The Reception

Last summer I was invited to a wedding by a work collegue; the reception was held at a stately home: Carlton Towers, close to the small Yorkshire town of Pontefract.

http://www.carltontowers.co.uk/index.html

Carlton Towers is the family home of the Duke of Norfolk, who is commander in Chief of the Territorial Army (Britain’s part time reserve). My friend Captain Damian Norton wore the full ceremonial uniform on what turned out to be the hottest day of the year. I know that to be true because my ice cream melted in my hand without the aid of a ‘blast’ in the Microwave. Jan and I had been invited to the evening do. The road to Carlton Towers ran alongside the M62 and was as deserted as the day the motorway opened 30 years ago. We headed towards that infamous of all Yorkshire places…… DRAX Power Station (I wish my address were Drax) The entrance to Carlton Towers was a little dilapidated with paint peeling from its iron railings and gate. The cattle grid had a couple of rails missing but the car leapt the gap without too much damage to the suspension. The single width track meandered through the gentle rolling landscape with the occasional ornamental tree silhouetted in that special dusk light of early evening, each tree had the base of its canopy meticulously trimmed as neatly as a bikini line by the attention of long tongued highland steers. We passed by a ‘covey’ of caravans parked in wagon train formation; there was something indiscernible going on in the centre. The screaming effected Jan so much she closed the windows and reached over to my gear lever and beckoned me to make haste.
As you may know, I am a recent settler to this wonderful County of Yorkshire and have looked forward with a little trepidation to the inauguration ceremony which my new friends have assured me will give the seal of approval and acceptance from my fellow Yorkshire kinsfolk; quite frankly though, the smoke from the bonfire with its pungent odour which was similar to Pork/Singed hair and the harrowing screams were hardly what I expected and am seriously thinking of moving to somewhere more friendly than Yorkshire (anywhere). We quickly passed through this scene and dropped into another little valley, again full of caravans who had chosen to gather for the 26th annual worship to the King of rock and roll, Elvis. They had travelled from great distances some even from Halifax. A few members of this rare breed of nomadic part timers wore tribute clothing to their idol; I can’t remember Elvis ever wearing anything from Matalan. The centrepiece of their irreverent worship was a Port-a-loo so large it was fitted with double doors. At this stage I was begining to wonder whether Damian had married into a family of Gypsies. Straddling the brow of the next rise; Carlton Towers stretched out in front of me, it was enormous, a cross between Mandalay (from the film Rebecca) and the houses of Parliament. In the fading light several 40-watt bulbs could be seen flickering through ivy festooned mulloned windows. There was a selection of chimneys and towers enough to suit anyone’s taste; there was one tower that defied the laws of gravity with a larger overhang than that of Driver John’s. Two Stone pillars formed the inner gateway to a gravel drive that was large enough to turn an 18-wheeler at half lock without any trouble. In front of this Majestic house Damian had arranged for a Fun Fair Dodgem Ride to be erected. The glow from its 20 ‘billion watt’ illumination crackled causing a serious drain on Drax whose shadow fell over the floral rose gardens. I parked in the sunken ‘Ha Ha’ and avoiding the sheep poo (almost) I walked across the shingle driveway to the main entrance staircase. The hundred or so guests who were seated on the plastic chairs and watched me approach in an unnerving way reserved for outsiders. The main staircase curved clockwise up a broad flight of steps which would have been illuminated by beautiful wrought iron gaslight standards had they not have been stolen. The solid oak doorway was beautifully carved with the heraldic symbol of Yorkshire; a rampant Pakistani carrying a pickle tray in the shape of a five leafed rose.
The entrance hall had a throng of jostling folk clutching their cans of ale. The antique furniture had been pushed against the sidewalls to stop the Miessen figurines chattering against each other and served as a useful depository for the empty glasses that had been used many hours earlier at the start of the merriment. I’m sure the local French polisher will be kept busy until Christmas.

Gripping a bottle of Bud. I surveyed the gathering beneath me from the staircase and heard the plaintiff wail of a piped Bagpiped sextet shuffling across the gravel drive. Whenever I hear this sound reminiscent of the strangled cat, I find it difficult to keep my legs still and involuntary get the Celtic urge to dance. After the fourth tune, which sounded like tune one, tune two and tune three I experienced a dire need for a Rothman’s to calm my increased excitement, unfortunately I was unable to walk across the driveway through the bansheeiing pipers without walking in tune to the music and making a complete arse of myself.
Apparently, when Damian and Valerie left the Church she had arranged a surprise for him, promising him something that they had never experianced before, no doubt. She drove to a deserted airfield where a helicopter flew them over York Minster a few times until Damian had finished being sick and generally wasted a bit of time whilst the guests drove to the reception venue. The helicopter touched down on the gravel drive in front of the house, luckily without causing any breakages to the chancellery windows (good job the windows weren’t new, eh!)

How is it possible, that one of the shortest nights can sometimes feel like the longest?
…Langstraat

The contingent from Work sat in a circle like members of AA. (For about an hour) until the highlight of the evening at 10.00.p.m Bacon sandwiches. Gary and Jan went and fetched them while the rest of us continued in a quiet reflective mood watching the grass growth. Paul held us spell bound for almost a couple of minutes demonstrating his Photo-phone which can take very good resemblance’s of objects it’s pointed at. He was also the Lucky winner of the novelty bacon butty which a had pubic hair embedded in it (lucky devil, I never win anything) We listened to the music from the dodgems and became familiar again and again with the sound of the Searchers and Mungo Jerry as they were repeated every 30 minutes.
This is another Yorkshire wedding that I have been to and am pleased that the experience has set it apart from all others.