Atmospheric Torcello offers a unique calm; just defend against the killer mozzies

Torcello is a ghost town. It may be lacking the tumbleweed and swinging saloon doors that typically come with that description, but it shares the same sense of sad dereliction and failed potential triggered by the abandoned towns of the American West. They, however, don't have world-class Byzantine mosaics in their derelict buildings. 

Torcello is romantic, beautiful, and ... if you get your timing right ... one of the few places in the Venetian lagoon where you can experience a sense of splendid isolation.

If you’d visited in tenth century, this would have been the busiest place in the whole lagoon, with at least 3,000 residents, grand palazzi, 12 parishes, a thriving ecosystem of 16 religious houses and flourishing trade routes going back to Roman times. When invaders threatened from the east, the citizens of Torcello scouted out islands deeper into the lagoon for greater safety, eventually founding what we know as Venice. Slowly, but surely, they left their original island home behind, taking what they could move with them and abandoning what they couldn't. 

Today, the island is mostly agricultural, with fewer than 20 full-time inhabitants who pop over to Burano … five minutes across a watery channel … to do their grocery shopping. I was on the morning boat with one of them. Current residents include at least two artists who open their studios by appointment, and there's a long history of creatives seeking refuge here.

 Both Hemingway and du Maurier came here to write and included Torcello in their novels. A canal, still well-maintained despite the lack of population, cuts through the island just as others bisect Venice and Murano. There are sill picturesque bridges and a handful of buildings, but there are also abundant views down waterways between vineyards, orchards and grazing fields.

A 10-minute walk from the water bus dock (line 9 spends the day going back and forth between Burano and Torcello) brings you to what was once the town centre. If you are here before 10:30 you may very well be on your own except for a few locals collecting tourist admission fees and manning souvenir stands. Torcello is most often done as a day trip from Venice, combined with Burano and even Murano, and is inevitably the last stop of the day. I didn’t see anything you could call a crowd until after 2pm, when I was thinking about heading off.

Aside from the moody dereliction, most foreign visitors are here to see the inside of the cathedral. Its simple walls protect a mosaic treasure on par with the more famous work down in Ravenna. Mary holds a baby Jesus in the apse above a main altar that looks more like a Roman ruin than a Christian church.The 12 apostles stand beneath her, each a masterpiece of Byzantine craftsmanship. The side altars are slightly newer and more elaborate. 

The real masterpiece is on the western wall around the original door, however, where Christ sits in judgement and cartoon-style registers tell the story of the saved and the damned. 

As ever with medieval art, hell is much more interesting than heaven and I wish the included audio guide went into more detail about the figures that fiends were poking in the flames. My guess is that they were 12th century bad guys; one looked like he might have been part of an Islamic threat, while another had the look of an “anti-pope”. The guide did explain how the Seven Deadly Sins were represented in the lowest two levels; the vision of gluttons forced to find sustenance by gnawing off their own limbs is enough to put you right off your dinner. Over on the positive side of the ledger, it is lovely to see a zoo’s worth of friendly animals being resurrected with the virtuous dead. Clearly these mosaicists felt we’d need pets in heaven.

All of these scenes, front and back, are played out on a rich background of gold. I find it reassuring, somehow, that the exact same techniques of fusing gold onto glass to make the component parts of these masterpieces are still being used today to make jewellery, art glass and posh wine bottles. 

Beside the main church you’ll find a series of picturesque loggias and the octagonal church of St. Fosca. In front of the cathedral and across a little square from St. Fosca is a round water feature, unusually set into the front of the church as if they were built together. I couldn’t find any information on this on site but would guess it's the ruins of an old baptistery. I was charmed enough to sit here for more than an hour drawing St. Fosca and its loggia, never considering the idiocy of lingering next to a pool of stagnant water in a marsh. I was wearing mosquito repellant but the Italian blood-suckers laughed at the inefficiency of my British formula. The next morning the first of more than 50 viscous mosquito bites started rising into blisters. I only survived the rest of the trip my slathering myself with copious amounts of a wonder product called DopoPuntura, and did my best to avoid photos at the wedding we were attending because my arms and feet looked like I had chicken pox. Or worse.

Thankfully I decided to wander a bit rather than adding water colour from that position, or the damage would have been worse.

Just across from the church is the private residence and vineyard of an antique dealer who’s also a part owner of our hotel, Venissa. This is where the vines they’re repatriating on Mazzorbo were discovered. The house and gardens were closed to the public but there are plenty of picturesque photo opps. Just beyond that, across what must have once been Torcello’s main piazza, are a couple of old civic buildings that now house the island’s museum.

There’s a pleasing jumble of bits and pieces here, from the ancient Romans to the baroque with most of stuff from Torcello’s brief, early medieval period in the sun. Assembled by the island’s owner and amateur archaeologists in the late 19th and early 20th century, it’s quite an old-fashioned and quirky collection. There's not much information and no modern attempts at interactive storytelling. I enjoyed it, but doing so probably does require a good base of knowledge to understand what you're looking at. I felt a sinister thrill of terror, for example, when I stumbled upon the two old Bocca di Leone. But it was only my wider reading … most notably Philippa Gregory’s Tidelands trilogy … that gave me the backstory. This is the downside of the exceptionally loose form of democracy that ruled in this lagoon. Government was actually a mostly benevolent dictatorship with ruthless secret police. The lion's mouths covered official post boxes that allowed you to denounce your neighbours anonymously if you thought they were up to no good. There was little legal protection if you got on the wrong side of people in power. Just a knock in the night and disappearing, perhaps never to be heard from again. 

