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.

Longborough's Carmen nears perfection; the hunt for a perfect Cotswold home struggles

Earlier this week I was in a heated debate about race and casting. It’s an incendiary topic, with one extreme demanding colour-blind, rainbow-spectrumed variety for every role, whatever its provenance or history, while the other bristles at any deviation from the historical record or the original environment of the author. From Hamilton to Bridgerton, and scores of less renown productions, playing with original source material to infuse modern sensibilities has become de rigueur.

I’m not sure it’s that new a trend. Medieval mystery plays popularised, and messed with, 1,000-year-old bible stories. Shakespeare wreaked havoc with his source material. Western art portrayed historic scenes in contemporary costume until the 19th century. But I doubt creative changes have ever been so politically charged as they are in this woke age.

Longborough’s production of Carmen will stir up purists on this front. The revisions here aren’t about race but about overturning late 19th century attitudes towards women. The traditional Carmen is a violent, manipulative seductress who embodies all of the Victorian era’s fear of strong, sexually active women. Our hearts are supposed to lie with the  the manipulated hero Don Jose, a noble but weak fool destroyed by his unrequited love. 

Though it keeps the words and music the same, Longborough’s staging and acting turn the story on its head. Carmen is a likeable, modern woman who plays the field. In this production she and her friends work in a meat packing plant rather than the cigarette factory, a subtle change that made them objects of exploitation rather than sexual appeal. Carmen appeared honestly in love with Don Jose until he got too clingy, and tries to get him to go back to the life he’s more suited to when their relationship cools. Jose becomes violently obsessed, and suddenly the old story becomes a modern one of a deranged stalker murdering his innocent victim.

This doesn’t entirely work. You can’t edit out, or forget, the fact that Carmen carves a cross into a girl’s forehead in a workplace fight to start the opera’s chain of events. Or that she’s a leader in a criminal underworld, deploying the sexual favours of her girl gang to corrupt the authorities. But with a bit of suspension of belief, a more sympathetic Carmen and a more psychotic Jose make for a more interesting and credible plot to modern eyes. Anyone raised Catholic will have a special, though uncomfortable, understanding of the way the flower Carmen originally uses to seduce Don Jose becomes a stigmata when he sews it into his hand, and bleeds when he tries to rip it out. Peter Gijsbertsen's excellent acting combined with his fine tenor to give us the most believeable ... and certainly the most insane ... Don Jose I've seen.

But Longborough's twist on the plot is most reliant on its Carmen.  Mezzo-soprano Margaret Plummer was fiery, sexy, likeable, kind-hearted, tough, and carried off some of opera's greatest arias with aplomb. We were lucky to see her and the rest of the cast in action; Covid had swept through the performers and ours was the first time in a week of attempts they'd been able to muster the whole cast and deliver director Mathilde Lopez' vision.

Together with Siegfried earlier this summer, the duo may represent the best Longborough season we've seen in years. Next year brings Gotterdamerung plus Donizetti's Elixir of Love, Purcell's Fairy Queen and Monteverdi's L'Orfeo, It will be the first season in years we'll be properly torn on which to put on the short list. We can stretch to three weekends in the Cotswolds but four is a bit profligate, and complicated by our continuing search for a new home-away-from-home since our favourite B&B closed down. My dream is to find a place in Stow we could rent for a week or even two at a time, working from the Cotswolds, going to the opera, and getting a sense of what the town might be like as a retirement location. But we've yet to find the right venue.

Our Seigfried weekend saw us at The Stag at Stow. Right on the main market square, dog friendly with a generously-sized double bedroom, beautifully decorated and with both patio dining and a large beer garden, delicious breakfast and an excellent restaurant for dinner, it now stands at the top of our B&B league table for the area. It doesn't have a comfortable indoor lounge area for residents besides its pub, however, and room rates start at around £270 per night ... making it impractical for a whole week.

