Two worlds collide joyously as my home team comes to town

England has become increasingly Americanised in the 25 years that I’ve lived here. Never in my wildest dreams, however, did I imagine I’d ever sit in a London Stadium watching my beloved St. Louis Cardinals take on the Chicago Cubs, with a packed house of local fans in red or blue cheering on their boys.

It almost didn’t happen. I had my tickets and my guest rooms were booked with family and friends for a 2020 series. Then came Covid. It took three years for Major League Baseball to get its plans back on track. While frustrating, I’m happy to say that they used the delay to improve most aspects of the experience from their inaugural London Series between the Yankees and Red Sox in 2019.

Some background:

To be born in St. Louis is to be born into Cardinal red. You learn history and civic pride through legends of the storied, 141-year-old franchise, winners of more World Series championships than any team except the Yankees. (Ergo you learn to dislike the New Yorkers. A lot.) The Cardinal players of your childhood become your models for success, perseverance, focus and positive attitude. Other parents track children’s growth with marks on a wall; Cardinal parents take annual photos in front of a statue of sainted outfielder and first baseman Stan Musial. On hot summer nights, your childhood lullaby is a duet between the cicadas in the trees and the Redbird game announcers on the radio. Your social milestones will be marked at Busch stadium, from childhood birthday parties to grown-up games followed by long hours drinking frosty local beer in iconic baseball bars. Winter isn’t a sporting season, it’s a rest between the World Series and Spring Training. 

I’m not just a Cardinals fan. They’re a fundamental part of my identity.

Proximity made the Cardinals and the Cubs natural rivals. With 300 miles between them, they were the closest teams to each other in their division, and have been playing each other for more than 130 years. (The Cubs have a narrow edge on their Southern rivals in the series, winning 1,261 to the Cardinals’ 1,212.) 

And yet, I love the Cubs, too. I went to university just nine miles North of their home ground and learned early on that they have the most beautiful stadium in baseball. Wrigley Field is an ivy-clad time capsule of mellow brick and wrought iron. I was at Northwestern in the years when Wrigley was the last park in Major League Baseball to reject lights. With all play fit in before twilight, weekdays at Wrigley were magical opportunities for poor students. Five dollars got you into the bleachers, a bit more into the upper decks from which you could drift down to excellent empty seats on the baselines without anyone really caring. I spent a lot of my spring quarters within these friendly confines, no doubt to the detriment of my grade point average. (My mother, equally steeped in Cardinal red, understood and sometimes even joined me.)

So while the MLB coming to London in 2019 was fun, this series was sacred. The iconic experiences of my youth were transposed onto the home of my maturity. Complete with local fans, Midwestern geniality and ballpark junk food. It was utterly bizarre, and joyously wonderful.

It wasn’t the sell-out of the Yankee-Red Sox outing. Fans who weren’t season ticket holders could get better seats, and everyone could buy in without difficulty. London Stadium repeated the miracle of building a round baseball stadium inside a football oval, but improved things by bringing the baselines in a bit and moving the seats closer to the field. Once you were inside the charmed circle, it felt a lot more like a proper baseball park than last time. 

Brits who were taking the opportunity to experience America’s pastime may be disappointed if they move on to see a game in the States. The ceremony and general level of hoopla was more like a championship match than your typical mid-season contest. There was a band and an entertaining in-stadium pre-game show. Massive flags unfurled on the outfield for the anthems, sung by a top-quality gospel choir. Players came out to bursts of flame. Fireworks wrapped the contest. In the middle, most intervals between innings had some sort of action, from mascot races to audience members catching fly balls for prizes.

The 7th-inning Stretch featured a glorious production of “Take me out to the ballgame.” Harry Carey, the legendary Cubs (and once Cardinals) commentator who immortalised communal singing of that anthem at Wrigley Field died 25 years too soon to lead the voices this weekend, but actor and Chicago Cubs stalwart Bill Murray took his place. I was hoping that Jon Hamm would make a corresponding appearance for our side, but I didn’t catch sight of him.

Sadly, the enormous fan zone that had been on the practice field did not make a return, but there were a smattering of batting cages on the concourse around the stadium. The rest of that circle was packed with food and drink options, and organisers made an honest attempt to get the right food into the Cardinal and Cub zoned areas. Chicago was big on hot dogs. St. Louis had bbq brisket sandwiches. I even heard reports, though never saw proof, that there was toasted ravioli somewhere. The BBC also reported on a frightening prospect called a donut burger, which seems to be an innovation made since I left the states and one I suspect someone with a lifelong weight problem should ignore.

A fan zone did exist … in Trafalgar Square. Free to enter, this featured batting cages, pitching games, booths to have a baseball card of yourself made and the shortest queues of the weekend for merch. The’d divided the square into a Cards side and another for the Cubs, with a small range of food and drink stalls. Offerings here were more generically American that aligned with either team, as evidenced by the Philly cheesesteak stand on my home town side. (Maybe they’re preparing for next year, when the Phillies take on the Mets.) A generous spread of picnic tables offered spots for people to watch the games, broadcast on three enormous screens. 

This was a great option for Brits who wanted to sample the fun but were put off by the hefty London Stadium ticket prices. Unlike the live game, crowds here were majority British with a sprinkling of American fans like me who had gone to one game but thought they’d check out the second here. One disadvantage to the remote location is that they don’t broadcast any of the pre-game festivities, which seemed a shame. No doubt something to do with broadcast rights. Attendance in Trafalgar Square was surprisingly light; it will be interesting to see if they do the takeover next year. 

If they do, I suspect I’m more likely to be there than in London Stadium. While I’m delighted MLB will return, it would take a lot to match the Cardinals v. The Cubs. 

The Cardinals and Cubs split the series, with Chicago taking the first game 9-1 and St. Louis fought back to a 7-5 victory in the second.

