All morning I look expectantly out of the window hoping for a halt in the rain, but there’s just more of the same. A relentless drizzle, sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter, always there. My first trip to Glyndebourne, a picnic hamper already filled with grub, and it’s not looking good. We arrive at three, park the Hyundai, and take a stroll round the rain-glistening garden wondering where we’re going to eat the picnic we’ve been so looking forward to. We haven’t even got an umbrella. Why didn’t we think to bring an umbrella?

There are three options for our pre-opera starters. There’s a marquee laid out by the car-park, which looks like a refugee station. There are the terraces around the concert hall, where people have already set out their blankets and folding chairs. Or there’s under a tree. We choose a Japanesey-looking affair, its lower branches tickling the ground, by the lake. We sit on a plastic bit from the interior of the car. The rain hits you differently when it’s filtered through leaves and branches, but it still hits you. We open the hamper, uncork the cheap bubbly, and pop off the top of the Tupperware box. Blini with salmon and cream cheese, all from Waitrose. Apart from the odd group strolling with golf umbrellas, who shout hearty ‘hellos’, we’ve got the whole place to ourselves. The plonk’s too sweet, the blinis are dumpy, the salmon’s more tasteless than delicate, and the drizzle is relentless. I haven’t enjoyed a meal so much in ages. AL