Forget the Royal Opera House. For a magic Flute, give me Longborough

It takes an opera you've seen before to really drive home just how special Longborough is.  I've written about all four of our excursions to this up-and-coming opera festival since our first outing, to Die Walküre, in 2010.  I've loved the whole feel of the place, the Cotswold setting, the black tie picnics in the fields, the luxurious B&B to round out the weekend.  And the opera performances, of course.  Up to this point, however, everything we'd seen on stage was new to me.

This summer's first production was The Magic Flute, a Mozart classic with fantastic music, a strange plot and one aria that must be amongst the 10 greatest pieces of music ever written.  We'd seen the full bells and whistles version at the Royal Opera house last year.  I loved it.  But Longborough bettered it.

Granted, there was no big budget production, lavish costumes or internationally-known singers.  Longborough's stage is no bigger or more advanced than that of a high school musical, and their budgets allow only economical sets.  Budgets force a cleverness of design that, in this case, created a compelling and mysterious set that moved the plot along elegantly.  There's innovation in production, too.  The spoken parts of the opera were done in English.  It drew some gasps of shock from the audience, but why not?  It gave the plot a continuity and pace I hadn't felt in the more traditional production.

Sliding screens gave us a black, ominous vortex that served as the Queen of the Night's realm.  Those slid back to reveal clean lines of a simple building; the structure and order of Sarastro's temple.  Tricks of perspective and diaphanous screens made the stage look much deeper than it was.  Most impressively, a large, silky expanse of cloth was variously a serpent, a screen, an ocean and the murky clouds of dreaming, thanks to the dextrous manipulations of the cast.  Papageno's birds are tied to helium balloons and you can watch the sprites make thunder by rattling a sheet of metal.  The only high tech effect was lights shining from books to illuminate the faces of the temple priests holding them.  Otherwise, it felt like a production Mozart would have recognised.  And that felt good.


I thought all the voices were strong, and that Penelope Randall-Davis’ Queen of the Night delivered the famous "Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen" ("The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart") better than I'd heard it at the Royal Opera House.  That, of course, may be to do with sitting practically on top of the performers.  When you can hear each nuance, see every movement and pick up even small facial movements, everything comes to greater life.  That effect was glaringly noticeable in Nicholas Merryweather's Papageno (pictured above), brought to his full comic potential by the singer's gangling frame and expressive face.


Outside, the weather was dire.  We'd assembled a merry band that wasn't going to give in, however.  Screened from the worst by our tent, we did a full four-course dinner, complete with silver candelabra, champagne and chicken liver parfait brûlée flamed on the tailgate.  It might have been cold and wet, but it was elegant.


As usual, we returned to Windy Ridge.  Immediately after the opera, we returned on a golf cart, trying to avoid crashing into trees as we drove through a pitch-black arboretum.   I haven't laughed that hard in years.  At the end of the path was my favourite B&B in the UK, which continues to delight.  I've started referring to it as our holiday cottage.  Why bother with the maintenance issues and responsibilities of a second home when we can settle in to this lovely estate a few times a year?

Night class at Newlyns entertains without detail of Saturdays

After enjoying two full-day Saturday classes at our local cooking school (Butcher it, Cook it, Carve it and Fabulous Fish), I thought I'd try out Newlyns' weeknight offerings.  Half the time and half the price.  How would it stack up to the more detailed course?


I enjoyed it, but this is definitely a different beast from the Saturday classes.  Our Tapas and Spanish Wine night was less serious instruction, more a bit of cooking followed by a merry meal and a casual wine tasting.  

I loved all the recipes; they're probably my favourite of all the dishes I've cooked at the school.  Prawns with a Romesco sauce, chorizo with chickpeas and tomaca (a type of bruschetta).  Good thing I took the class with my friend Christine rather than my husband, however, as all three recipes were laced with tomato.  With so little time, head chef Hannah can't really demonstrate, so she quickly talks you through the recipes, then leaves you to read and cook with her stopping by to help. The advantage is that you don't have such a long time on your feet, and the self-cooked meal we sat down to was easily the best of the three classes.  There are take-away containers should you have leftovers, but this isn't the multiple meal take-home of the Saturday classes.  We enjoyed our food so much there wasn't much to bring back!