Verona Day Trip No. 2: Lake Garda, Bardolino and Sirmione

More Germans visit Italy than do tourists from any other country. This seems hard to believe when you're deep in the heart of "Chiantishire", aka Tuscany, where every other table rings with English accents, or on the streets of Rome and Florence, where juggernauts of American group tours block your progress. But at almost 13 million visitors a year, the Germans arrive at just over double the rate of Americans, and more than triple the French (3rd place) or Brits (4th). If you want to see this in action, just go to Lake Garda.

I suspect you hear more linguistic variety in Berlin or Munich than you do on the shores of this wildly picturesque lake. The villages may be out of the background of a Raphael painting. The food and wine may be robustly Northern Italian. But the linguistic landscape here will have you defaulting to "ein bier, bitte" before you know it. 

There's no problem with that. In fact, despite their reserve-the-deck-chairs-early reputation, I generally find Germans to be wonderfully genial, polite and culturally respectful travelling companions. We have one of them … the writer Goethe … to thank for much of our modern fascination with Italian tourists. The German dominance is just the most surprising quirk of this region. Everything else, from the fabulous landscapes to the great food and the abundant crowds is as you'd expect.

Verona is less than 20 miles as the crow flies from the southern tip of Lake Garda, but you won't get a comprehensive view of the lake on a day trip. It's best thought of as a whole holiday region: the lake is 32 miles long, just under 143 square miles on its surface, bordered by three different Italian regions and with 26 comuni, or townships, on its shores. At the northern tip the scene is Alpine, while down south gentle slopes of vines level out to plains of rice and wheat. (And, these days, the industrial/business heartland of the Italian economy.)

One of the most picturesque spots within easy striking distance of Verona is Sirmione, but the best way to approach that narrow, tourist-packed finger of land is by boat. So we drove a bit further than strictly necessary (though not more than an hour) to Bardolino, from which we took a ferry to and from.

Bardolino is a pretty little town with lanes of pastel-coloured buildings leading down to its waterfront. It's obvious that tourism is the main industry, as it's packed with shops spilling onto the pavements with local crafts, holiday clothing, jewelry and accessories. The percentage of restaurants, especially those with vast al fresco dining areas, is far higher than standard. There's a small enclosed harbour for sailboats and a long, lovely promenade along the lakeshore. Most critically, it has an enormous car park for visitors not too far from the main tourism area, and is a frequent ferry stop.

There’s a small kiosk for buying ferry tickets just behind the lakeside war memorial. Keep in mind that there are different types of boats on the route that travel at different speeds. We went for the totally enclosed fast option, about 20 minutes and direct, outbound and took a slower trip back with an open observation deck. The journey is beautiful and as much of a highlight as anything you’ll see on shore. 

Taking a boat to Sirmione drops you inside the fortified area of the old town, saving you from the turmoil of parking and fighting your way through the crowds jamming the entry gate. This is one of the most popular spots on the Italian lakes, so being clever about avoiding jams is important.

Three things make Sirmione special.

First, it’s an unusually long and narrow peninsula sticking straight up into the lake. The views per square foot are, therefore, enormous. Second, it’s been a hot spot for the rich and famous for more than 2000 years. Tourists can scramble through the ruins of Roman poet Catullus’ home on the tip of the peninsula, or pay to stay in slightly more modern spreads that have been converted to hotels. Third, in the Middle Ages the peninsula was fortified by the Scagliere family (we already met them at their tombs in Verona) who built a showy castle and enclosed harbour. Even though this is where you’ll encounter the worst crowds, it’s worth going out the gate to look back at the fairy-tale scene. 

From there, we set out on a counter-clockwise stroll around the tip of the peninsula. Skirting the edges offers the best combination of views of buildings, gardens, shore and lake. Not far after the church, and the view over a beautiful, private shoreline garden, steps turn down towards a beach area, with the path continuing along a historic promenade between the lake and the walls of the Villa Cortine hotel. (This is clearly where to stay if you’ve won the lottery.) If you’re concentrating on the route you may not look back and see the atmospheric beach bar next to the steps, below an old Medieval tower. The Bar La Torre has great atmosphere, prompt service, ann impressive cocktail list and surprisingly tasty local snacks considering there’s not much room for a kitchen. Our smoked trout crostini were a real treat, and the hamburgers coming to the table beside us made us wish we hadn’t had such a big breakfast.

You can continue all the way to the Roman ruins on that panoramic path, but we took a flight of stairs at the end of the Villa Cortine’s wall. The climb takes you to a long, wooded park running along the opposite side of the luxury hotel. It’s strange, given how narrow Sirmione is, to find this completely enclosed area from which there’s no view of water. But as you start downhill the lake views return, now on your right rather than your left. The stroll now takes you down a street balancing tourist shops, restaurants and holiday villas. 

You’ll also pass the Terme di Sirmione, a spa complex that beckons for a longer visit or a girls’ trip. The hot springs on the edge of the lake were what first attracted the Romans, and they’re still working their magic. 

Before too long you’ve returned to the cheerful square lined with multi-coloured buildings from which the ferries come and go. This, and the little lanes around it, are dotted with restaurants. Lengthy queues spill out of gelaterias. They sport the usual broad range of flavour but one dominates here: Lemon. The groves around the Southern part of the lake have been famous for centuries, having originally been introduced by the Venetians who wanted to develop their own source of something they had been getting through trade with Arabs. Chefs favour Garda lemons for their sharp and sweet taste and a flavourful but thin rind. 

This is the home of limoncello. You’ll see it everywhere, and incorporated into cocktails and dishes in interesting ways. Our friends warned us off the limoncello spritz, however, which they assured us was like drinking cough syrup. I’ll leave the limoncello to the German visitors. I followed local preference and opted for a Cinzano spritz, like the now-ubiquitous Aperol but with a touch more bitterness. A perfect drink to nurse while watching the parade of tourists meandering through the packed streets.

