In August, during the heatwave, we went to our first open air opera. We had no idea what to expect. We had heard about Aida at Verona but this was La Bohème in Yorkshire. Would we be convinced that Mimi's tiny hand was frozen?
Fountains Abbey is a long way from a Parisian garret, but the opera's underlying theme, tuberculosis, was closer to home. In Haworth, a few miles away, Patrick Brontë had lost three of his children to consumption in a single year. Anne, Bramwell, and Emily were 29, 30, and 31 respectively. It must have been unbearable.
That was in 1849, the year that Henri Murger's novel, Scènes de la Vie de Bohème, was published. When Puccini adapted it for his opera nearly 50 years later, Mycobacterium tuberculosis had been identified, but effective drugs did not appear until my lifetime.
I was two years old when George Orwell died and as a child I remember people lowering their voices when mentioning “TB.”
“In case of wet weather the event will go ahead,” said the tickets, and sure enough there were canopies over the little stage and grand piano. And no microphones.
One audience member arrived in black tie, which he hastily removed, but most of us dressed for the dales. This, I realised, was Glastonbury for grown ups.
Everyone turned up early with a picnic. Most brought folding chairs and some had tables and tablecloths. Those of us with rugs were ushered to a groundsheet at the front.
Trying to look cool, I realised that I am no longer capable of lying down, drinking cava, looking up at the stage, and keeping control of my Scotch egg all at the same time. So it's chairs for us in future.
As the sun set, the walls of the famous ruin were picked out by floodlights and the grassy amphitheatre was dotted with the audience's lanterns. In the distance a baritone was warming up. An owl screeched in the nearby woods.
A page turner appeared and then a pianist in full evening dress. The small company, Opera Brava, was indeed totally convincing. Mimi sang her heart out and as she died in Rodolfo's arms, tears were running down my cheeks. Were they for her, the Brontës, Orwell, or victims everywhere? Hey, man, no. It was the music.