The wine tasting was a great idea, but a bit at odds with the food.  One of the principals of Caviste, the wine shop within Newlyns' bigger store, ran us through a variety of his favourite bottles from Spain.  It was a great selection, comprising a cava and a sherry (both of which were the house wines at world-famous El Bulli, yet were both under £15 a bottle), one white, two reds and a pedro ximenez.  Two problems.  First, because everyone straggled in from the kitchen at different times, the tasting didn't get under way until most people had finished their prawns.  Which, it turns out, was the dish that matched best with most of the wines.  Second, the wines weren't chosen to match the food, but were simply the instructors' six favourites.  Several were so at odds with the food that, to be honest, we would have done better to finish eating completely, and then do the tasting with water biscuits alone.


But, heck, I soldiered through.  And in doing so found that the Vina Sulpicia Tinto 2009 from Castilla y Leon is a complex, deep, full fruit wine that can go head-to-head with really expensive Burgundies or Bordeaux for £10.95.  And the Fernando Classic Pedro Ximenez, from Jerez, Andalucia, which I had never had before, was an eye opener.  Liquid raisins in a glass, with a kick.  A great break from the usual port.


For your at-home discovery, I include the recipe for my favourite dish of the night.  Which you might want to try with a white Rioja called Labastida Tierra Bianco 2010.


CHORIZO WITH CHICKPEAS
2-3 tbsp olive oil
1 large onion, roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
250g chorizo, in small, fine slices
150ml sherry
Pinch of dried chillies
100g chickpeas (garbanzo beans), rinsed and drained
2 tbs chopped, flat-leaved parsley
3 beefsteak tomatoes, chopped roughly


Place the oil in a frying pan and heat.  Add the chopped onion and garlic and cook on a medium heat until caramelised.


Add the chorizo and cook for another 3 minutes until softened and the oil is released.


Add the sherry and deglaze the pan.


Add the chillies, chickpeas and tomatoes and cook on a low simmer until the tomato has dissolved completely into a sauce, and thickened up.


Serve with flat-leaved parsley sprinkled on top.

Bring on the gardeners to save Olympic Park

I was lucky to get a sneak preview of London's Olympic Park yesterday.  Overall impression:  Wow, is this grim.  And grey.  Very grey.

My view was from the balcony of Cisco House.  The networking company's penthouse complex, perched atop an office building on the edge of a huge shopping mall right next to the park, is a beautifully executed corporate hospitality and marketing complex.  But in a better-than-usual location.  As a major partner and provider to the Olympics, it made sense for Cisco to build next to the big show, and one of the glories of the place is a broad, covered balcony overlooking the heart of the new sports complex.

There's no denying that the architecture is good.  The swimming pavilion (middle left) is supposed to look like a wave but reminded me of some giant whale's tongue.  Amusing, and certainly aquatic. Water polo, just across from it, is monumental and interesting. The main stadium looks like it will soon start spinning and levitate on a mission to Mars.  Very Disney Tomorrowland vision of the future.  That vibe continues with the observation tower you can spot sticking up on the left, which looks like it should have a great roller coaster zipping around it but, sadly, those curves are just a giant sculpture with an observation deck on top.

And those things in the front?  Security tents, I was told.  A frightening logistical challenge, but obviously necessary.

You can see what a horrifically grey and wet day it was.  One hopes the weather improves in late July and August but, let's be honest:  this is England.  Chances are poor, especially since May and June have already been a chilly washout.  So we have white and grey buildings, against a backdrop of white and grey skies.