And then, rather than fighting the crowds back through the castle gates, we climbed onto the ferry’s open top and started our journey back to the car. If you don’t want to hike all the way out to the ruins, this sail by is the best way to get a look at Catullus’ house. Its impressive foundations still tower over the Northern tip of the peninsula. 

 

A stately glide across the lake, and the fact that the sun was now sinking so the earlier glare had gone, allowed us to appreciate the vast sweep of water before the mountains rose up to the North. This slow ferry puts in first at Cisano, yet another pretty little village of multi-coloured buildings around a venerable old castle, and then continued along the coast back to Bardolino. 

Clusters of villas in the hills attest to the fact that, after 2,000 years, we’re still following Catullus’ advice and heading to the Italian lakes to soothe our souls. And if most of the residents of those villas are what the ancient poet would consider “barbarians” from Germania … their holidays are just a signal of their good taste. Whether you’re raising your spritz to “cin cin” or “Prost” there are few better places to do it.

Verona Day Trip No. 1: The architectural delights of Vicenza

You are unlikely to have heard of Vicenza, or to have any reason to visit, unless you are a devotee of the history of Western architecture. In that case, this is sacred ground. The town’s most famous son was Andrea Palladio, the man who almost single-handedly created and defined the neo-classicism that went on to dominate everything from the English country house to global government buildings to modern housing estates and offices. 

Vicenza is architecture ground zero, filled with famous buildings Palladio designed.

We started in Vicenza’s main square, dominated by the Basilica Palladiana. Palladio won a contest to restore a crumbling gothic town hall and came up with a radical solution to skin the whole thing with a new exterior. Pristine white marble instead of red brick. Round arches and the clean lines of classical columns rather than pointed arches and fiddly minarets. A progression of those round arches is flanked by rectangular openings on each side … what came to be called a Palladian window. Repeated, these form an arcade on the ground floor and a loggia above. Scores of different offices and shops could be housed inside, but they’d all be unified by this elegant exterior that made the whole thing look like Ancient Rome come back to life. Heroic classical statues stand along the roofline, as if Olympian spectators are viewing life in the city below. It is a beguilingly beautiful construction.

A short walk away is a building that would be as influential on the architecture of entertainment as the Basilica was on government. The Teatro Olimpico was the first indoor theatre built in the Renaissance and arguably the first purpose-built one since classical times. Theatre had been an integral part of the cultural life of Greece and Rome, performed in grand, dedicated spaces. After the collapse of empire it devolved to religious plays put on in the street or churches, or small performances in rulers' homes. The Teatro Olimpico was a return to the grandeur of the past. 

Palladio built a three-level classical screen behind the stage, re-creating exactly what you would have seen in the great theatres of Greece and Rome. And the ruins of which tourists still flock to see in places like Athens, Taormina or Jerash (Jordan). The semi-circular seating area is pulled right from those models as well, with an impressive colonnade topped with statuary ringing the back. While those ancient theatres were open air, the great Palladian innovation was building the whole thing inside, with a roof painted to look like the sky. 

Three arches in the screen behind the stage show off scenery that plays tricks with perspective, with city streets seeming to dwindle to a distant vanishing point even though it’s actually only a few feet deep.  Outside the theatre space there are a couple of grand, frescoed rooms for attendees to mix and mingle; clearly the fore-runner of the bars ready to serve up interval drinks. The elegance and sophistication of this space is breath-taking, as is the realisation that it’s still fit for theatrical purpose more than 500 years after its construction. It’s even more impressive when you consider that London, with its outsized influence on the history of European drama, didn’t have its first purpose-built theatre for almost 100 years after the Olimpico opened, and it would be longer before a British theatre got a roof.

My passion for Palladio started not with government buildings or theaters but with the English country house, and it was our jaunt to the Villa Rotonda that really made my day. About a mile and a half outside of town, perched on a hill overlooking the river Bacchiglione and gentle agricultural lands, this rigorously symmetrical country house became the model for countless buildings around the world. 18th century English aristocrats became particularly obsessed: Chiswick House, just outside London, and the Temple of the Four Winds at Castle Howard are almost direct copies, and indirect influence is obvious up and down the country. After three decades of serious English country house exploration, it was so exciting to finally be here.

The building is a gem set within its landscape. From the distance it appears more of a lost, perfectly preserved temple than a house. The entry is one of ceremonial grandeur, up a sunken avenue of roses, then the path divides in two around a perfect oval of manicured lawn before imposing steps rise between guardian statues to a portico beneath an austere pediment held aloft by six elegant ionic columns. A dome rises behind. What's distinctive about the Villa Rotonda is that this is the facade on all four sides. Each portico has a central door opening into a rectangular hall that leads to a round, double-height room beneath the dome. In between the entrance halls are living rooms in each corner, while four circular stairs off the rotonda lead to rooms upstairs. (Presumably bedrooms, through you don't get to see these.)

The tile and marble floors, the high ceilings and the cross-breezes that come through if you open all the doors create perfect natural air conditioning. It was blazing outside, but the interiors were deliciously cool. Exactly the retreat from the baking cities that rich Italian landowners were after. The irony is that the English fell for a style that is fundamentally opposed to their climate. A bit like modern London restaurants trying to create cozy alfresco dining areas when they need heaters most of the year and traffic is whizzing by just a meter away, Palladian architecture in England was all about conjuring memories of happy, sunny places visited on special holidays. Despite the challenges of heating them, the neo-classical mansion set in a carefully-designed pastoral idyll was repeated so many times that people think of it as fundamentally English. But it all started in Vicenza.

