A hush falls across the crowd, only disturbed by the lightest of breezes and the lone call of a gull on the air. The feeling of anticipation builds as close to a thousand people clad in red dresses wait on bended knee, eyes trained towards the ground, standing by for their cue. And then, finally, it comes – the tinkling opening piano notes that signify we are about to begin. The world seems to hold its breath, just for a moment.
As the unmistakable falsetto warble of British songstress Kate Bush rings out across the impromptu 520-metre-long concrete stage, setting the scene – not quite the “wily, windy moors”, but close enough – every single member of the assembly slowly raises one arm in unison. Every single person bends their arm backwards, then forwards, then pulls it back down. Turns their head to the side. Looks back to centre. Drags a hand emotively in front of their face. For the next four minutes and 28 seconds, the real world does not exist. For the next four minutes and 28 seconds, we are all transported into the world of “Wuthering Heights”.
