Party in Potternewton Park by Emma Harding

It’s noisy. Really noisy. The booming bass of several different sound systems, volume cranked to maximum, compete for precedence. There’s a crackling announcement on the tannoy, impossible to make out. And from behind the trees, comes the sing-song electronica of a fairground. It’s crowded too. In the park a patchwork of families spread themselves across the grass as it slopes down towards the main stage. Meanwhile long chains of people wind their way slowly around the perimeter, investigating the stalls encircling the performance area. And outside the park people line the streets, jostling for position, even though the parade they’re waiting to see is at least half an hour from starting. 

We’re in search of food. And there’s plenty of it, although lengthy queues have already formed at each stall. We do a full circuit first, looking at every menu board, evaluating what’s on offer. To the untrained eye, every stall looks much the same. At the rear, a man wields tongs over a chicken-strewn barbecue in a blackened, sliced lengthways and turned-on-its-side steel drum. Occasionally he squirts oil onto the meat from a squeezy bottle, causing flames to spit and flare. Behind him, under the canopy, a trio of women prepare sides, decant rice and peas from plastic tupperware, and hand customers polystyrene trays full of spicy jerk chicken, fish or goat curry, with patties and dumplings. Settling on our chosen stall, we join the queue, squinting in the sunlight, shifting out of the way of people still doing the rounds. Food finally bought, we move to the shade of some trees, behind the vans where stall-holders keep their supplies: tubs of uncooked chicken, huge tins of coconut milk and gungo peas. An eye out for litter and wasps, we find a spot, sit and tuck in.

It’s a world away from the summer fetes of my childhood. There was music, yes, and parades and food. The tombola, the cake stall, the amateur gymnastic displays and miniature ponies; looking back, it all seems so twee. So pastel. So polite.

Here, everything is turned up to eleven. The noise, the smells, the crowd, the food. This is more than a party. This is a celebration. This is Carnival.

There’s a buzz of heightened expectation coming from the entrance to the park and along the road that lines it. The parade is on its way. We move, as quickly as is possible amongst the hoards of people trying to do the same, towards the road, arriving just as the first trucks appear. The noise, impossible as it seems, has got louder, each open-sided lorry a vehicle for its own DJ, decks and mammoth speakers, pounding out a rhythm to the troupe of dancers following behind. Dressed as exotic flowers, iridescent butterflies, tropical fish, geometric abstracts, feathered fancies, the young dancers stomp, bounce, twirl and gyrate, some slightly self-conscious, others embracing the attention of the crowd. Each troupe is led by a principal character dressed in a richly coloured and dazzlingly complex construction, some three times her size, yet still managing to dance, interact with the crowd and keep her group moving. The parade moves along at a snail's pace, but the dancing never stops. Many in the crowd join in, cheer and blow whistles, or just enjoy the spectacle. 

Some are watching the parade pass from their own back gardens, private parties complete with their own steel drum barbecues and yet more music. Bottles of beer kept cool in buckets full of ice, it looks like these party-goers are in for the long haul. But with our ears ringing, we tired lightweights decide that it's time to make our way home.