Bluntly, there's not that much to see at Villa Rotonda and if you don't have that context in mind it might even be a bit underwhelming. But it's a lovely place and worth lingering. There are some pretty gardens around the house, benches beneath shaded porticos and places to spread out on the lawn beneath the trees. Some in our party read. Some sketched. We made an afternoon of it. If you wander this way, you'll get the greatest enjoyment by doing the same. 

Do check opening times. Unlike the many Palladian buildings in the town centre you can look at from the outside 24/7, the Villa is usually closed for several hours for lunch. Plan accordingly, as it's on a country lane and there is nothing close by in which to while away your time.

Verona: Where to stay; what and where to eat

WHERE TO STAY

One of the first cultural differences I learned to appreciate in Italy was to never judge a building by its exterior. Non-descript architecture or graffiti-scrawled, crumbling walls often enclosed palatial rooms or high-design interiors with all the mod cons. Thus it is with Verona’s Hotel San Luca.

Its location down a grubby alley behind a McDonalds doesn’t promise much. The double-height lobby enclosed in gauzy curtains, filled with traditional carpets and furniture and illuminated with a crystal chandelier under a ceiling painted to mimic the sky is a surprise after a humble, mid-century-modern entry in an alley off the alley. If you didn’t know the hotel was there, you’d never stumble upon it, and you’d never guess at the comfort and luxurious design within. 

The hotel’s greatest advantage, however, is location. It’s a five-minute stroll to Piazza Bra, the town square dominated by the Roman amphitheater, and from there on to the rest of the historic centre. Despite that central location, the San Luca’s back alley location … plus solid windows screened by metal shutters … make it remarkably quiet. Bedrooms mix modern design with a traditional sensibility, mattresses and pillows are high quality sheathed in crisp Italian linens, and the air conditioning works well. (The last is a real gift when you’re returning from a day of hot, sticky sightseeing.)  

Everyone we met on staff was fluent in Italian, English and German and those on the front desk were conversant on all the local tourist attractions … including a local’s grasp of the city’s operatic traditions. Breakfast is basic, in classic Italian style. A few cakes and pastries, a bit of fruit, a plate of ham and cheese, with a lovely duo who ran the room quick to serve up the coffee of your choice. 

The hotel even has a very limited amount of parking if you arrange it with them well in advance. Rooms start at around £170, with costs rising in line with the tourist seasons. This would definitely be my choice for a return to Verona.

WHERE TO EAT

Tre Marchetti - If you want to push the boat out with a full Veronese tasting menu, complete with theatrical light and video projections to make your dinner a work of art, this is the place to go. (Booking essential for the visual experience, or on any opera night.) But you needn’t indulge to that full extent to enjoy a meal here. We dined a la carte, on two courses each, and had a marvellous evening. 

Tre Marchetti is just a stone’s throw from the arena but, critically, it’s down a small lane at the back rather than fronting on to the Piazza Bra. That makes the atmosphere quite different, as you are free of the crowds but still have the atmosphere. The arches of the arena loom above the end of the street, historic buildings lean in above you and tables under awnings in the street are set with white linen and gold gilt Venetian water goblets. 

Verona sits in the middle of a rice-growing region and is therefore known for its risotto. But our friends who knew the town well went for another starch: bigoli. This is essentially very fat spaghetti, usually freshly made and rarely found outside local restaurants in this area. We enjoyed it here, and at several other spots. I did, however, observe a connection between the size of the restaurant and the bigoli. The smaller and more family-run the place appeared to be, the fatter the bigoli. The larger and more commercial, the more likely what’s called “bigoli” on the menu comes out looking like spaghetti. 

This is also a region full of lakes, so duck appears on a lot of menus. Here, my husband had it in a confit-style leg. Pork, veal and horse are also quite common on the meat front. I had suckling pig here that had been brought to an almost pulled-pork consistency, covered with cheese sauce. Given that Verona is close to the mountains, dairy herds contribute a variety of local cheeses. It’s also a wine region, and locals seem very fond of cooking with the white Soave and the red Valpolicella. Given that this was once part of the Venetian empire, there are a lot of seafood dishes here from that city. If you’re avoiding animal protein, aubergine (eggplant) seems to be a favourite vegetable. In short, there’s a broad range of local specialities here and you’ll eat well at many places. Though at Tre Marchetti you’ll do it in a bit more style, with a more delicate and sophisticated touch to flavours and presentation.

Emanuele Cafe - This is perhaps a more obvious choice, given that it’s in the long run of restaurants on the Piazza Bra overlooking the arena. Note that this is not the Ristorante Vitorio Emanuele, closer to the statue of the king of the same name, but a spot two businesses down. We stopped here because they had a large selection of pizze bianche, an appealing option for my tomato-allergic husband. We liked it so much we returned for another dinner, and lingered here until closing time after we went to the opera.

Multi-page, laminated menus with multiple languages and a bit of everything are usually the warning of a tourist trap in Italy, but that wasn’t the case here. Other than the bigoli, which was too close to normal spaghetti to win our friends’ approval, the food was excellent. Pizzas here have hand-shaped sourdough bases that give that wonderful little acidic bite and erupt with air bubbles in the blazing pizza ovens. Local cheeses and a light but well-balanced touch with a wide range of ingredients offered options for everyone.

They demonstrated a more sophisticated touch with dishes like torta melanzane, a local delight that’s chunks of cooked tomatoes, on their way to sauce, enclosed in a parcel of thin aubergine slices that have been softened by cooking in oil, then served on a bed of burrata cheese. Vegetarian dishes don’t get much better than this. 

El Cuciar gets an honourable mention. I only had one dish here so can’t offer an informed review, but their bigoli with a duck Raghu was fantastic. Most important for my day was that it’s directly across from the front of the duomo in an area where there’s little else around, I was dropping from exhaustion and they offered a shady table with a view of the cathedral’s medieval front porch, and quickly arrived with ice cold beer and equally chilled carafes of water. I sketched. I drank. I ate. They were happy to let me while away the heat of the day at the table. This is what the Italians call Dolce far Niente … the sweetness of doing nothing … and El Cuciar was a perfect spot to embrace it. If I were back in that part of town I’d definitely try it again.

