We decided to take a bus to Hampstead to the Ray Davies (from the Kinks) concert at Kenwood. I wanted to get to Hampstead in time to visit Keats's house again, a place I found enormously comforting, but it soon became apparent that wasn't going to happen. I surmised from my map what route to take, but with the tickets (which had to be delivered to the house and came the very day we were leaving) came directions. Skeptical, I checked the route out, but figured heck, what do I know? Surely they know best. So we decided to take the suggested route, for which someone should be shot at dawn, frankly. It took us waaaay over to the financial district to change buses, and then through an ENDLESS route through seedy east London neighborhoods, with the bus stopping about every block.
All day the weather forecast was for "torrential" (quote) rain, but it had been a beautiful day, giving plenty reason to scoff. Really, hardly a cloud in the sky---something one looks for regarding outdoor concerts. These events are called Kenwood Picnic Concerts and I pre-ordered a picnic meal that came with a bottle of wine and what sounded like lots of goodies from the web site (which of course I'll give here: http://www.picnicconcerts.com/2009/kenwood/default.html)
But it started to cloud up a little during the interminable bus ride to Highgate (Coleridge's home!) where we were supposed to change buses again for one that would take us right to the gate.
As we pulled into Highgate, it sprinkled for a few seconds; then it was as if all the rain had been held in a giant blanket which had suddenly ripped open and fell at once from the sky. Truly, some of the hardest rain I have ever seen. Not just rain but loud thunder and lightning. And HAIL!!! I was determined to get to this concert, though; not that I'm such a huge Kinks fan--that's actually Mr. Button--but because, well, that was the plan, and because sometimes, rain does stop. This couldn't go on all night, could it?? Plus, I wanted my picnic dinner I'd ordered.
But we couldn't find where to meet our next and final bus. Finally someone directed us across the street (essentially a deep and rushing river) and we got on, looking, let's say, less than polished. But we realized when it took off the way we'd just come: it's the wrong direction! Brilliantly deduced!
So we get off at the next stop, cross the riv---uh, street again, and wait on the correct bus. Which takes its sweet time. With no covered bus stop. I huddled in a phone booth til the bus came. By this time, of course, even with an umbrella, we were soaked to the skin. When we, at last, arrive at Kenwood, the concert site, lots of people are standing in a smaller building behind the big white one in the photo. We were supposed to pick up our picnic dinner at the Carluccio's tent, but no one seemed to have heard of it. In the middle of all the rain and mud, Mr. B befriended a crazy drunken Irishman who refered ed to himself as Crazy Waldo. He was out of control in that way only bald happy drunken Irishmen can be. I leave the two of them in each other's care while I'm go in search of this elusive Carluccio's tent. When I get back, Mr. B's contact (he's one of nine people on earth who still wear hard contacts) slips out of place and lodges somewhere up in his skull. Eventually it returns to place, for there was nowhere safe to remove it and replace. The speculation of the day was whether the show would go on. All the security guys said Kenwood had NEVER cancelled a concert,spoken with a tone of pride.
The rain did let up a bit, and we finally found our picnic! We sat on a bench under a tree taking turns holding the umbrella for each other while we ate. Mostly an Italian meal, meaning that so far we had avoided ANY English food. The rain would came and went. At one point, the sky coyly appeared to be about to clear off completely. This was a lie.
Because of the warm weather, we had dressed lightly. Who thinks to bring a jacket when it's 90 degrees? But the rain was REALLY cold. We bought two blankets at a tent selling tshirts and raincoats. They stayed dry and warm for longer than you'd think, actually--that microfiber material. But there wasn't a dry spot on us. In fact, at one point, when I went to the john, I took my pants AND panties off and wrung them out. Waterlogged. I did put them back on, though, when I returned to my seat. Well, not WHEN; BEFORE. Oh, and the port-a-johns: the water wasn't working, so no flushing. You can imagine. They did, later, bring in these giant suction machines. I'd gone to potty again during the concert when the loud suction started up and the box (blue in England, too) started to rock a bit. I wasn't at all sure that I wasn't being lifted out of there. I yanked my wet panties up in record time!
The opening band was sort of country; I didn't pay it much mind. 'Twas a female singer whose sister was supposed to also be in the act but was home sick. I'm not sure how serious this illness was; the singing sister seemed inordinately sad about her absence and dedicated every song to the sick sister, which sort of overtook the music since you couldn't really stop thinking about what was wrong with the sister and would she be okay, etc....
Ray Davies came on and sang maybe five songs (one of which was "Sunny Afternoon"!http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXw6unf8jqQ ) before it started to lightly rain. Then a little harder. Then umbrellas went up. What was particularly unpleasant was all the rain running down the umbrella onto our backs.
Mr. B was shaking from the cold. Violently. That sort of shaking that actually hurts your bones. Finally, we'd had enough and looked at each other and said "let's go." But we might as well have stayed.....if we'd known what was in store.....
A couple of pics of the concert. I didn't take many b/c of the rain.
When we finally sludged to the bus stop along with lots of other absconders, we noted the sign said the bus going our way (to Hampstead, where we were catching the Tube) ran every 10-12 minutes. But that was a lie, at least on this particular night. We waited with a group for a while. The rain continued. One lady was on the phone trying to get a taxi and was told one would be along in an hour. Word had it that Hampstead was about 2 miles away. We kept thinking that, as soon as we leave, the bus would come. But finally, I just wanted to be moving. We'd waited nearly an hour. Sure enough, about a quarter mile down the road, the damn bus passed us. But that was fine. It was actually a strangely pleasant walk to Hampstead, as the rain had at last subsided.
I know this whole experience sounds MISERABLE, but it truly was fun. After a point, you just have to say this is what it is and accept it. What I wasn't willing to accept was pneumonia. Thankfully, we're fine----no visible scathing.
At the hotel, we hung our clothes over the tub and some over the balcony furniture, but they still weren't dry the next morning so we had to pack them. Trust me Jesus when I tell you that when we opened up the dirty clothes suitcase at our next stop, they were rife with mildew.
Next: Oxford.
The video below is just a very short few seconds of the concert. My dinky digital camera wouldn't take more than about 15 seconds at a time, and of course, I didn't bring my phone to the concert; I didn't gear it for overseas calls prior, so it was pretty worthless.
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