We went for the apartment option this past weekend. Church Suite is one of five flats carved out of the old Methodist church on Sheep Street. It's beautifully designed, with a bedroom and bath in a loft and sitting room and kitchen below, a large light well running the full height of the unit to show off one of the old windows. The design can make the sitting room feel a bit claustrophobic, but overall it's a lovely place and in spotless shape except for an otherwise uncharacteristic bit of mould in the shower grouting. Like the Stag, the central location means that you're within walking distance of all the dining and shopping options, though during the day you do have to move your car every two hours (or park on the outskirts). The real problem here, however, is that the WiFi was terrible. We could never work from here. And Church Suite is almost as expensive as The Stag; £398 for two nights, but without breakfast. While the living space would be better than the Stag's for a full week, I'd like a better price.

The Beautiful Little House, about 300 metres further away from the centre of town than Church Suite, was our home for a whole week last year, and was by far the best deal of the lot with the price for the week at under £600 and parking on the street outside. The house lacked the boutique hotel decor of both The Stag and Church Suite, but it offered a lot more space with a separate kitchen and sitting room, two bedrooms upstairs and an outdoor, walled patio. As with the other two, it's dog friendly. It had great WiFi. The problem? My husband is a delicate sleeper and had issues with the mattress. So while I'd like to head back there and book it for longer stretches of the summer, it's a no from him. And thus our Cotswolds search continues...

Restaurant discovery is the highlight of our “Ulysses” opera weekend

It’s easy to fall into thoughtless routines. We proved the point on our recent Cotswolds visit when we had our minds blown by a “new” restaurant discovery that we learned had been around for 18 years. 

We, who have spent two or three weekends a summer in Stow-on-the-Wold for the past decade, had been so comfortable in our usual flight path around the market square we hadn’t ever bothered to walk a few minutes further to find greater delights.

When we travel to any foreign destination, or even a domestic one for the first time, we research restaurants and cultural must-sees. But I have been going to this part of the Cotswolds regularly for almost 30 years. I got lazy.

My punishment: imagining the years we’ve wasted on average pub dinners when we could have been eating at The Old Butchers. Now that we know better, I predict every future trip will include a meal here.

In spirit, The Old Butchers is the lovechild of a French bistro and a cosy British country pub, taken under the wing of a godparent who owns a winery. It has all the attributes I look for in a perfect local restaurant. It’s family-owned and run, with the head chef in the kitchen and firmly in charge. The menu changes regularly based on seasonal availability. There’s a fabulous wine list, a comfortable, homey atmosphere and an informed, friendly staff that can give you insight into everything on the menu and match wines without fuss. Prices are excellent value for money. I wasn’t at all surprised to learn that head chef Pete Robinson is a veteran of foodie favourites Tresanton and Bibendum and that his wife Louise has been managing restaurants since she was 18. Including doing an exemplary job with this one. No surprise that the place has a “plate” listing in the coveted Michelin Guide. (One step below “star” level.)

Our introduction to this Cotswold wonder started with a tuna tartare for one and deep-fried courgette flowers on fresh seasonal pesto for the other. We couldn’t agree who had won that round of ordering. Both combined fresh, robust flavours with simple but elegant presentation. That courgette dish can be tough to find done well outside of Italy, especially when a whole, tiny courgette is included along with the bloom. It’s extremely easy to overcook the flower while leaving the veg far too al dente. This was spot on.

No contest who won the mains selection, since we shared a whole Cornish turbot. Often called the “king of fish”, beloved by epicureans since the time of the Ancient Romans, turbot is extremely expensive and very easy to overcook. Which may be why it appears so seldom on British menus; I last had it in the Basque Country. So what a delight to find it here, and done to classic perfection: grilled with orange slices slipped between slit in its skin, then served with a sauce of white wine, butter, herbs and just enough acidity to counter the rich fish. There was also a gravy boat full of addictive hollandaise sauce, a bit too much for the fish but perfect with the boiled potatoes. And to get your veg in, two kinds of cabbage: half a grilled sweetheart variety and a mound of finely-shredded Savoy cooked with hazelnuts and almonds. The unctuous ness of every bite made it clear they’d both been cooked with enough fats to counteract any health-giving properties of the simple vegetable.