Bigger pieces of sculpture are scattered across the lawn and leaned against the walls outside, like an architectural salvage yard. Most notable is the so-called “Attila’s Throne” … which actually has nothing to do with the marauding hun whose 5th-century threats first drove the population to the defensive possibilities of the lagoon. Historian’s now think it was probably the seat of government for whoever was in charge in Torcello. You can see it, and sit on it, without paying for admission into the museum.

There are three ticketed attractions on the island; the church, the bell tower and the museum. The church is a must. The tower no doubt has spectacular views over neighbouring Burano and Mazzorbo, on to Murano and the skyline of Venice beyond, but it was far too hot and humid for me to consider such exertion. Pleasant as it is, tourists in a hurry probably won’t find the museum worth their while. But if you’re the kind of tourist who's in a hurry, I’d suggest you’re probably not going to bother with Torcello. This is a place for dawdling.

While the foreigners head for the historic sites, the Italians seem to have a different idea of the island. There are three restaurants scattered along the canal between dock and cathedral, all of them with menus that lean towards multi-course fine dining. (One, currently closed for renovation, appears to be a branch of Venice’s favourite Cipriani.) The dress code is still casual and the tables sprawled under vine-covered pergolas or shady marquees, looking out over gardens. The patrons, however, were clearly there for serious dining rather than a quick bite between tourist stops. I get the feeling Italians see Torcello as a picturesque place to go for a long al-fresco lunch. 

There is one place more like a snack bar and rough beer garden, called La Taverna Tipica Veneziana, where those not interested in a big meal congregate. It’s the one closest to the boat dock, has cold beer on tap and clean bathrooms. It’s here that I settled down to paint my take on St. Fosca, unwittingly saving my skin from further attack. Every 15 minutes from around 2pm a new crowd of about 60 tourists marched by on their way to the town square. I drank my beer, watched them go by and smiled at how packed the church I’d sat in almost alone earlier in the morning must be. It was clearly time to go home. I suspect the last boats of the day get uncomfortably crowded. But I remained ahead of the rest, and was back at Venissa enjoying a spritz before the crowd would have left Torcello abandoned once again.

Venissa falls a bit short of its promise, but is still a worthy choice for a memorable Venetian stay

As a high-concept project, Venissa Wine Resort is fascinating. As a reality for eating, drinking and sleeping, it still has some work to do.

Let’s start with the positives. Its Michelin-starred restaurant is worth building a trip around, its bedrooms offer a comfortable off-the-beaten track base for exploring the Venetian lagoon, and its vineyard is driving a truly fascinating experiment in wine. However ... the wine is no match for others at its elevated price point, the rooms and staffing fall below what you'd expect from the word "resort" or the luxurious promise of their website, and dining at their osteria (a simpler alternative to their restaurant) was disappointing.

WINE

If you’re a wine lover, you can’t help but be intrigued by what they’re trying to do here. A series of modern floods had wiped out the grape variety native to the lagoon. Or so everyone thought. In the early ‘00s Venissa’s owner discovered remnants of those vines on Torcello and decided to try to replant a vineyard on Mazzorbo to make the traditional wine of the lagoon. Yes, you can grow grapes in what is essentially a salt marsh. This is the lowest altitude vineyard in the world. But it only works if you grow a local variety that’s evolved over the centuries to cope with the conditions; shallow soil, occasional flooding and a lot of salt in air and ground. The Dorona grapes are fat and golden, thick skinned and intensely sweet, but you don't have to be an expert to see that this isn’t a heavy cropper. Given that we were on the brink of harvest, and the only source of fruit was the vineyard next to the hotel, it's easy to see why this wine is a rare and expensive thing.

For €65 per person you can get a guided tour of the vineyard and taste four wines … two whites from Venissa’s grapes and two reds of their production from grapes grown in another vineyard in the Lagoon. I found this a better way to understand and sample the wine than taking a punt on the unknown label at €35 a glass from the hotel bar. Our host Luca settled us in to Venissa’s blissfully air-conditioned wine shop to take us through the details of the project. The same Dorona grapes in the same vineyard produce two varieties; the super premium Venissa that develops on its skin for four weeks before aging for at least four years (around €130 a bottle, varying slightly with vintage), and the slightly less lofty Venusa (still €70 a bottle). The Venissa bottles are as precious as what’s in them; hand blown to reflect Venice’s glass making tradition with a label of 24-carat gold fused into the glass and then etched. Each Venissa vintage is distinguished by a different shape of the the golden fusion.

The marketing, design and story make a compelling combination for any lover of wine. And the taste? Citrusy, dry, some notes of spice, pleasantly complex. I couldn’t distinguish that much of a difference … certainly not a double-the-price difference … between the Venissa and Venusa. There are few wines I’d be willing to spend this much money on and, for my tastes, there are plenty in moderate price ranges that could match this flavour profile. The reds were Merlot/Cabernet Sauvignon blends that drank more like sophisticated pinot noirs; light and full of strawberry and violet but with potential for more complex vanilla and tobacco to emerge. Again, pleasant but at a very high price point for what it is, even if the better one continues with the special bottling art, here fusing copper into the glass instead of gold. and pleasant, You’re paying for the experience and the education, however, rather than tasting to buy, and for that it's a worthy excursion.

