I wrote in this column last Saturday that it takes more than a bit of rain – or even a lot of rain – to dampen British spirit. I had not expected, when the plug was pulled on York Proms an hour and half before the event was due to start because the park was in danger of flooding, to see this demonstrated quite so defiantly.

Never mind that the River Ouse had burst its banks and had completely swamped Terry Avenue. Nor that the floodwaters were inching up the grass from the Millennium Bridge towards the back gardens of houses on Terry Street. The England flag fluttered proudly from a tree and, wherever they could find a dry patch, people were picnicking. One lot had even pitched a tent.

Having got togged up in waterproofs and lugged folding chairs and hampers all the way to the park, only to be told the Proms were off (despite assurances to the contrary the day before) people were determinedly making the best of it. There was a comradely feel to this doggedness in the face of adversity. It only needed a band to strike up Land of Hope and Glory and we could have been on board Titanic. Or put on the Proms right there.

I found my friend H and her boyfriend hanging around outside the park gates, hoping to nab a few spare musicians to do just that. She and her mates had cut their losses and organised an impromptu garden party two doors down and were looking for some entertainment. (H throws fabulous parties that usually involve elaborate fancy dress. This was the first time I’d actually seen her boyfriend in the flesh; on previous encounters he’s been disguised as a robot or a Greek god.)

H found Lesley Jones and her husband, Bev – yes, that’s the Bev Jones, if you know York musical theatre – perched on a concrete post near the gates. They politely declined her offer to sing, being preoccupied with intercepting members of their cast of young people from Northern Musical Theatre Company who had been due to perform a preview of Les Miserables (they’re putting on the schools’ edition at the Grand Opera House 3-7 July).

I left the stewards explaining to the stream of would-be Proms goers that the event was off and joined the party, where people in a colourful array of wellies were eating strawberries and drinking Pimms. I had a lovely afternoon in the sun – after all that, to add insult to injury, it turned out to a beautiful day – catching up with H and comparing notes with our host, who had braved downpours and knee-deep mud the night before to see the White Stripes at the O2 festival.

Since it’s Glastonbury this weekend, I shall be watching the coverage (fashion, mainly – I’m concerned that my new purple mac from Millets is going to be everywhere) with interest. Festival-going has hit the Zeitgeist this summer. Camping’s cool, British bands rock and now that holidays abroad are an environmental no-no, everyone’s doing it. Including us.

I must admit, I haven’t been to a festival in years. My only previous experience is of Fairport Convention reunion concerts in a field outside Banbury, which the husband, who has abandoned us to go to see Peter Gabriel at Hyde Park this weekend, insists doesn’t count. (He was moulded by seeing Dylan at Black Bush; if he could live his life over again the only thing he would apparently change would be to go to more Pink Floyd concerts. You see what I’m up against.)

Undeterred by my need for large quantities of beauty products and the fact that we have a 9-year-old in tow (she can’t wait; he’s been indoctrinating her by playing Solsbury Hill) we are off to Womad, the big World Music festival next month, along with a predicted 20,000 other mostly past-their-prime ticket-holders, their car boots laden with seriously large tents.

It’s a measure of the husband’s dedication to Peter Gabriel, who is also headlining at Womad, that he is prepared to camp, something he has resolutely refused to do under any circumstances in the past. I’m thrilled – camping and going to a festival means I can tick off two more of my eco-challenges – though I’m worried that (a) I’ll lose the child, and (b) I’ll lose our new tent.

There is also (c) we’ll never manage to get it up in the first place, but we’re having a dry run in the Lake District soon for that very purpose.

At least, I hope it’s dry. The husband says he’s not going if it’s raining. He’s not good at British Spirit. I’m fashioning a Genesis flag to inspire him (pre Phil Collins, obviously); at least that way we’ll be able to find the tent.