Maybe they were trying to be culturally in tune with the ancient Greeks.  Pericles and his boys loved white buildings.  The Acropolis looks fabulous against its frequent backdrop of vivid blue.  This grey on grey London scheme, I'm afraid, isn't promising.

If you're hoping the background will add some colour, think again.  We don't have mountains or dramatic landscapes to enliven the scene here.  This is the industrial mouth of the Thames.  Dead flat, punctuated by grim 1960s tower blocks.  Guess what?  They're grey.  Like most modern Olympic sites, this one has been built in an area desperately in need of regeneration.  A great thing for the area's future, but it means the views beyond the park are grim.  I hope visitors realise that they're going to have to travel to other places to see London's gracious, historic architecture.

All of which left me wondering why the architects didn't add interesting colours to the fascinating shapes of these buildings.  They could have splashed a vibrant statement onto a grey landscape and boosted the mood all around.  Instead, these great buildings fade into the background like a pack of snowy owls in the Arctic.

Let's hope for blue skies.  Then perhaps we'll get the "Greek effect" of contrast to show off the colourless beauty.  Alternatively, let's hope the horticulturalists work some magic in the next few weeks.  For hundreds of years, British gardeners have brought colour to otherwise dreary summers.  The cool rain is their friend.  While the skies might be grey, the weather brings out vibrant greens and plays friendly host to flowers in every shade.  If they can build the Chelsea Flower Show in a week, I suppose they can tart up the Olympic Park wonderfully in five.  I wait with interest.

Thank you, Ma'am, for the four day weekend ... sorry I couldn't make it to town

Before last weekend, the British monarchy had celebrated just one other diamond Jubilee in its history, when Queen Victoria made it to 60 years in in 1897.  I can't speak for the rest of the world, but I can't remember hearing of any other such long-serving monarchs.  Which makes this past weekend not just a once-in-a-lifetime thing; but something far rarer.

In my first decade in England, the proverbial wild horses couldn't have kept me away from the party.  Those were my heady days of 500-mile a weekend road trips, cash lavished on any event at a historic venue and a 6am start  ... and six hours in the queue ... to file past the Queen Mother's coffin.  My love of history and monarchy is intact.  If anything, continued exposure has made me respect and admire Queen Elizabeth II even more than when I first landed on these shores.  But I gave London a wide berth this weekend, watching the events on the BBC.  Just 45 miles from the action, I was having pretty much the same experience as all those Americans who would have killed to be there.

Blame the weather.  Like clockwork, the sun and warmth faded the closer we got to the holiday weekend.  Most of the big events played out in a rain-drizzled chill that would have done my perpetual, chemo-inspired chest problems no good at all.  Common sense said that decent views at any event would have required camping out; I later heard that people showing up for the river pageant four hours in advance ended up 14 rows back.  Of course, they didn't see a thing.  We got every detail in the living room.

I might not have battled the crowds in London, but it didn't lessen my enjoyment of the big event.  The whole country has gotten into the festive mood.  Union Jacks and patriotic bunting flew everywhere.  Patriotic street parties brought communities together.  Radios blared with a consistent soundtrack of the national anthem, Zadoc the Priest, Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance, Rule Britannia and the like.  Every magazine cover themed itself around the event.  I even spotted fireworks on the horizon.  It was as if the English ... usually hostile to any expression of national pride outside of athletic contents or Proms-style concerts ... suddenly decided to have their own Fourth of July or Bastille Day.  It was fabulous.  I wish we'd do it every year.  


We celebrated with our own barbecue, generous lashings of TV viewing and a lot of admiration of the woman at the centre of things.  A woman who's never had any choice in her role, has always lived life in a fishbowl, yet never shows us anything but grace and dignity.  A rock of calm surety in a world of mad change.  With every year that goes on, everyone seems to appreciate her more.  Those dark, anti-monarchical days following Diana's death are long gone.  Few would speak a word against the crown these days.  That makes at least one her majesty's adopted subjects very, very happy.