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.