The deserts on the menu looked fantastic, but we couldn’t finish the enormous feast for two, much less fit in sweets. That’s a treat to be left for next opera season, when booking The Old Butchers will be third on my list after obtaining performance tickets and accommodation.

And speaking of the opera, how was our second outing at Longborough this year?

The critics adored The Return of Ulysses. I was less convinced. This had nothing to do with Longborough’s interpretation, and everything to do with Monteverdi’s actual opera. To go with a crude description that will horrify the opera cognoscenti, there are baroque operas that have exquisite bits of music joined together by dirge-like harpsichord bits, and then there are Baroque operas that are pretty much ALL dirge like harpsichord bits. I have to put Ulysses… Which I had never seen before… Into this second category.There are no memorable bits here to request on classic FM, and nothing you will come out Tommy. Much of it is perfectly pleasant, but can also be monotonous. And a bit sleep inducing if it’s late afternoon in a very warm circus tent.



Yes, circus tent. Longborough’s plan to have an opera season whatever the changing COVID regulations meant erecting a circus tent in the grounds. An outdoor performance space provided some shelter, with highly flexible seats ready to adapt to changing regulations. Though things had started to ease, Longborough was enforcing stricter-than-necessary measures so each party sat two metres from the next and all were masked throughout.

The performers took to the challenge of working “in the round” seamlessly, with Longborough’s usual superlative levels of acting and singing. Setting the opera in an American context, with Ulysses a soldier returning from Afghanistan, the suitors as offensive rednecks and the gods as glittering rhinestone cowboys, added interest. Continuing social distancing, however, caused problems for Ulysses that we didn’t see in Die Walkure. In that earlier production of forbidden love, the inability of the actors to touch each other in life added to the tension of the drama. The climactic duet of Ulysses seemed false when a husband and wife reunited after a decade couldn’t embrace. I suspect I might have enjoyed the opera more with a more traditional staging and a more obvious happy ending with the lovers in each other’s arms.

The fact that I didn’t really warm to the opera wasn’t important. The experience of live music and performance, and returning to one of our beloved routines of the year, was a delight. By next year, let’s hope this all feels quite normal again.

A week of solitary sightseeing in the Cotswolds takes me back to my English roots

The United Kingdom is caught in the grip of a collective case of cabin fever.

Last summer, everyone embraced “staycations” with a Blitz spirit. We were all doing our bit in the battle against the pandemic, felt virtuous injecting some cash into local attractions deprived of foreign tourism, and actually had a bit of fun discovering British locations that could rival continental hot spots.

More than 15 months after the first restrictions, patience is running out. One summer of local holidays was charming, but nobody expected a second. The closer summer came, the more confused the travel picture grew as regulations shifted back and forth with little notice. The only dependable option is getting in your car and staying local again, if you can manage to stay clear of the NHS’ increasingly notorious Test and Trace app surprising you with your own personal quarantine. (As I write, the app had pinged half a million people in just one week, with rising numbers ignoring its advice because the overwhelming majority of the population is now fully vaccinated and precautions are starting to feel pointlessly excessive.) Every news broadcast features disgruntled holidaymakers, British-owned businesses on the continent facing bankruptcy without this summer season to refill their coffers, or frustrated owners unable to get to holiday homes in France and Spain.

The Bencards aren’t attempting to break our island shackles until September (and I have no real confidence that trip will take place). For a much-needed summer pause, we headed for the Cotswolds.

Regular readers will know this is familiar territory for BencardsBites. We spend at least two weekends a year at the Longborough Festival Opera near Stow-on-the-Wold. Thanks to both being able to work remotely, we thought we would mix things up for our second opera of the year by decamping to Stow for a whole week. We’d work during the day, enjoy someplace different in the evenings, and get a feel for what living in the Cotswolds might be like. (One of my long list of retirement fantasies.)

It didn’t go quite as planned. A 10-day COVID quarantine as June turned to July knocked me out of my annual girls’ trip and forced my husband to reschedule some important appointments into the week scheduled for our Stow residency. The result: I took the whole week off with the unused girls’ trip time, but was on my own for the first four days and solo sightseeing for the whole week.

