The strawberries and cream are more expensive than ever and for a bottle of bubbly you'll need a a second mortgage, but Wimbledon looks pretty as a picture and the sound of tennis ball against racquet is just music to the ears.

For the regular Wimbledon fans this annual two-week extravaganza remains one of the most fascinating of English rituals. Like the red pillar box and the vicar on the bicycle, this is what England does best.

In the old days they would queue up outside SW19 for hours on end and then pray that the rain would stay away. The procedure was a simple one. You would set up your sleeping blankets, dig out a couple of novels and then just wait. For the polite and well-behaved ones the reward was invariably the best seat on Centre Court.

Now, of course, those same hardy followers of the sport have been shifted rather unceremoniously to Wimbledon Park. As far as the eye can see a huge park has been set aside for the Wimbledon cognoscenti. They've been laying out their picnics, sitting on garden chairs and swapping pleasantries. This is England conducting itself with dignity and decorum. It is an England at peace with itself, where happiness is a five-set thriller.

Over the years Wimbledon has enthralled and captivated us with its yearly helping of  high camp comedy. There was the lovable lunacy of Ilie Nastase, a Romanian clown who must have been borrowed from the circus. Bjorn Borg was the handsome Swede with the touch and composure of sporting brilliance. And of course there was John McEnroe, that wild whirlwind of American outrageousness. McEnroe was the one who broke his racquets and swore at umpires, he was unique and irreplaceable, a force of nature who refused to conform.

For the next two weeks the new guard will be battling it out. Roger Federer will attempt to win a record-breaking sixth Wimbledon title while that splendid Spaniard Rafael Nadal will do his utmost to stop him lock, stock and barrel.