FOOD

Probably most successful on the experience front at Venissa is its restaurant, awarded a Michelin star for its food and another Michelin green star for its sustainability. The guide introduced its new sustainability award in 2021 and the save-the-planet vibes are the most distinctive thing about Venissa the restaurant. It isn’t vegan, but it is extremely vegetable heavy and everything comes from in, or very close to, the Venetian lagoon. All producers, naturally, are organic. All the proteins on your plate come from invasive species that are hurting the lagoon and its native species. Eating them helps return balance to the environment. Examples include large-mouth bass, imported from America as a sporting catch and now threatening the local fish with their voracious appetites, and blue crab from Asia that arrived along with the ballast in international ships. 

While green positioning had the potential to become overly preachy, the worthiness disappears beneath an onslaught of exquisite food that’s a feast for the eyes and the taste buds. If saving the planet was always this much fun, more people would do it. 

We went for the 10-course tasting menu, manageable because most courses were just a few bites. That bass made up my favourite course; a tartare in a crisp pastry shell covered with a tapestry of vivid micro herbs. The crab was a close second, tossed with spaghetti, a hint of tomatoes from the garden and wild flowers. The ingredients might all be local but the kitchen team brings influences from around the world. There’s a good deal of Danish-inspired fermentation, distinctly North American corn cakes and hints of Japan and Southeast Asia in spicing and sauces. 

Puddings were especially surprising. I never suspected that artichoke leaves could produce something deceptively close to coffee (used in an affogato) or that you could use aubergine in a sweet; in this case as the filling in a mille-feuille. Like the inventive cep soufflé at Ekstedt at The Yard, this is another example of a flavour-carrying vegetable's ability to transform into the unexpected. 

The dining room is in a majestic, restored agricultural building with such generous spacing between the tables and so many servers taking you through your evening I had to wonder how … even at a starry €290/£250 per person for the dinner and wine flight … they were making any margin. It’s actually quite good value for money against an equivalent experience in England, and the inventiveness of the cuisine is definitely worth going out of your way for. 

The osteria also attached to the hotel is, however, a disappointment. When the same management does Michelin-starred fine dining and a casual, less expensive option, you want the two to be strikingly different. The osteria here feels like an afterthought to the restaurant, and not its own entity, serving up cheaper variations of the tastes next door but without the theatrical service. Having revelled in the vegetal invention, fascinating proteins and modern approaches, on the next evening I was ready to settle in to some traditional Venetian favourites. That's what you assume you’ll get at something called an osteria in the middle of the lagoon, but that's not what's really on offer. While it might have been less expensive than the night before, it was really just a pale imitation of what we'd already done. At £90 per person for dinner and drinks we’re confident we could have done better with a 10-minute walk over to Burano for some heartier, simpler cuisine. (We didn't manage to bring in Burano's Il Gatto Nero, our favourite meal of the trip, under this price point, but that's because we had an embarrassingly profligate evening. With more modest ordering and drinking, you could easily beat the Venissa Osteria's pricing there.)

STAY

The third element of our Venissa experience was the stay itself. This is a “restaurant with rooms”, something I suspect is essential to running a Michelin-starred eatery here as the only transport is by boat, the public water buses stop running before dinner’s end and a private taxi back to Venice will add 30% to your dining bill. You might as well just stay. There are five rooms here and 15 under the same management in houses a short walk away on Burano. (Most of our fellow diners were Italian, but I doubt any were local to the islands.)  

We loved the location next to the vineyard, 50 metres from the Mazzorbo water bus stop and a 10-minute walk to Burano. It’s the only tourist business on this tiny island, so it really feels like going local. The whole place is quiet and relaxing. While the osteria didn't impress us at dinner its location ... essentially a large, screened pavilion next to the vines ... made for a hugely picturesque breakfast spot.

The views from our room over a canal to a couple of miniature palazzi were fabulous, and the air conditioning was fantastically efficient. (It was 30c every day and extremely humid, so that last bit was critical.) But by branding themselves a “wine resort” with a website screaming luxury they were making promises they can’t keep. With so few rooms this is, understandably, not staffed as a hotel would be and there’s often no staff around. The experience is more AirB&B than hotel. Admittedly, for just under €200 a night it’s not luxury pricing, so it's less a complaint than an observation about perception versus reality. But I still would have expected better mattress and pillow quality. The 3-star business hotel my husband stays in during his working week charges a third of the price offers a much better night’s sleep on bedding that feels far more luxurious. In the bathroom, water pressure is poor and anyone approaching 6 feet will have to crouch beneath the shower head to get clean. The last isn’t a surprise in an old property, and may have something to do with their green credentials, but but again isn’t in tune with the promise of the hospitality they’re marketing. 

Bottom Line: If you’re a foodie, I’d definitely recommend the Michelin-starred dining experience. If you're eating here it’s worth the convenience of staying over the restaurant. Just adjust your expectations for a more basic accommodation than the marketing implies. If I were to return to this part of the lagoon for more than one night, however, I’d check out other options on Burano. It's clear they are limited, however, so I’d guarantee air conditioning and try to find some testimony about better beds before I gave up the relative safety of Venissa. On the wine front, I don’t think their production tastes as premium as its lofty price tag, but if you’re interested in viticulture and wine marketing it’s worth doing the wine tasting. However long you stay, don’t bother with the osteria here. Walk over to Burano for a more traditional experience, particularly at Il Gatto Nero.