It was an unexpectedly pleasant trip down memory lane. On my earliest expat assignments in England, any moment I wasn’t working or sleeping I was exploring on my own. Unencumbered by the interests of others I threw myself into historic sites and wandered miles down country lanes in search of some much-lauded view or quirky ruin. Often the only conversation I had across a whole weekend was with guides in historic houses about some interesting artefact or architectural nuance. And that’s exactly how I spent much of my week.

With no-one’s patience to try but my own, I could drive almost two hours just to see one garden. (Of that spectacular visit to David Austin’s headquarters, stay tuned for my next article.) I could indulge my love of the Arts and Crafts movement with a lingering visit to Wightwick Manor and savour every layer of history at the beautifully curated Sudeley Castle. Many might find Broughton Castle too similar to do in the same week, but not me! I could take the long and winding route to wherever I was heading, down tiny lanes, regularly pulling over to take in a view or let traffic that actually needed to be somewhere hurry by. I could linger unbothered in the seconds area at Whichford Pottery, debating how big a flaw I was ready to accept in exchange for a proportionate discount. (With no one to question whether or not I actually needed new pots.)

One of the great delights of this trip was aimlessly strolling around some of the smaller, particularly picturesque villages. Places like Bibury, Upper and Lower Slaugher, Great Tew and Lower Swell have made the Cotswolds famous the world over. Golden-walled, slate-roofed, rose-covered cottages of mellow antiquity gather around tiny village greens or line little streams crossed by ancient stone footbridges. Wrought iron gates offer views of  gabled and pinnacled manor houses that might have welcomed Elizabeth I. Fields of golden wheat, hello rape, blue flax, sheep and cows extend up the encircling hillsides. 

For years, these little slices of heaven have been partially destroyed by the worshippers who travel here to drink in their atmosphere. Rural charm is hard to preserve in the face of busloads of tourists alighting to photograph every angle and stick their noses against people’s windows. At their worst, foreign crowds can make these places feel more like the British pavilion at Epcot real communities. This summer, with foreigners mostly absent, these idyllic villages retained their original charm. And I made the most of it, strolling slowly to take in architectural details and picturesque scenes, or finding a comfortable spot from which to draw or watercolour for an hour or two. (My attempt at the famous row of cottages in Bibury called Arlington Row is below.)

I even indulged in the takeaway curry that used to be my staple on those long-ago sightseeing weekends. Now that I am married to a man who is allergic to tomato and doesn’t like spicy food, an Indian takeaway has become a rare and solitary indulgence. A Sunday-night order from Stow-on-the-Wold’s excellent Prince of India kept me going until the husband’s arrival Wednesday.

While I have no desire to return permanently to the solitary travels of my 30s, I enjoyed the self-indulgence of my week enormously. You, dear reader, can look forward to a stream of articles in coming weeks as a result.

Our home in Stow-on-the-Wold was called The Little House, and little it was. In square footage, it was about half the size of the flat that we rented at The Unicorn up the street when we came up for Wagner last month. Just a small kitchen, sitting room and loo downstairs, and a snug double, single and bathroom up. Basic rather than luxurious, but excellent value for money at £540 for an entire week in contrast to around £300 for two nights at the  boutique hotels we’ve typically used for weekends.

The Little House is in the lower part of Stow-on-the-Wold, just up a lane from The Bell pub. It was only a few hundred yards beyond the main circuit most tourists take around the little market town, and yet the “neighbourhood” felt more local. It was quieter, parking was easier, we discovered new restaurants and pubs, yet we were still within easy walking distance of all of our regular favourites.

Despite my celebration above of the lack of foreign tourists, I am happy to report that those visitors … particularly Americans … are missed by the hospitality industry. In several conversations with locals I heard the same refrain. Local tourists are different. It’s not as simple as Brits spending less money than the foreigners. (Though I was assured most of them do.) The big differences came down to research and appreciation.  People who invest in plane tickets and spend a week or two in the country put effort into preparing for their holiday. They plan what they want to see and often read about things in advance. They research comparison sites for hotels and restaurants and generally have set their expectations accordingly. In summary, foreigners are coming for a heritage and cultural experience, while Brits are looking for new places to kick back, eat and drink. (I suspect what heritage sites are losing in revenues, pubs are making up.) I was both delighted and saddened when one of the guides at Sudeley Castle volunteered that the Americans who visit almost always have a better grasp of British history than the natives wandering through at the moment.

