Things got surreal at Sean Scully’s 80th birthday party

There are parties you’re invited to and don’t want to attend. There are those you want to be invited to, and get pissed you aren’t. Then there are a strange few that come from nowhere – like the one I received to celebrate artist Sean Scully’s 80th birthday – that might change you a little bit forever.

It promised an intriguing set of ingredients: Line of Duty star Adrian Dunbar as host, Samuel Beckett as subject, Queen Boudica’s mythical grave as venue. Throw in some Irish bagpipes, 31 degree heat, and a near brush with Camden Park Rangers [redacted], and by Godot, you’ve got a party!

Dunbar and Scully have been friends for several years. They first met at a dinner party in Dublin and bonded over literature, history, art and notably, a shared obsession with Beckett.

I hear Dunbar before I see him, his lyrical Northern Irish thesp guiding us to the rendezvous coordinates at the entrance to Hampstead Heath. Once the motley crew of around 20 was assembled, including surprise guest Russell Tovey, we began the ascent to the peak of Parliament Hill, which, in this climate, might have been K2.

The mood is jovial as we enter a wooded area and the sound of bagpipes emerges from the trees. If anything screams official event, it’s bagpipes. On a scale of one to Dorothea Tanning, this was approaching the more surreal end of lunch break activities. We process up the Heath towards a concealed mound. It’s Queen Boudica’s grave. “Even though it’s a lie!” exclaims Scully. For those of you, like me, who didn’t know, Boudica was Queen of the Celtic Iceni tribe of Britain who led a rebellion against the Romans in around 60 CE. She lost, valiantly. But in terms of cult appeal, she still slays. Some say she’s buried here. Some say this is where she fought. There is no evidence for either, but it’s a nice thought.

We arrive at the destination, where a trumpeter, saxophonist and guitarist play gentle jazz as we congregate around a corten steel tree sculpture created by Sean. Someone asks if it’s a new site specific work for the Heath. Surely not? If they can unplumb a solid gold loo from Blenheim they can nick an untethered sculpture from a public park in lawless London, I almost say but don’t. Turns out, the tree, like us, has been installed specifically for the occasion. “This is its Christening”, says the actor, who commissioned the sculpture for his own upcoming production of Waiting for Godot. The tree is the focal point of Beckett’s play. It’s the anchor, the only prop, the place where the pitiful characters are due to meet the elusive Godot, but – spoiler alert – never do. It’s the source of life, prospective death and hope. It’s the third character. While the tree in the play’s recent production starring Ben Whishaw looked like a bandaged limb, all anaemic and rotten, Sean’s is sinewy yet sturdy, its tendrils coalescing in a kind of dance. It looks like it might talk back.

Adrian and Russell crack open their books and begin reciting an extract as the sun dapples the enraptured audience.

“What about hanging ourselves?” belts Dunbar as Estragon.

“Hmm. It’d give us an erection,” says Tovey as Vladimir, channeling Harold Pinter.

“An erection!” Dunbar booms back, ensuring everyone on the Heath is within earshot, including those submerged in the nearby ponds.

Scully encircles the pair, proudly filming the entirety on his iPhone.

Sometimes the art world surprises you. You get to experience things without the sense you’re being sold anything, or that an invitation is a veiled favour to be cashed in later. Some things happen for the love of it, for the connection and deep, no-strings-attached respect between people, places and art.

The whole thing lasts an hour. It’s majestic, I’m high. I’m waiting to wake up.