The Annual Summer Ball and a Final Night Out with the Mates

As I got ready to leave York I began looking at everything as if it were the first time, and that nothing in the world could compare to these streets, these buildings, these walls. The last week found me coming home from the Lake District with the looming deadline of my research paper that was nearly finished but really just needed that final push. Once that was completed and submitted, the feeling of freedom that

I thought would follow was unexpectedly missing as I attempted to see friends one last time, made arrangements for my last week in the UK and worried about fitting everything into my two suitcases. I did however take the time to prepare for and enjoy the last event of the school year: the Graduation Dinner and Summer Ball.

Now you must be thinking one thing first of all. I realize I haven’t actually graduated but as a third year visiting student they determine that we’re worthy to join in on the festivities. In fact, since the British University system doles out degrees after a measly three years I was the same age as most of my graduating third year friends. So on the first day of July in the sweltering English heat I donned a flattering black number at 3:30 in the afternoon for the champagne drink reception in the grounds of Heslington Hall, the only old and aesthetically pleasing building on campus. The company was good but the heat was unbearable and I felt for the lads who were decked out in suits. We waited for 20 minutes to get warm champagne in plastic flutes and then another hour queuing to get on a bus to the racecourse where dinner would be served. It turned out to be a pretty good show on the food selection with a chicken and risotto main and a lovely cheesecake dessert, not to mention the three bottles of complimentary wine per table (I use the word complimentary loosely because the tickets for the entire event cost upwards of £75, I’ll allow you to do the math). I sat at a table with Martin and some of his mates that he lived with in his first year and we all got on well. I did make some of my money back by procuring a shiny silver star balloon that was affixed to the table. In order to make myself visible to the rest of the guests I tied the balloon to my wrist and looked up to find that about two dozen other girls (and a few lads) had the same idea, there went my uniqueness for the night.

After dinner we headed back downstairs where a Ceidlh was about to begin. I may have described this before because it’s not the first time I’ve joined in one of these fun jigs. A Ceidleh is a traditional Scottish dance with a caller and some rocking live bagpipe and fiddle music. Basically it’s an American square dance but more exciting for the fact that it’s Scottish. Martin and I joined in a few sets and realized the timetabling committee probably didn’t think this all the way through. Scheduling the bouncing, swinging, hopping dance right after the three-course dinner? You can imagine. But it was fun all the same. The rest of the night passed in a succession of different activities. There were various dance floors, a small casino area that looked dead as a doornail every time I walked by and then of course the outdoor fairground complete with dare devilish rides that swung you up, down and around, traditional fair games, bumper cars and even free cotton candy (candy floss to be British about it!). Considering my normally weak stomach (I can barely make it on an easy 2 hour road trip without getting a bit queasy) I was surprised to find myself agreeing to go on “Freestyle,” a ride that I can only describe as a human clock where the hands move at very high speed, with my friend Phil. Well I’ll tell you, I can’t remember ever having this much fun on a fair ride, most likely because all the other times in my life that I’ve attempted such a feat I have been thwarted by the plague of stomach sickness followed by much unpleasantness, but this time it was brilliant and I even agreed to join Phil on the largest of the rides. So after another drink, for confidence you see, we made our way into the queue to wait our turn. I don’t remember the name of the ride but our legs hung down, it spun us around in circles while swinging back and forth to a parallel level with the ground below. Now this time I began to feel the stirrings of my childhood fair experiences but not to the same extent and any inclination to be sick was quickly put aside by the sheer thrill of the ride that I found to be a ridiculous amount of fun!

After this the fun died down a bit as the fair rides were slowly closed at 3am along with most of the other activities and more importantly the bars. So there we were determined to stay for the infamous “Survivor’s Photo” that would be taken at 4am with nothing to do but discuss our various levels of tiredness. With half an hour to go we decided to join the dance floor where a cover band was playing what one might call “wedding reception tunes.” This is where I accomplished one of my proudest moments as an outgoing, eccentric woman: I started a love train. When we got out on the dance floor I wasn’t feeling great but when they started playing the song “Love Train” I got it in my head that the song was just calling out for a conga line so I grabbed my friends and started weaving through the dance floor, looking people in the eyes as we passed them and encouraging them to join in the fun. The next thing I know I look back and there are about 50 people trailing behind me and at the height of the line’s glory there were over 100 people dancing along! This may not sound like an individual’s more notable achievements but I sure as hell think it’s something worth bragging about so give me this one little glory and I will be happy. After this climax we danced the end of the ball away until we gathered at the racecourse entrance for the big photo and then a nightmarishly long queue for the free shuttle busses that were to take us back to campus. Martin and I managed to make it quite near the front but lost the rest of our group, my feet were killing me and there was one bus coming at a time taking a half hour to make it from the racecourse to the university and back to the racecourse again. We finally got on the third bus and made it home around 5 am, Martin with his dinner jacket draped over his slumping shoulders and me dragging my bare feet back to Alcuin.

The next day dawned before my head hit my pillow but I don’t think I could bear to spend too much time in bed when my days, hours and minutes in York were all numbered, and more importantly the time with my friends. I spent quite a bit of the day packing up my room to a state of unrecognizable cleanliness and bareness. The evening was to be our last night out as a group and more importantly Martin and I had set out a route for hitting up some new pubs to add to our guide before we ran out of time. The two of us headed out around six and headed to the Melbourne followed by the Lighthorseman in Fulford where I had the strangest ale I’ve ever had, not in a good way. Luckily I was on the half pints because of the previous night’s festivities but I couldn’t even finish that because this beer tasted like alcoholic vinegar but it wasn’t a complete waste for I found the pub to be highly agreeable. We met Ellen after my bad beer experience and headed across the river to the Swan, a very quaint pub that even had a resident dog and some very fine real ale. Somehow we managed to squeeze in two more pubs on the way to the Windmill near the rail station just outside the city walls at Micklegate, the Victoria Vaults and Trafalgar Bay. Victoria was very pleasant with Karaoke night and very nice landlords, if only we’d been sooner it definitely had multiple visit potential, and Trafalgar Bay looked a bit run down with a slightly middle aged locals crowd so it was a quick sip before getting out. After meeting the rest of our party at the Windmill we hit up Montey’s which we had to fudge a bit to count as a pub for it’s full name is Montey’s Rock Music bar but the drinks are so good and the presence of a foosball table made for a good time. The evening ended with a visit to the Gallery nightclub for one last time but it was a bit dead and I like to remember Gallery for other nights rather than the last. I really was just trying to stretch the night out a bit for I knew that it was the last time I would be seeing most of these people for who knows how long, perhaps forever. So to leave you on that rather morose note I’ll leave my description of my last few days in York for it’s own post for I owe that city so much it’s the least I can do to sing it’s praise in it’s own post.