There’s plenty of history to come. And gardens. And one particularly fine new restaurant tip. Read on…

Stow's a winner, but our new summer bolthole eludes us

We matched Longborough's Coronation of Poppea with two nights at The Porch House in Stow-on-the-Wold. Like the opera, much of this place's appeal lies with its antiquity. It claims to be the oldest inn in England, in operation since 947. It has abundant architectural charm and a prime location in one of the Cotswold's most picturesque market towns.

While the walls may be ancient, the decoration is modern and up to a standard (neutral colours, designer fabrics, luxury linens, mid-century repro fixtures and fittings) that earns the coveted boutique hotel designation. It allows dogs (saving us more than £100 in kennel fees for the weekend) and its dog-friendly rooms lead directly out onto a courtyard for fast and easy walks. Unfortunately those rooms are almost claustrophobically tiny, with minuscule windows that allow little air flow, thus creating a room temperature several degrees hotter than outside. Unsurprising in an ancient building, but deeply uncomfortable in the middle of what may become England's hottest summer on record.

This was the last of three options we tried this summer in a search for a new regular accommodation for the two or three weekends we attend the Longborough Festival Opera each summer. (A search that started when the owner of our long-time favourite, Windy Ridge, decided to stop doing B&B.)

The Porch House came in last in this summer's contest, not so much for the size and temperature of its rooms but for its somewhat soulless atmosphere and the haphazard approach of its genial but often absent staff. They tend to ignore email, are hard to get on the phone and are rarely present at the front desk. One of them insisted they didn't take American Express, even though I'd successfully pre-paid for the room on that card. The place feels less like an inn and more like a pub and restaurant with a few rooms up top; the staff are clearly more focused on serving diners than lodgers. Though they do a bustling business for lunch and dinner, guests have to cross the street to eat breakfast at their sister hotel, The Sheep. (Which we may try for lodgings next summer.) Despite the fact that their gorgeous hall with two enormous fireplaces on both sides, standing empty all weekend, would be a lovely breakfast room. There's little effort or incentive to entice hotel guests to lounge here, or in the cozy snug beside it, missing the communal living room element that's also essential to that boutique categorisation. What's the point paying to stay in an historic inn when they don't use ... and thus you don't spend time in ... the historic rooms?

In second place came the Old School in Little Compton, to which we returned after a pleasant stay last year. And probably would have, lazily, occupied for all three of this year's weekends had they been able to accommodate us. But being forced to try other options was a good thing, exposing the Old School's three flaws: they don't allow dogs, there's not much in walking distance and they're a 15-20 minute drive to Longborough.

Otherwise, it's pretty much perfect. And if my objective were a leisurely stay in the heart of the Cotswolds, rather than the opera, this would be my first choice. Luxurious bedrooms, wonderfully comfortable sitting rooms you're encouraged to make your own and owners who are hosts rather than staff. Add home-made cakes at tea time and generous breakfasts with eggs provided by the chickens at the bottom of the garden.

Meaning, much to my surprise, the winner of this summer's showdown was the Cotswold Cottage. This former bed and breakfast has gone down the AirB&B route: they have no web site or customer-facing front end, let their rooms and manage their finances through 3rd party booking sites, and provide no service on site ... just the room. As a guest, you pre-pay, have a narrow arrival window to pick up the key, and never see the owner again. It certainly doesn't sound welcoming.

But the room was gorgeous; the most spacious and beautifully decorated of the three with an expansive view over one of Stow's main streets enjoyed from a cushioned window seat. We never failed to grab an overnight parking space (free) just outside for the evening. Dogs were welcomed. Best of all, the elimination of effort and service on the owner's part translated to prices more than 30% below the other two options. The absence of an included breakfast isn't a bother thanks to an excellent cafe around the corner called Speedwells, which provides more variety than you'd get at a B&B anyway.

