The End of a Cambridge Year: Glimpses of May Ball
The May Ball. A simple phrase, yet one that carries the lingering scent of lilacs and peonies; laughter gradually fades amidst the golden lights on the bridge, whilst the champagne in the glasses continues to flow and sparkle.
A massive berry and cream cake, the warm orange glow dancing in the fine drizzle, and the hems of silk dresses swaying amongst the tailcoats. Not even the dark clouds at the start could deter the crowd from moving forward; it was as though everything existed solely for the celebration. Passing through the colonnade of Nevile’s Cloisters, beneath the deep blue sky, spotlights illuminated the classical façade, upon which the muses stood tall, looking down upon everyone. Bottle after bottle of champagne was fished from a punt brimming with ice, opened with a ‘pop’, and so we raised our glasses, dancing to the music along the red carpet, treading freely upon the lawns normally off-limits.
Fireworks burst into the sky; streaks of pure white sparks danced like flashes of lightning, whilst speckles of red and green light rose into the air; some streaked across the sky like comets, whilst those that initially seemed like inconspicuous orbs gradually blossomed into the grandest, most spectacular bouquets, with dazzling trails cascading down from the night sky. Flames flared up on both banks of the river; the heat was almost within arm’s reach, and so the intense warmth swept over us, brushing against our bare skin.
Punting at midnight: the little boat rocked gently, cradled by the water’s gentle ripples, whilst the strings of lights on the bridge transformed into waves of golden foil rippling across the water’s surface. Silhouettes became indistinct, and amidst the hubbub, we found a moment of tranquillity.
Staying up all night didn’t seem as difficult as we’d imagined. There were so many courtyards to wander through, so many attractions yet to be experienced. In the Great Hall, we danced with headphones on under the gaze of Henry VIII, blue and pink spotlights casting their glow upon our faces; some shouted, others kissed. The rotating swings on the opposite bank were a whimsical playground, where flowing skirts intertwined with joyful screams. We swung as the cold pre-dawn air whistled past, whilst the melody of ‘Viva la Vida’ drifted from the marquee nearby.
Summer days in Cambridge begin at three o’clock. A streak of pinkish-orange light slowly rose from behind the clouds; the leaves regained their usual sage-green hue, whilst the spacious white tent swayed gently against a backdrop of music and coloured lights. The ladies and gentlemen who were still awake shuffled slowly towards the open space outside the library, coffee served in small cups and flowers arranged into bouquets of delicate hues; there was still some time to go before the ‘Survivors’ Picture’ at just after five o’clock.
As the whole world gradually awoke, our dreams continued.