Marquetry masterpieces and an iconic garden are my Verona highlights

Verona probably wouldn’t make most Brits' lists of the top 5 dream destinations in Italy … but it probably should. The city is so much more than the Shakespearean associations and the opera festival that draws most tourists from the UK.

A major cross-roads on affluent trading routes since its founding, Verona has all the layers of history you can find in Rome, lashings of the distinctive gothic architecture that makes Venice (its former owner) so romantic, and churches and palaces filled with enough Renaissance art to rival Florence. But it’s a lot less crowded with tourists than its more famous sister cities. And it’s only two hours on a direct flight from London. Perfect for a long weekend, or as a base for longer if you want to include the Italian lakes, the beautiful Venetian back country or … just over an hour on a fast train … Venice itself.

We got our bearings with the Hop On Hop Off bus tour which starts its rounds from the central Piazza Bra, just across a small park from the Roman arena. (£25 for adults for a 24-hour pass.) If you’re unfamiliar with the city and its history, as we were, you may only retain a fraction of the copious commentary. The automatic triggers are often slightly off, leaving you desperately looking around for what the recording is talking about. But it’s a great way to cover a lot of ground and get an introduction to more than 2,000 years of Veronese history.

If you are short on time, start with the B Line. This route runs a minibus, rather than the full open top bus, so is able to drive through part of the historic city centre. It also winds up a forested hillside to a magnificent view of the city and its encircling Adige river. Line A can only go around the outskirts, and about a quarter of its commentary is shared with the tour on the smaller bus. Thus taking both tours is a nice to have, but not strictly necessary.

Whether you ride one or both, you will get a sense of the extraordinary bend in the Adige river that creates almost an apostrophe of land, an easily defensible site for a city in more difficult times. And there were plenty of those. There are Roman walls for holding back barbarians, renaissance castles for fighting off other Italians or invading French armies, and lots of impressive fortifications from the 19th century, when the Austrias and French fought over the place. There are a lot of famous churches, a Roman theatre to match the city’s arena, lots of picturesque bridges and several striking piazzas.

While Piazza Bra is probably most famous for the arena, Piazza Della Erbe is the beating heart of the old town, with market, stalls and restaurants overlooked by handsome houses and towers. Just behind that is the Piazza della Signoria, far less crowded even though it is just a stone’s throw from the other. It’s arguably prettier, with a statue of Dante in the middle… he spent his part of his exile here … and surrounded by the buildings from which mediaeval and renaissance rulers ran the place.

In one corner, you can just spot the Scaligere Tombs, one of Verona‘s artistic masterpieces. Most mediaeval aristocrats like to have their monuments inside churches. The Scaligere must have had quite a penchant for showing off, because they built their tombs outside, on a high traffic corner. They are as detailed and lavish as reliquaries, but each are two or three stories tall. Exactly what you would expect from a dynasty founded by a guy named Cangrande. Literally “big dog”.

I would have liked to have seen the inside of big dog’s castle, now called Castel Vecchio and a museum that combines the delights of wandering around a medieval fortress with lots of art and history. Plus excellent views of the river. Sadly, the museum is closed on Monday, which was the day available for diving into stuff that intrigued me on the bus tour.

Instead I headed for the Giardini Giusti, just across the river at the top that apostrophe of land that was the ancient city centre. Likely to make any expert’s list of top gardens in Italy, these are a classic of the late renaissance style. Goethe, Mozart, Ruskin and the Tsar of Russia were amongst the notable visitors. The place was so famous that, when Verona was part of the Austro-Hungarian empire, the Habsburg emperor had the family officially change their last name to Giusti del Giardino.

Close to the house there are lots of formal hedge parterres and a maze, gravel paths on geometric lines, classical statuary marking central points and narrow spikes of cypress edging the central path. That leads to dramatic stairs and a tower bisecting the steep, forested hill that forms the back half of the garden. Along the sides, things start to get a bit more informal, with some shady bits and less formal statuary, including picturesque jumbles of old Roman tombstones and sarcophagi. I wonder if any of those aristocratic Romans, when planning their memorials, could have imagined they’d become garden ornaments?

The whole garden changes mood dramatically when you hit the steep hillside at its back, where earthen paths twist and wind at crazy angles, their surfaces often broken by thick tree roots or broken shards of ancient pavement. (This is no place for people unsteady on their feet.) Quirky surprises litter your path, like a grotto with fake stalactites that were once covered with shards of mirror. You may think you are at the top when you reach a pretty pavilion held up on delicate marble columns, with a gorgeous view of the city. But you’re not done yet. Follow another path between trees and an enormous old wall and you come to the base of that tower you saw on entry. Climb about 50 circular steps and you’ll come out on yet another radical change of mood; gently-sloping lawns dotted with bushes. The views from here are extraordinary, as you’re now probably the equivalent of eight stories above the formal bit at the front and have a bird’s eye view not just of the city, but of the Giusti family’s lovely villa.

Your entry ticket includes the family apartments inside, which were renovated after they reclaimed the property following significant damage in World War II. (Little is said of the building’s time as the HQ of the Luftwaffe in Italy, no doubt a catalyst for destruction.) While the gardens are the star attraction, it’s fun to have a poke around the house of the family who still owns the place.

The best thing I saw in Verona, however, is barely mentioned in guides. I’d arrived in the neighbourhood before the gardens opened, so popped into Santa Maria Organo. The sign out front talked about an early medieval wooden carving of Christ on a Donkey that was much beloved. I was looking at it when a caretaker beckoned me down a non-descript hallway and into an exquisite sacristy with wooden stalls around the bottom half and lively paintings above. The back of each stall held a marquetry picture of dazzling complexity. City scapes, animals, household objects, scientific tools all done in perfect perspective and depth with tiny pieces of coloured wood.