Mazzorbo and Burano offer uncrowded Venetian magic; Il Gatto Nero the lagoon's best restaurant

I have been blessed to visit Venice at least once a decade since the ‘70s, when my wide-eyed 12-year-old self drank in the romance of a gondola ride in an empty canal, revelled in getting lost in back lanes and imagined the terror of being led to a prison cell over the Bridge of Sighs. And while I’ve enjoyed all the trips that followed, none were as good as that first one. That’s because, tragically, Venice has been “Patient Zero” for the ever-growing epidemic of overtourism. Each decade has brought the place a little closer to a shoulder-to-shoulder, Disney version of itself, until I swore that I was giving up. I’d treasure my memories of a better Venice, and leave La Serenissima’s modern lanes to the crowds.

But then came the opportunity to fly in and out of Marco Polo airport for a wedding we’d be attending. All over England I’d watched the masses flock to the usual suspects while nearby sights … often of equal historic and artistic significance … were almost empty. Might the same be true of the Venetian lagoon? I’d never been north of Murano, and had only been on a handful of the more than 30 inhabited islands. Could I recapture the magic of the Venice of my childhood on a neighbouring isle?

Yes.

Mazzorbo and Burano have captured my heart, and given the state of Venice these days I’d advise even first time visitors to stay here and travel into the main city for sightseeing, rather than the usual reverse day trip. Tiny Mazzorbo has a population of less than 300. On a morning stroll around the island you’ll pass locals returning from their grocery shop, and be passed by others on their morning jog before going to work. The main language in the air is actually Italian. Small as it is, the island still exists for its residents and not for the visitors who drive so much of the lagoon’s economy.

Burano, population 2,800, is more crowded and more obviously driven by tourism. But even here in high season, it’s manageable. Visitors share restaurants with locals. Shop keepers are still pleasant and willing to engage in conversation. There’s evidence of both older people and school-age children, the two groups that tend to disappear first when tourism becomes so all-pervasive it drives out everything else. If you wander around before 10 or after five, you're amongst a handful of tourists surrounded by people who actually live here.

I realise that the mere act of writing this endangers the magic I’ve found here. But these islands aren’t for everyone. They’re quiet, there are limited things to see and it’s more complicated to get here. Hotel and B&B options are limited. While there are AirB&B options, in Venice they’ve contributed to pricing locals out of the market, so they’re being watched carefully here. The effort and limited supply mean it would be a waste of time to stay here for less than two nights. And none of these locals are under any illusion: you are still a tourist and tourism still drives the economy. It’s just in better balance than the behemoth 40-minutes by ferry across the lagoon. 

We’re staying at Venissa, branded as a “wine resort” and definitely a bit of a splurge, but I’m happy with the choice. (See full review here.) A brisk stroll takes you to the tourist heart of Burano in less than 15 minutes. But turn the other way, and explore the rest of Mazzorbo rather than crossing the bridge, and you’ll discover an island almost entirely residential. I only spotted one other restaurant outside of the confines of Venissa. The views are exceptional. There are pretty canals lined with colourful houses, farm fields, and long views off the island towards the marsh, other islands and the majestic towers of Venice on the southern horizon. 

To the north, the outline of almost-deserted Torcello beckons. On a weekday, the aquatic traffic alternates between the water bus line coming up from Venice and the delivery boats that bring much of the islands’ everyday needs, but on Sunday they were full of Italian families out on small boats for a day of fun.

Neighbouring Burano’s claim to modern fame is its colour scheme. It’s one of the most colourful places on earth, with every house painted a different shade with white window frames to make them pop. Nobody’s going for subtle earth tones here: vivid purples, electric blues, Barbie pinks, emerald greens and Cabernet reds shout for attention. It should make your head hurt, but the terracotta tile roofs bring unity while the gray stone and red brick of the pavements and the blue/green of the canals offer a soothing backdrop. The array is actually carefully planned by local government; any change of shade needs to be authorised. In this way, the densely packed area … less than a square mile … keeps its rainbow charm. 

Much like Venice but on a vastly smaller scale, a main canal winds through the island. It’s along this, plus one broad street leading to a piazza and the church, that the majority of the sightseeing is on offer. 

Before the Industrial Revolution allowed mass production, Burano was known for its lace. The women of the island made it while the men went fishing to feed the nearby city. There’s little modern demand, or willingness to pay for the vast amount of time needed, for hand-made lace. What’s left of the trade does allow some excellent shopping if you’re interested in sumptuous table linens, bridal veils or lace Christmas ornaments. There’s a museum of lace making on the main square, but the only place I actually saw anyone making anything was in the exceptionally upscale Martina Vidal, where a lady’s exceptionally deft fingers belied her obviously advanced age.

There’s also a generous spill-over in glass making from nearby Murano. Burano doesn’t have the big workshops producing large pieces like art glass or chandeliers, but there are more than a dozen shops with a workbench at the back where locals make beads, pendants and small figurines. Glass reproductions of fruit and wrapped candies are abundant. One shop stands out: Andrea Senigaglia. He fuses gold leaf onto the surface of glass, then etches designs into the metallic surface … from simple letters to a virtuoso copy of Caravaggio’s Bacchus etched into a golden bottle. 

You’ll also find a sprinkling of Venetian mask shops and, in a fusion of two islands, lace versions of the classic carnival wear. I saw enough similarity between the examples in different shops to question whether these were hand made or important from some cheap factory to the east. Let the buyer beware. 

Window shopping is delightful, and there are abundant local restaurants to fuel your efforts. The real joy of Burano, however, is stepping off main lanes and wandering around the purely residential bits. Some of the houses are new and eye-watering lay bright. Others have mellowed and are in a state of gentle repair. All are a photographer’s paradise and, unlike Venice, will reward the patient photographer with a people-free shot without too much waiting. 

