I was working throughout the extended holiday, so largely missed out on all the fun and games, but when I got home on Saturday afternoon it appeared that a neighbour had a live band in the garden. I was also aware of a persistent, almost subliminal bass thumping coming from another direction. After a cup of tea and an attempt at a 10 minute kip, I thought I'd circumnavigate the neighbour's garden party and walk across the fields to the village. As I approached the neighbour I realised that the band was not after all in their garden - they appeared to be away - but coming from the village itself, a mile beyond.
The village lies in shallow valley formed by a brook, and is clustered around what was the crossing point of an unmonickered London to Norfolk Roman road, the crossing itself now carried by a narrow red brick Georgian bridge. Walking down to it across the fields one can see ancient clay peg-tiled roofs and the pretty village church, but you are spared the ugly 1930s ex-council houses with their uPVC 'upgrades', and the usual 1960s excrements that spill out along the lanes. It thus briefly presents a slightly arcadian, Laurie Lee-ish illusion, on this occasion belied by the racket coming from the covers band behind the pub. I had felt tired and unenthused by the prospect of this jollity, but on the final approach I found a spring in my step to an excellent rendition of the inevitable 'Mustang Sally', which carried me across the bridge and through the pub car-park, where I managed to side-step the Colonel and his wife. The Colonel is a good man, who occupies his time rallying the residents into a community-spirited action group, but he notably lacks the mischievous sparkle of his late father, one of the famous SAS North Africa originals, and his colourful mother, who was known as 'the First Lady of The Regiment', and whose family used to run the pub. Instead I ran straight into another neighbour, a kindly and jolly chap who lives 'next door' to me, and who sells a very well known brand of Scottish hi-fi for a living, and his wife, upon whom too much drink and some recent rather drastic 'work' was combining to slightly startling effect. After exchanging greetings, I found my sister, her farmer husband and my brother's two daughters sitting outside the front of the pub. I took delivery of a very welcome pint of Guinness, and after chatting awhile we repaired to the garden to watch the band play their last few numbers. They were excellent, and I was struck by the fact that they were all about the same age as me, an observation that sat slightly incongruously with their superb 'Sex on Fire' by the Kings of Leon. After their final piece, a very faithful take on Thin Lizzy's version of 'Whiskey in a Jar', the dog and I headed gratefully back across the fields.
As I approached home I was aware that I could still hear, or rather 'feel', as though within the chest, the bass thumping that I mentioned. Later, when several crescendos had made my house rattle, I sent a text message to my Zurich-resident friend, who was home for the weekend, and asked him if he was aware of it. He replied that he was wondering too, but assured me that it wasn't him having a techno-rave, but that he was drinking my wine and watching the Jubilee concert.
It materialised today, courtesy of the Shepherdess, who has insight into such things, that it came from the Creamfields electro-music festival at Hylands Park in Chelmsford, a good 10 miles distant!