Another set decorated the backs of the stalls in the choir you enter from the sacristy. Below the lectern there is a wooden panel of a rabbit so lifelike it looks like it may jump away. Its fur is picked out in pine needles. Its reflection shown in water made from wood naturally turned blue by a type of fungi. All of the panels, and all the carving on the frames around them, were created by one man: a monk associated with the church called Fra Giovanni da Verona.

These are some of the most extraordinary examples of marquetry I’ve ever seen. They are as beautiful as those from the Studiolo of the palace in Mantua, part of which is in the Metropolitan Museum of art and all of which is world famous. The Mantua panels are a standard feature in most art history textbooks, while the Verona panels are almost unknown, left to serendipitous discovery at the back of a small church, easily missed if the caretaker doesn’t offer to unveil its secrets. 

Most visitors to Verona will be queue and jostle to stand under the supposed balcony of Juliet. Skip that. If time is short, skip everything else. Get to Santa Maria Organo and be dazzled. 

Aida with spaceships, light sabres and moon walking? Verdi's rolling in his grave

Getting what you wish for can be a dangerous thing.

Regular readers of my opera commentary will know that I’m always wishing for spectacular productions with remarkable sets and hundreds of people on stage. While I don’t expect such things of small companies like Longborough, I get frustrated when major institutions like the Royal Opera House start cutting costs with simple costumes, streamlined sets with video projections. In pursuit of the grand staging I favour, we splurged on an opera weekend to see Aida in Verona. The festival at the Arena there could always be depended on for the kind of massive productions that delight me.

Spectacle, we got. But traditional it wasn’t. We were served up Aida meets Barbarella, played out on an enormous, slanting, mirrored stage empty but for an enormous wire mesh hand that made a fist or unfurled at different points in the action. The wreckage of a space ship lay scattered on one side of the arena. Costumes were heavy on silver, metallic and mirrors and … other than some eyes of Horus painted on white suits and black masks of Egyptian gods worn atop other robes, lacked any references to the beloved ancient Egyptian setting of the plot. In one of the more memorable get-ups, the Princess’ handmaidens wore white ball gowns with silver metallic crash helmets. 

The triumph scene that leads into intermission is one of the most famous in opera. Our hero, Radames, has returned to Egypt from conquering Ethiopia and leads a procession in front of the pharoah to show off all the slaves and loot he’s brought back. Traditional productions have chariots, horses, wagon loads of treasure, dancing captives and random exotic animals. I’m fairly sure the production I saw as a kid at the baths of Caracalla in Rome had an elephant. This version of the scene has no props and no animals, just hundreds of people cutting strangely modern dance moves reflected in their mirrored costumes. One troupe of mail dancers in white trousers, bare chests and silver sequinned jackets appeared to be doing a Michael Jackson-inspired group dance complete with claps, rhythmic jumps and something that looked suspiciously like a moon walk. I actually laughed out loud. The ballet usually danced by enticing slave girls featured women in stringed, beaded dresses that rattled every time they threw themselves to the ground, which they did often, as if the director decided Verdi’s music actually needed some extra percussion.

The other scene that usually grips the imagination in Aida is at the end, when Radames and Aida find themselves sealed in a tomb to die together. Traditionally this is a monumental set on two levels, with a tomb burial chamber with Tutankhamen-style loot below while the rest of the Egyptian court continues with ceremony above. A feast for the eyes. Here, it was a wire-caged pyramid set atop an empty cube. A high school production could have carried this off.

Director Stephano Poda is also listed as lighting designer. (He’s responsible for sets, costumes and choreography, too, which his web site will tell you all about in language that lacks any sense of humility and uses the kind of pretentious, overblown phrases typical of marketers trying to spin some bit of rubbish up into high art.) The lighting effects give the production some of its most successful moments. Lasers cut across banks of generated mist creating rippling patterns of colour. In the trial scene, cast members dressed in black process around and up the back curve of the arena, and in a scene where Radames and Aida meet beside the Nile, others perform slow movements with long rods of light, as if they’re a living bed of reeds. Yet the Sci Fi element risks it all tipping into the preposterous, as the rods look a hell of a lot like light sabers. (“The Sith have arrived!” my husband whispered as the red lamp bearing characters processed up the arena backdrop.)

Though I prefer my operas traditional, I am not automatically opposed to modernity. The Met’s production of The Ring relied heavily on video and a high-tech wall of metal pillars swinging on hinges that was both a spectacle and a fresh take. But new versions should make the opera better, or give us fresh revelations about how a historic work can still teach us something about our lives today. Poda’s production did none of this. Instead, it made the classic tangibly worse, obscuring the action, hiding the main characters and generally confusing the audience. This wasn’t just our party. On an opera weekend in Verona, most of the tourists on the main piazza have come for the same performance, and conversations naturally drift to your impressions. Several people who were seeing Aida for the first time were particularly mystified.

Poda’s staging tended to mass large groups of people around the key singers, rather than setting them apart. His costumes dressed the leads in colours similar to the crowds with whom they were affiliated. Photos later showed there was some differentiation, but nothing you could see from a distance, which you’d think would be part of the basic brief when you’re performing in an ancient Roman amphitheatre seating 20,000 people. There’s no artificial amplification in the arena, nor is the action filmed and relayed to a big screen to give you a detailed look at what’s going on. So we spent a lot of time trying to figure out who was singing, and where the hell they were on the stage. When the curtain call came, there were two leads … a priest and a handmaiden, we think … who we didn’t even realise were there.

