and this is well before I found out the German had his thermals on), but I’m betting on my layers and trusty fleece to protect me from the ravages of the evening. We load up the fire engine red Merc and pack ourselves in. The rest of dinner is likely to be late as Ranjit’s drumsticks and W’s sausages are still hot apparently…

The picturesque drive takes us through rude moments as we drive through Wetwang and Lund and are thanked by the village signboards for our efforts at not disturbing the peace with our excessive innuendo led sniggering. Miraculously, we’re directed to parking close to the Castle and trudge up lugging our spoils to the somewhat disconcerting discovery that there is no mobile signal to be had. Hmmmm. This poses a bit of a challenge as it is imperative that we find the rest of the retinue as they’ve got the real food! The grounds are already packed and we plod up towards the Castle and I’m mesmerised by the sight of men in full cavalry uniform, tables laid with pristine white tablecloths, bedecked with china, gleaming silver, champagne flutes, opulent candelabras and delectable eats. My word. These English are crazy! The Rolls and Bentley negligently parked in front of the mansion adds a certain je ne sais quoi and I cast my eyes over the impressive vista (1,000 acres as I understand it, carefully crafted to look like natural wilderness – all the water bodies are artificial and apparently peacocks strewn about for decorative flooflah).

We stake our territory between a grand table of bedecked officers (their spurs had nothing to do with our choice!) and another smaller table, but ensure we are flanked by candelabras on either side. The umbrella is driven through the ground and we mill around in turns trying to find the rest of our party. Miraculously, we do! And its shakes and hugs all around as our presence swells to 10 and after some debate we arrange ourselves in a less than posh fashion around our picnic blanket. Our lack of accoutrements is more than made up for by the unending unpacking of food. Angelica has outdone herself and soon enough, we’re swilling back white wine, pimms to the tandem scarfing down of rather sophisticated blinis topped with guacamole and shrimp, barbequed drumsticks, parma ham and melon, strawberries, chips and dip, quiche, sausage rolls and think we actually miss the start of the concert. The sound system is not spectacular, but the general hilarity and merriment in the stunning setting more than makes up for it. The few drops of rain that threatned our exuberance evaporate and the clear sky in the distance heads towards us as we applaud the Spitfires as they come past, the Union Jack waved with patriotic fervour (not by us, we just confined ourselves to sniggering at the Germans instead).

The spitfires gave way to a brilliant sunset, tingeing the clouds a mystical gold against the blue background and the lights on the stately home sent the crowd into photogenic orgasms. Tugging the fleece more closely around me, I breath in the clean air, and cast my eyes over the marvellous green and blue panorama in front of me, as birds streak across the sky in perfect harmony, the sunset hanging off the edge of the clouds. If this was enough, the grey clouds that have moved away are slashed by a rainbow off the side of the mansion, lending a super surreal air to the proceedings. Time for the chocolate cake, lanterns, glow sticks and rude games with the glowing eggs, all topped off by more alcohol and a grand finale of the fireworks display. I’m overcome and belt out Rule Britannia with the rest of the crowd and flying lanterns are let loose like a dog walkers unruly brood. My Man 1 points out the irony of my warbling and I realise that we are probably the only expatriate group in the 1,000 acres – 2 Indians, 2 Germans, 1 Dutch, 1 Spaniard, 1 Iranian and a couple of Irish….

Man 2 makes an executive decision, and we’re packed and ready to run before the party ends and amazingly, make it out of the car park in under 7 minutes. Bliss. I feel sick with the vast quantities consumed and can only pay limited attention to the animated discussion about the natty men in uniform and their spurs, the tuxedos and evening gowns, champagne glasses, candelabras, chiffon dresses with Wellies, tartans, stiff upper lips, Pimms…. Rule Britanniaaaaa, Britannia rooooles the waves…… !!