August Bank Holiday in Manchester is synonymous with the Gay
Pride festival. For three days and nights The Gay Village is surrounded by an
eight-foot high steel fence and you need to buy a wristband to get in. It’s a
big, raucous party which spills out onto the surrounding streets and, because we
live within earshot yet are not inclined to participate, we usually leave town
to escape the madding crowd. Escape, however, needs careful consideration as Bank
Holiday weekends are notoriously busy with hordes of people travelling and
competing for access to getaway destinations. So this year we stayed put, hiding
in the empty cinemas. But there was no avoiding the Festival completely, as I
discovered when I left the gym and became trapped on the wrong side of the road
for half an hour as the Pride Parade passed me by (in more senses than one).
On Monday, however, the sunny weather beckoned and we
ventured out for a picnic, catching the train to nearby Lyme Park. Walking past the
line of cars at the entrance I had a moment’s worry that far from escaping the
crowd, we were about to walk right into it. But the park is extensive and its
patrons mostly disinclined to venture far from the cafe and toilets so, after a
ten minute walk, we found the perfect picnic spot at Darcy’s Pond (named for
the bathing scene in the film of Pride
and Prejudice). No one else was in sight, so we spread our rug and got to grips
with a bottle of cava. The picnic was progressing nicely: the weather was
perfect, the setting so 18th
century English – complete with a folly on the distant hill – and I became
mesmerised by the splendidly coloured dragonflies playing over the water, so
much so that I took a swig of pinot noir without noticing the wasp swimming in
it. We both panicked: I struggled to spit it out while it, desperate to escape,
stung me under the tongue. What flashed through my mind was the memory of a
woman once recounting how she had suffered anaphylactic shock after sharing a
bite of her sandwich with a wasp: she was saved from certain death by emergency
medical treatment. My companions showed
due concern at this but, when it became apparent that my reaction amounted to
no more than soreness and swelling, readily resumed their relaxed mode. The
countryside, I remarked, may be pretty but it can be treacherous. I was quite
pleased to get back to town, scuttling past the steel fence to the sanctuary of
home and the comfort of antiseptic mouthwash.
A few days later we left town again, this time in the
campervan, for the countryside proper where we are currently enjoying some
gentle hiking (while I keep a discreet lookout for potential health hazards).
So far, however, the most menacing incident has been imaginary. Walking along a
deserted stretch of estuary coastline we approached a rickety wooden building
on stilts protruding out of the trees. Below it, on the beach, there was a
collection of weird, makeshift structures, sculptures and what looked like
sacrificial totems. I thought of giving the place a wide berth, fearing it
might be the habitation of a Manson-like tribe of dropouts but, as we got
closer, I saw that next to it stood a perfectly ordinary bungalow and was
reassured by the fact that, apparently, they still had neighbours. Closer still
and some posters and an outside point-of-sale kiosk – complete with honesty box
– revealed it to be the home-cum-workshop of a pair of artists who have opted
out of the mainstream.
But tomorrow, ironically, we leave the solitude of the
countryside to join the thronging multitude at Festival No. 6. We will need wristbands to get past the steel
fence.
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