The only major drawback: no relationship with your host means no ability to refrigerate your opera picnic. Thus a return to this place ... or a stay at any of the other "boutique rooms" establishments hanging their shingles out along Stow's golden stone streets ... demands assembling your picnic on the day (as we did) or buying in to one of Longborough's dining options. So despite its first place position, the Cotswold Cottage is not a sure thing for next summer.

The undeniable winner of the experiment was Stow-on-the-Wold itself. At just 2.6 miles from the opera ... a straight shot down a single main road ... it's quick, an inexpensive taxi ride or an easy journey for even the most hesitant driver. (It's one of the rich ironies of the wine-loving Bencard clan that the only member who doesn't really drink, absolutely hates to get behind the wheel, especially at night.) Given the proximity, a quick dash out of the opera and a speedy change out of formal wear can put you in one of Stow's numerous picturesque pubs for more than an hour or two of post-performance analysis before bed.

Stow is one of the most picturesque towns in the Cotswolds, anchored around a large, arrowhead-shaped market square surrounded by picturesque buildings built from the region's characteristic golden limestone. There's a grand town hall in the centre that looks Medieval, but I'm guessing is Victorian revival.

The town's position atop an 800 metre-high hill, at the intersection of several stone age paths that became Roman roads, has made Stow an important and affluent market town for most of British history. Today the locals trade in tourists rather than sheep, but Stow's legacy gives it a rare density of pubs, inns and restaurants. The tourist trade contributes to an unusual percentage of independent boutiques rather than chain stores, and this is one of the few towns in England that still has a thriving number of antique shops. Yet there's still a slightly sleepy feel about the place, particularly at night after the day trippers have left. Perhaps it's because there's no mainline rail station here. Moreton-in-the-Marsh just up the Roman road claims that amenity, and it has an altogether more bustling, crowded feel to it.

So many hotels and B&Bs welcome dogs because this is also a popular centre for walking. On Saturday morning I set off on an idyllic three mile loop down the Tewkesbury Road towards Upper Swell, followed the Cotswold Way path over fields to Lower Swell, then back up the B4068 to Stow. Once off the main road, civilisation disappeared. There was only calm, and landscape. Though walking between two fairly busy roads, once I was in the fields the folds of the hills screened out the traffic noise. I spent an hour hearing only the wind through the trees, the panting of the dogs and the rhythmic clacking of a harvester bringing in the wheat a few fields over. Even when joined back to the road, the local Council has cut a path into the woodland about 10 feet above the road surface to keep things both safe and picturesque. You do, however, feel every one of those 800 metres as you ascend.

Fuel yourself for the climb at the Golden Ball in in Lower Swell. This tiny 3-room pub is resolutely local and obviously dog friendly; I think I was the only tourist, and my dogs were two of nine in the place. And in that way of small world coincidences that tends to happen in the Cotswolds, I knew two of the locals. One had been a favourite exec at the job that originally brought me to the UK. The other was Nick, the owner of Windy Ridge whose retirement had kicked off the summer's experiment in the first place. It was great to see him. We miss him. Wonder if he might consider "boutique rooms"?

Longborough's Dutchman is a perfect introduction to Wagner; if only more could see it

I've written before about how the intimacy of Longborough Festival Opera's 500-seat theatre transforms the dynamics of a performance. When even the worst seat is a stone's throw from the stage, you pick nuances of facial expression and production design lost in a bigger theatre, and the music flows over you in waves.

Who does Senta really love? It takes death to tell for sure. Photo: LFO

Never, in my experience, has the intimacy effect worked with more power than at last weekend's performance of Der Fliegende Holländer (The Flying Dutchman). I'd seen it only once on stage before, at the Royal Opera House in London, and while my review of that performance attests to my appreciation for both the story and the music, I found Longborough's version vastly better in terms of characterisation, emotional punch and drama. Most significantly, the ROH version set the scene in a grim, almost dystopian world where anyone would do anything to escape ... making our heroine's actions more understandable. Here, Senta's home town is a cosy Scandinavian place full of friendly people, hospitality and hygge. There's no need to run. In fact, the home town boy who loves her while she fantasises about the Dutchman is very much a man to stay for. Sung and acted admirably by Jonathan Stoughton, young Erik tore at Senta's allegiances and gave us a proper love triangle with far more emotional complexity than I could pick up from the upper reaches of the Royal Opera House.