Added to this was the sound quality of a massive outdoor space. I don’t remember it being so challenging to hear the only other time I was here … also for Aida … about 20 years ago. But even at the best of times the orchestra was distant and the singing indistinct, with the exception of the clear, bright tenor who played Radames. At the worst, soloists might as well have been singing outside the arena, particularly when Poda’s staging had them singing as they walked away from the audience. I know it is anathema to opera purists, but if you really want to modernise Verona why not consider some electronic amplification?

Overall, I was bitterly disappointed. The Franco Zeffirelli designed production I saw here early in the ‘00s was one of the most extraordinary opera experiences of my life, and I wanted my husband to share that. But opera critics, it turned out, have been increasingly negative about Verona just rolling out the same productions year after year. And, of course, nobody in the opera world can be taken seriously by the opera establishment with a traditional staging. Everyone needs to be avant garde and come up with radical new interpretations. As it approached its centenary, the Arena di Verona felt it needed to give in to the pressure and reinvent its festival. Assumptions of tradition and lack of research on my part landed us in a giant experiment. Had we picked Carmen or Traviata, we could have been seen the Zefferelli classics. It was Aida, the opera they perform every year, that had to change.

Despite it all, I’m glad we went. Seeing anything inside one of the world’s best-preserved Roman amphitheatres is a memorable experience. It’s a wonderful building, and as you clamber up the extremely steep, nearly 2000-year-old steps to get in you can’t help but reflect on all who’ve come before you. The vibe in Verona is fantastic, with thousands of people all there in pursuit of the same thing, quick to start up conversations and find common ground. It’s much like the atmosphere of fans travelling for an international sporting event, except the chat strays to critiques of the orchestra and debates about your favourite soprano.

We were also there on the opening weekend of the whole festival, adding a large dash of Italian glamour. Though we attended on the Saturday night, we were able to walk around the park that would become the red-carpeted hospitality area, take our own photos in front of the logo wall (every noteworthy event has to have one) and stand with the rest of the plebs watching the celebrities turn up. I didn’t recognise anyone, though Sophia Loren and George and Amal Clooney were there somewhere. But fashion watching was a blast, and a fly-over by the Italian air force trailing red, white and green vapour trails makes for a memorable dinner.

So yes, to any of my opera-loving readers, it is worth making the effort to see something at the Arena di Verona festival. You just might want to do a bit more research before you buy your tickets to see what kind of production you’re getting. Whatever the details, you’ll have a story to tell back home.

The Round-Up: It’s a breathless gallop through the late spring social diary

Since returning from our Scandinavian cruise, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends. Work has been intense … of that, the less said the better … and life has been packed with good things. Many outings deserved their own story, but there’s been no time to write. So here’s a quick roundup of five madcap weeks back in the UK.

A required event whenever my father visits is an extended family dinner. The tradition goes back to the early ‘00s, when the trio that established our Northwestern Girls’ trips shared parents whenever they visited. As expats living far from our families, it was always a treat to be included and over the years each of us felt blessed to acquire adoptive mothers and fathers. These days, sadly, only my father and Hillary’s mother remain, making those dinners all the more precious. Dumpling’s Legend, on Gerrard Street in the heart of London’s Chinatown, remains an ideal spot to host a large group meal. They’re known for the best soup dumplings in London, made with astonishing speed and lightening dexterity behind a window near the entrance. Though they have a full a la carte menu, ordering one of the set banquets is ideal for a party. Something for everyone arrives in quantity; I’ve never been with a group that managed to clear all the plates. They’re my favourite Chinese restaurant in town. A quick walk from most West End theatres, this is also my pick for pre-theatre dining.

We’d been home just five days when my father and I decamped for Stow-on-the-Wold in the Cotswolds. Though I was working for the week, it gave him a chance to do a bit of sightseeing somewhere different and gave the two of us some quiet time on our own. We returned to The Little House at the edge of Stow-on-the-Wold, which remains tremendous value for money in a pricey holiday rental market. With two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a compact lounge with dining table, a walled courtyard and street parking just outside, it’s a comfortable home base for two and works for three for short periods. (My husband joined us at the end of the stay for the bank holiday weekend.) Unusually good broadband means working from there is easy, and the property’s location on the edge of the village puts it in easy walking distance to all shops and restaurants.

We returned to The Old Butchers and remain impressed by its family-owned, high-end bistro vibe. But the restaurant discovery of the visit was The Old Stocks, a place we’d tried to get into last year but learned that didn’t happen without advanced booking. Inventive dishes, beautiful presentation, delicate flavours, local sourcing, charming staff. Gambling for cocktails at the start sets the tone for a fun evening: roll a die to determine what fruit liqueur will jazz up your English sparkling wine. This is the spot to which we’ll return on our next visit in July.

The reason we were in the Cotswolds, as regular readers will anticipate, was the opening of Longborough Opera Festival’s 2023 season. I was so delighted to be able to introduce the man who introduced me to genre in the first place to the country house opera tradition in the UK. I think Dad was a bit amazed (as, to be fair, most first-time visitors are) by the whole odd spectacle of people in formal wear tucking into gourmet nibbles liberated from plastic boxes onto picnic tables set in the grandeur of the English countryside. And that’s not even the main event. As ever, Wagner kicked off the new season, and we were there on opening night. The emotional impact of a virtuoso performance was so strong that as the last notes faded away, the audience sat in stunned silence. It was almost as if the 500 willed, as one, for the sweeping epic not to be over. (And that’s saying a lot for a performance that takes up around four hours.) Then the silence broke to rapturous applause and cries of “Bravo! Brava!”, with particular acclaim going to Lee Bisset for her astounding turn as Brünnhilde. I can’t wait to return next summer to see the cast re-assemble for the full Ring Cycle. (Though we’re back in July for Purcell’s Fairie Queen.)