The food here is also far better than the Venetian standard, which so often is average at best. I suspect the difference is that restaurants on Burano need locals to come back if they're to do anything more than a lunch trade, so they can't afford to fob anyone off with overpriced or average. So even the spots we stumbled into without any planning ... octopus salad and pesto trofie at Da Gigetto, just off the main square; cocktails at In Piazzetta on that square (and owned by an American who's gone local); or a beer and some cicchetti at Picnic, looking over the water to the skyline of Venice ... were tasty and good value. 

The best meal by far, however, was one we'd planned. Because despite being off the beaten track you're unlikely to get into Il Gatto Nero without a reservation. I learned about it because one of my favourite chefs, Angela Hartnett  ... English but of Italian descent ... says it's her favourite restaurant in the Venetian Lagoon. (You can read my review of her London flagship Murano here.) If Angela said that, and we were staying a short walk away, we had to go. She was, naturally, right.

Though there's a large dining room inside, on summer evenings all the service happens at tables along the canal outside, which is otherwise residential and silent after 6pm. We were the last table along the row, giving us nothing but twilight scenery in one direction and the occasional gliding of fishermen's boats coming home behind us. It was one of the most romantic settings for dining I can remember, and would have made for a memorable evening even if the food had been average. 

But it was well beyond that!

We were lucky enough to strike up a conversation with owner/manager Massimiliano Bovo on arrival (we didn't know who he was at the time), and the combination of our mentioning Angela and our obvious enthusiasm for food and wine meant he took a special interest in us all night. Prompted by his delightful banter ... in a broad Scots accent he'd picked up while living in the UK ... and the magic of the evening, we told him to choose for us and bring out whatever was best that day. After which followed the kind of meal that features in Italian fantasy ... combined with the kind of gluttony that land people in the third circle of Dante's hell.

There were little rounds of polenta topped with bits of seafood to pique our appetite. Hearing that my husband's tomato allergy kept him from having the crab dish at an earlier meal, Massimiliano made sure we had the best of the local crab to come out of the lagoon that day. Risotto came with a helpful conversation about the techniques that made theirs so good, and a packet of their favourite rice to take home. There was a plate of spaghetti with lobster, taken to another level by a crown of fresh courgette flowers. Admittedly it's not usual to have risotto and pasta at the same meal, but Massimiliano clearly recognised me as a woman who's partial to the magic of carbohydrates. Yes, of course we were full by this point, but out came a magnificent sea bass baked in salt with a few seasonal vegetable sides.

The tiramisu ... a dish I rarely order in restaurants because it's normally just wine soaked biscuits and whipped cream ... was the only one I've ever tasted that matches the labour-intensive but delicious, zabaglione-laced recipe I use at home. I admit it. Il Gatto Nero's was even better. All of this was washed down with an excellent local white wine. It was a profligate meal and I could hardly move by the end of it, between the distension of my stomach and the fact that the majority of my blood had clearly been rerouted to work on digestion. But, my god, it was good. Forget St. Mark's Square. The Doge's Palace can wait. Even the rainbow of Burano houses pales in comparison. If there's one "must do" in the Venetian Lagoon, I think it may be eating here.

I’m content to leave the big city of Venice and all those crazy crowds to my memories. Mazzorbo and Burano are a welcome reminder that there are plenty of joys still to be explored in the Venetian Lagoon. You just have to sail off the beaten track. And come hungry.

Bridport opens my eyes to the glories of Dorset’s Jurassic Coast

I thought I knew Dorset well. Corfe Castle, Studland Bay, Wareham and Durdle Door are all familiar Sights just over the border from my home county of Hampshire. Had I really taken time to study a map, I would have realised I was wrong. There’s still almost a third of Dorset to explore west of Dorchester. And what an exquisite third it is.

This is the famous Jurassic Coast, where sandy beaches sit between and beneath gorgeous cliffs striated with a palette of earth tones to make an interior designer’s heart thrill. Inland, green hills, deep valleys and thatched villages are as picturesque as the Cotswolds, but emptier. It seems that, like me in the past, once most people get past Dorchester they’re pushing on to Devon and Cornwall. I visited in the height of the school holidays. While it was pleasantly busy, nothing was overly crowded and my American accent was the most foreign one I heard.

A friend of mine has recently moved back to her home county of Dorset, and I had the incredible luck to visit her on what was probably the single best weather weekend of the year thus far. Four days of unremitting sunshine. Warm enough to swim in the sea every day … and that’s coming from someone who grew up on Floridian beaches and generally likes water mild enough to support coral reefs. But it cooled down enough once the sun set to sleep comfortably. The vibe was beach bum casual, but with a surprising dash of sophistication.

Bridport, a mile and a half inland from the beach at West Bay, is the kind of place people are remembering wistfully when they complain about soulless, modern English towns, with their identi-kit global brands or … worse … empty shopfronts between charity stores and betting places. Counter to that norm, Bridport boasts two main streets packed with independent shops, no less than three artisan butchers (RJ Balson and Son is the oldest family-run business in the country, established 1515), an arts centre, a little cinema and a theatre, a thriving weekly market that includes artisans and antiques as well as food, and an impressive range of atmospheric pubs and restaurants. There’s even a family-owned department store, something I didn’t think existed any more. Other independent shops offer original art, cookware, art supplies, clothing and hats. The hat shop sponsors an annual hat festival, which my friend tells me is a serious party. The town is edged by playing fields and recreational spaces, including tennis courts, a community orchard (where you can help yourself to apples in season or hear lectures under the trees), and a bike and skate park for the kids. There’s even a small football ground for the local team. All this for a population of less than 14,000.