Senta's character blazed with passion, brought to life by the impressive voice of Longborough newcomer Kirstin Sharpin. In fact, there were times her powerful delivery seemed too big and bold for such a small venue ... but it was only the second performance and she's no doubt getting used to the place. I'd certainly put a good wager on her showing up as Brunhilde somewhere in Longborough's upcoming ring cycle. Simon Thorpe as the haunted lead took us credibly from doom to hope and back again in his classically Wagnerian bass. I particularly loved the staging at the end where ... unlike the traditional conclusion of the Dutchman sailing away while Senta throws herself into the sea ... he returns to take the dying girl in his arms, torn between the tragedy of her end and wonder that she's broken his curse. Just as important for this production, however, was the chorus. It was probably the biggest I can remember for any opera here and brought every scene they were in to glowing life. Particularly excellent was the party near the end, where they're trying to convince the Dutchman's cursed crew to join them. In a particularly clever twist, rather than turning up the outsiders are only heard over an old radio, adding to the spookiness of the ghost story while letting the whole chorus bulk out the stage as revelling townspeople.

Photo: LFO

This was an approachable, well-paced, highly-entertaining Dutchman that would have been ideal for any first-timers who wanted to dip their toes into Wagnerian waters. This being Wagner at Longborough, however it's unlikely that any but serious fans managed to get the limited tickets. But it's a nice thought. I live in hope that someday some communications or tech company will sponsor a web broadcast of Longborough productions like this, so a broader audience could partake of the magic.

The rest of the weekend brought other flashes of delight. We're still looking for a new regular place to lodge since the owners of Windy Ridge, our beloved old bolthole, decided to stop doing B&B. This weekend we decided to check out Stow-on-the-Wold, the closest town to the opera. It's a very different vibe from the pastoral country places we've been staying, but there are advantages to that. Primarily a wide range of pubs, restaurants and shops within easy walking distance. Rather than worry about prepping the opera picnic in advance we could just wander local delis to assemble goodies. Stow also has one of England's best clusters of high-end antique shops. While I couldn't afford most of what I admired, it's good to know where I can to turn once I win the lottery and need to kit out my new manor house in a hurry.

All of Stow's businesses are housed within classic Cotswold stone architecture that makes this one of the most picturesque towns in England. And, frankly, calling it a town is a bit grand. There's a large market square, one other main street, and if you venture much beyond that you're back into countryside.  It's also remarkably dog friendly, allowing us to have our boys with us for breakfasts, dinners and pubbage.

With such a broad choice it's not easy to pick a dining spot. Lured by the words "wood fired oven" and "St. Louis-style ribs" we chose The Sheep. The classic Cotswold architecture outside might say old world, but the interior design screams hip modern bistro with a long bar, premium cocktails and that oven on prominent display. It was a beautiful evening so we ended up in an exterior courtyard where a live band did a cheerful and highly proficient delivery of most of the classic covers you'd want at your wedding disco. Plenty of people were on their feet dancing. Who knew the sleepy Cotswolds could deliver such a Friday night party?

And then, much to my surprise, I was not disappointed by the ribs. I was delighted. A full rack, trimmed as St. Louis style should be (with plenty of meat left on the bones), slow-barbecued to extreme, smoky tenderness and slathered in sweet and spicy tomato sauce. Blindfolded, nobody from my home town could have identified these as "foreign". (Given that the Brits have really only started to take barbecue seriously in the past decade, that's staying a lot.)

This dinner and its musical accompaniment is a strong argument for moving our regular accommodation to Stow. But the hunt continues, and there are two more Longborough weekends ahead to offer comparative experiences. Stay tuned for more.