My working week in the country was busier than planned thanks to an unexpected call back to London, made worse by the non-functioning train line between Oxford and Didcot that extended the journey. But the reason was worth the pain: my boss invited me as her “plus one” to corporate hospitality at the Chelsea Flower Show. The show gardens were underwhelming this year. The trend for informal planting has seemingly reached its apogee in what many commentators were calling “the year of the weed”. There are some years you’re eagerly taking notes, spotting new plants and getting ideas you can take home. Others, not so much. Which is almost the way you want it when you’re gifted with corporate hospitality, since you end up spending at least as much time on the merriment as on the horticulture.

We were guests of the FT and The Newt. The latter is the headline sponsor of the show but, contrary to tradition, does not sponsor a garden. They instead host their guests in a large pavilion above the restaurant at the end of the main avenue, right across from the BBC’s broadcast facility. This really is the ideal way to attend something notorious for its crowds. Access was from 5:30 to 10 and thanks to my former show knowledge I think I put together quite a strategic itinerary, making a succession of looping sorties through the show with pauses back in the hospitality area for cocktails and canapés. While the crowds were still thick we headed to the Great Marquee, always my favourite bit as this is where the specialist growers are. I was fascinated by a display treating a variety of mushrooms like modern art. Another loop took us around the smaller gardens as the paid guests were leaving. The final covered all the main show gardens, seen after the show had closed to the public and the only occupants were the corporate hospitality punters. A lot of them. Everyone in The Newt’s facility plus sponsor’s guests on every garden. A glorious rebel against the informal planting was Mr. Ishikara’s annual Japanese garden (yet another gold medal) a wonder of precision-planted moss, water, Japanese maples, iris and hosta that’s moved across the main avenue to one of the bigger spaces this year. On our breaks, we were quaffing sparkling wine from The Newt owner’s South African estate and cocktails made with The Newt’s gin, while gobbling up delicate canapés made from new season vegetables. (Delicious, but I did need a sandwich on the way back to the Cotswolds to curb my hunger).

Two days later I was introducing my father to the delights of Hidcote Manor Garden, and found myself wondering why anyone gets excited about Chelsea at all. Hidecote was more spectacular than any garden at the show this year, and its succession of “garden rooms” provides just as much variety. Not as convenient for Londoners as popping across town to Chelsea, but very much worth the effort.

The next weekend, the last of my father’s visit, we were back in the capital for art and entertainment. The art was calculated to pull in the British public. Portraits of Dogs at the Wallace Collection is one of the most joyous art exhibitions I’ve ever attended. The curators make a noble attempt to be serious about the art but, really, it’s just an excuse to roll around in lovely stories and pretty pictures of man’s best friend. Landseer’s cavalier King Charles spaniels, in two paintings here, were a natural favourite given I own the breed, but the final room full of David Hockney dachshunds took best in show. Pure, giddy delight.

Much the same can be said for The Bridge Theatre’s new production of Guys and Dolls, where we headed next. This is the best version I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying a lot, given that the last production I saw featured Ewan McGregor as Sky Masterson and I’m including the film version with Sinatra and Brando. The theatre took full advantage of its distinctive “in the round” staging and hydraulic lifts under the floor, with different scenes rising and sinking at such a quick pace it had the immediacy of a three-ring circus. The groundling audience standing on the main stage played the role of the New York crowd, being shuffled to and fro by stagehands dressed as cops. Voices, dancing and costumes were all terrific, and the whole thing left people literally dancing out of the theatre. If there are any tickets left in the run, buy some.

I almost wept with joy at the mundanity of last weekend. It was our first in seven weeks spent entirely at home, with two unscheduled days and no house guests. The next such weekend won’t take place for another six weeks. So it was two days of hard graft in house and garden, battling through piles of laundry and thickets of weeds. Though my plot was starting to look like a Chelsea Flower Show garden, rewilding is not my style. I felt better after the maintenance, and glad to see tidier borders showing off some extraordinary roses. This year’s long, cold spring followed by the sudden late arrival of heat and sun has led to an unprecedented season of blossom.

We couldn’t have a completely uneventful weekend, of course. We nipped down to the Everyman Cinema in Winchester to catch the newly-released Chavalier, the biopic of the French 18th century composer the Chevalier de Saint-Georges. The half-black, Caribbean-born composer made a name for himself at the French court as both a fencing virtuoso and a composer. He had ambitions and a credible shot at taking over the Paris Opera, but an embedded establishment got in his way. Like any historical fiction, this plays with timelines and facts to create a better story and amp up the drama (and racism). The result is an entertaining plot played out in lavish sets and great costumes, with a pleasant but somewhat disappointing soundtrack. I was hoping I’d come out having heard and appreciated much more of Saint-Georges’ music, the film celebrating it the way Amadeus elevated Mozart’s canon. Sadly, we didn’t get as much as I’d like, the authentic music alternating with modern soundtrack stuff that was, presumably, influenced by the composer’s work. It certainly made me want to listen to more Saint-Georges, but buying the soundtrack won’t be the way to do it.

Our night out in Winchester was elevated by a pre-cinema dinner at Brasserie Blanc, then blighted by another evening of horrific performance on the British railways. We arrived at the station for what should have been a simple and inexpensive 18-minute hop to Basingstoke, but found no trains, no updates and no employees. Which is, sadly, not unusual in the UK these days. After waiting half an hour we gave up and found a taxi, to the tune of £80. National Rail apologises and thinks they’ll make it all better with “Delay Repay”. But the compensation on a £7 return ticket is not going to touch that taxi fare. We’ll be driving next time.

Not a bad five weeks on the life front. The fact I managed to balance it with five fairly horrific, stressful, deadline-driven weeks in the office is even more remarkable. It won’t stop there. Because there’s a boarding pass for a flight to Verona on my phone, opera tickets for the festival there in my hands, and weekends booked through August. Brace yourself. We are carpe-ing the hell out of this diem.