The architecture here is overwhelmingly late Georgian and Victorian, with pretty residential terraces spreading out from the T-shaped town centre. It sits in a bowl between hills, where the rivers Asker and Brit come together on their way to the English Channel. Just below their juncture sits a picturesque old mill, complete with working water wheel, now occupied by Palmer’s brewery … who have been making beer for the locals since 1794. 

Beer, however, has a hard fight to keep up with cider; Dorset is famous for the stuff. The Woodman Pub on South Street has a selection as various, and backed up with as much knowledge from the servers, as a fine wine bar in the heart of Burgundy. The Ropemakers pub on West Street (owned by Palmers) doesn’t have the cider selection but boasts the kind of interior the Disney Imagineers are going after when they design Pirates of the Caribbean sets. If the fascinating Asian fusion place Dorshi is anything to go by (inventive cocktails and haggis dumplings, anyone?), then the Bridporters are as blessed by their restaurants as their pubs.

Despite the “port” in its name, the town centre is not on the water. That privilege goes to West Bay, technically within the boundaries of Bridport and just a mile and a half from the town centre, but with a distinct holiday resort feel. A mix of pubs, cafes, apartment blocks and holiday accommodation huddle around a walled harbour and stretches a few hundred metres west before the multi-coloured cliffs of the Jurassic Coast rear up again. This may sound like a lot, but you can walk from one end to the other along the shore in less than 10 minutes.

There are three swimming beaches. The one closest to the harbour, food stalls and the public bathrooms tends to be full of families with children. The middle beach is wheelchair accessible with a dedicated ramp and a path across the sand to provide mobility on an otherwise impassible surface. And, quite gloriously, the third one along is the dedicated dog beach, where responsible owners frolic and swim with their best friends. (An unhappy Bruno swam for about five seconds … from my arms directly back to the beach.) Because of the way the tides flow, the dog beach is the sandiest and smoothest of the three, so even if you don’t have a pooch I’d recommend settling in to this one. 

At the back of the harbour is a dam, controlling the flow of the merged Brit and Asker and creating a
freshwater pond on which visitors play on paddle boards and row boats. Though there are a few architecturally jarring modern apartments next to the harbour, most of the scene is framed by old stone buildings and countryside. Though Bridport is close, it’s entirely screened from view by hills and trees. At the back of this water feature is the fabulous Rise cafe, serving up hearty breakfasts before rolling into a varied lunch and dinner menu. Their cocktail lounge and decks overlooking the water had a distinctly Californian feel about them.

There are plenty of excursions to be enjoyed in this part of the world, but the hot, sunny weather encouraged us to either spend our time at the beach, or under the umbrella with cool drinks in my friend’s garden. We did, however, hop on to Lyme Bay Rib Charter’s Golden Hour Cruise, which leaves West Bay at 4:30 and takes you up and down the coast for an hour, motoring in to the walled harbour at Lyme Regis at the mid point. Those of a romantic nature will instantly recognise “The Cob”, off of which Louisa Musgrove’s accident drove the plot of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, and along which Meryl Streep’s “French Lieutenant’s Woman” walked and brooded. You don’t need a literary bent, however, to appreciate this pretty harbour and the picturesque town sloping down to it. In between the two towns is a run of exquisite cliffs, hills, valleys and pastures that inspired Thomas Hardy and, of course, played a major role in our understanding of fossils and pre-history.

Bridport is not, curiously, served by a train station. The X53 and X51 buses from Dorchester will get you there in about an hour, and must be candidates for the prettiest bus route in the country. I suspect, however, that lack of easy train transport is a reason why Bridport and West Bay were busy but not overly crowded, despite my school holiday timing. This is clearly Dorset for the more discerning traveller, and I can’t wait to go back.

Eyas at The Falcon shows fine dining flare in the Northamptonshire countryside

Season Three of The Bear has been a bitter disappointment. A show that once had a magical balance of comedy, drama, characterisation and plot now seems to be meandering in the artsy foothills of award pursuit, with critical acclaim now considered more important than entertaining an audience. I stuck with it because I was invested in the characters from previous seasons, and I want to see how their arcs come to an end. But it was hard work.

There remain moments of brilliance, however, and more fascinating insight into the immense pressures and obsession for detail that goes into fine dining. That thought pushed its way into my head last night as a spoon too heavy for the delicate bowl in which it had been thrust flipped out, flinging some particularly tasty potatoes across the front of my dress with the action and force of a Medieval trebuchet. Carmy, The Bear’s moody proprietor, may be insufferable this season, but he wouldn’t have paired that dish and utensil. There are a million little stresses in the pursuit of culinary perfection.

Fortunately, the weaponised spoon was the only discordant note in a delightful dinner deep in the Northamptonshire countryside to celebrate my husband’s birthday. 

Eyas is one of a handful of restaurants within driving distance of Milton Keynes that appear in the Michelin Guide. None have stars, but rather bear “plate” status … promising fine dining establishments the Guide has its eye on. This one sits in the picture-postcard village of the Castle Ashby estate, attached to a traditional inn called The Falcon that Lord and Lady Northampton have turned into an upscale spot for a retreat or a special event. Though only half an hour from the hotel that Team Bencard calls its second home Monday through Friday, Eyas and its surrounding village feel a world away in both distance and time. Film makers wouldn’t have to do much to set an 18th century drama here.

Outside, that is. Eyas’ interiors are sophisticated enough to be in the heart of London, with creatively contrasting fabrics, elegant pottery and innovative architectural features. (I loved the ceiling panels punctured with holes of different sizes; an abstract version of a night sky.) Our table looked out over the hotel gardens, enlivened that night by a local wedding reception. Seasonal floral arrangements and an enormous wreath of dried flowers hanging like a chandelier above the room bring the outside in.

Logically for a place operating out of a historic agricultural estate, Eyas’ Head Chef Russell Bateman and team source ingredients from farmers, gamekeepers and nurseries within and around the 10,500 acres that comprise Castle Ashby. Obviously that doesn’t work for seafood or wine, though the latter challenge is partially solved by sourcing some bottles from a relative’s estate in Sussex.

Piers won the starters competition, as a birthday boy should, with a gorgeous plaice dish that balanced soft and crunchy, salty and sweet, and paired sea and land with fresh-cut herbs. 

My gnocchi was a very close runner-up. I appreciated the creativity of bacon lardons and apricots in the cheese sauce, but my final verdict on the fruit was “interesting experiment” rather than something I’ll rush to try again. The base cheese sauce, however, would do any Italian trattoria proud, and mopping the remains up with a slice of sourdough was just as good as the original dish.

As the designated driver, I started with a glass of the Wild Idol sparkling rose, by far the best non-alcoholic wine I’ve ever tried. I immediately looked it up online and it’s available direct from the maker for £24 a bottle. The company is obsessed with the environment and its green credentials, which fits well with the restaurant.

We both opted for the pork belly as a main and were split on our opinion. The birthday boy thought it was good but that the fat could have been rendered more; I was rolling my eyes in porcine pleasure. This may be because under normal Weight Watchers adhering circumstances, the saturated fats in pork belly make it the most sinful of indulgences … so I was just revelling in the transgression. We were both impressed with the perfectly balanced sauce which, it transpired, owed its interesting zing to miso and fish sauce. That we will be trying at home.

The most memorable thing on the plate, however, was the veg. A quarter hispi cabbage, grilled, became the base of an exquisite pile of peas, pea shoots, nuts, another green (possibly courgette or cooked cucumber) and just enough feta-like cheese to give it a bit of bite. If you’d been served two of these as a vegetarian main, you wouldn’t have missed the meat. 

The dish of the night, however, was desert. A scoop of chocolate ganache, on a bed of passion fruit sauce, covered with sweet, crunch bits, topped with a quenelle of ice cream (or maybe frozen yogurt) with a tartness to contrast the rich chocolate, topped with more passion fruit. In appearance, it was so simple as to almost be disappointing. It certainly didn’t set up the expectations that come with complex pastry work. But one bite reminded you that whether you’re at your local pub or a fancy restaurant, ultimately taste is all that matters. And this was an explosion of delight in the mouth.

It was also so rich that we had no chance of tucking in to the praline and chocolate disc that came after with birthday greetings, or the beautiful after dinner chocolates. We took them home with us to have for dessert the next night, as we returned to our standard fare Chez Novotel. 

Eyas is yet another point in the much-maligned midlands’ favour. Honestly, there’s nothing like this within half an hour of our home in North Hampshire, despite our proximity to London and all of our pockets of affluent London commuters. We do have a one Michelin star local option at L’Ortolan, but they’ve just announced they’re closing, and the best gastro-pub in the area, the Purefoy … thought to be on track for a Michelin mention … closed in January. Margins are tiny in fine dining and the market is tough. 

So I’ll excuse Eyas’ ill judged cutlery, and ignore the rather weird amuse bouche of an avocado sabayon that tasted great, but lost its body so quickly it failed completely as a dip for the veg it came with. (Served in a shot glass with some veg spears on the side, it would have been perfect.) Such are the vagaries of experimentation. I’m so glad that, like the fictional “Bear”, people are out there pushing the envelope to serve up memorable meals in the English countryside. 

Chawton in Stitches will beguile anyone with an eye for beauty, embroidery interest not required

A lot of places in England have Jane Austen associations, but only one has a world-leading library dedicated to early women’s writing. It’s what prompted me to volunteer at Chawton House. The fact that Jane frequented this place owned by her brother is a bonus, and the main thing that brings tourists. It’s the way the library team resurrects the life stories of fascinating women forgotten by history, however, that gives me thrills of discovery each time I walk through Chawton’s venerable Tudor doorway.

There are two gallery rooms upstairs set aside for rotating exhibitions. These generally draw from the rich source material of the 11,000 volume library. Shows introduce visitors to new topics and new heroines. The current exhibition, Chawton in Stitches, delivers once again … with a major exception.

This time, one of the heroines is alive.

And despite the fact that she’s just starting on her life’s journey, she’s impressed me just as much as her spiritual sisters from the library, revealing worlds to me that I knew nothing about. Emily Barnett’s world is that of needlework. Given that I can hardly re-attach a button, this is completely alien territory for me and one that I didn’t expect to find so interesting. I was astounded at both how fascinating and beautiful this small show was.

The centrepiece is Emily’s artwork The Chawton House Project, a magnificent embroidered triptych that embodies three different places around the house in a fascinating mix of materials and techniques. I went to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition* last week, where there’s a fair amount of embroidery work, and I didn’t see anything to match the visual impact and sheer beauty of the artwork on display at Chawton.

This was Emily’s degree project to graduate from the prestigious Royal School of Needlework, inspired by years she spent working at Chawton while a student. The first panel evokes the Library Terrace with cascades of wisteria atop the embroidered names of female writers to be found inside. The centre panel gives us the rose garden, stitched with passages from the herbal of Elizabeth Blackwell. (That book also inspired the herb garden in the walled garden above the house.) The right panel brings the orchard to life, bursting with both ripe apples and apple blossom, and underpinned with snippets from the Knight family cookbook. Far more than thread, the creative work here includes linen, leather, raffia, parchment paper and gold. You’re looking at 15,000 hours of work executed over seven months, a total that will be no surprise once you see the finished product.

Displays in the room talk us through Emily’s creative process and explain, once she decided what she was doing, how she turned ideas to reality. I was astonished to learn that the roses began as stitched copies of Jane Austen’s letters, cut into petals and assembled into unique literary flowers.

It wouldn’t be a Chawton House exhibition, however, without mining the magnificent library for more than just artistic inspiration. The first room of the show is an exploration of the history of needlework and women’s interaction with it, from the practical to the intellectual. 

We get introduced to different techniques … many illustrated with helpful panels contributed by Emily … and get a look at early pattern and instruction books. We see examples of work from historic women, including an interesting sampler by a 10-year-old girl that would probably challenge most adults today. There’s also the reproduction … along with her painted portrait … of one of Mary Knowles’ extraordinary needlework portraits. She was a favourite of Queen Charlotte and well known by the Georgian court but, like so many of the women in Chawton’s library, is generally forgotten by history. (If Shonda Rhimes wants to make a stand for minority interests in Bridgerton that also has historical credibility, she should have Knowles turn up to stitch one of the family member’s portraits.)

Books from Chawton’s collection also reveal that the debate over whether needlework is demeaning or empowering has a long history. A book written by Darwin’s grandfather lays out a generally reasonable argument about character building and being productive. A rare first edition of Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Man delivers a feminist broadside, rejecting the whole practice as a way to confirm women as ornamental. Elsewhere, there’s even a nod to modern trends in feminist embroidery. I was most intrigued by passages illustrating how our ancestresses used their needlework as a barrier to hold unwanted attentions off, something any reader of Jane Austen will find familiar. Human nature doesn’t change; today we stay enraptured by our mobile phone screens to do much the same thing. 

Wherever you stand on the political debate, you can’t fail to be impressed and inspired by the talent of women past and present who turned needle, thread and other materials into art. Chawton in Stitches runs until 27 August and is included in the standard admission price to tour the house. Find more information here.

The Summer Exhibition was curiously flat this year. A group of us attend annually, usually assigning ourselves an imaginary amount of money to go shopping through the galleries. Traditionally, there’s a lot of shock and horror over ridiculous prices and hideously ugly or emotionally disturbing stuff you can’t imagine putting in your house. But there’s also usually a generous handful of really beautiful works you’d happily purchase if you had both a fortune and a mansion with a lot of empty walls to furnish.

This year was decidedly average, missing both the shock-horror extremes (I almost found myself wishing for reprise of a past year’s stuffed, dead cat) and the objects of deep desire. We wondered if the RA had actually issued guidance to bring the prices down, as there were far fewer ridicule-worthy price tags this year. It was actually a challenge to spend our fantasy league £50,000, though I made a big dent in my total opting for a sculpture of a dog smoking a pipe. (I told you, it was an uninspiring year.) The most desireable stuff we saw was actually priced in the £1,000 to £2,000 range and … unsurprisingly … most already featured red “sold” stickers.

Looks like the cost of living crisis is hitting rich art buyers, too.

Opera's most daunting experience is actually like binge watching Netflix with your mates

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away … or about 30 years ago, before the advent of streaming and social media … television provided an enormous amount of social cohesion. Yes, there were recorders to capture and play back shows if you weren’t home, but in general when something big was going on, everyone gathered in their living rooms to watch it live. Who shot JR? How many gold medals would Nadia Comăneci earn? How would all of our friends in that MASH unit in South Korea get home?

Everyone gathered around their televisions at the same time to get the answers. And then, because the majority were doing the same thing at the same time, everyone would be talking about it the next day at work or school. Building community. Today, the media we consume tends to divide us. Back then, it brought us together.

I start here because that community-building world of shared experience is the best metaphor I can come up with to describe what it’s actually like to watch a Ring Cycle. 

We are just back from a week in the Cotswolds consuming Wagner’s epic Der Ring des Nibelungen. I will leave it to the professionals to review the actual performances. (The production is earning universal adulation, especially for Paul Carey Jones’ Wotan and Lee Bisset’s Brünnhilde, pictured right.) I thought it would be more useful to write about what it’s actually like to attend opera’s most famous marathon. 

It’s a lot easier, less stuffy, and far closer to other forms of popular entertainment than you might imagine.

Wagner suffers from an undeservedly negative reputation. If most people know him at all, it’s for parodies of shrieking, fat sopranos, an unfortunate stint as the Nazis’ favourite composer, or for one of The Ring's tune’s repeated deployments as a soundtrack to brutal combat. (The Ride of the Valkyries, set within its original context, is so much more interesting than those derivative uses.) What those who listen to him for any length of time realise is that he’s a composer of immense emotion, beauty and action.

If you enjoy the sweeping, romantic film scores of John Williams, Hans Zimmer or Ennio Morricone, you already like Wagner. Because he’s the guy who pretty much invented what they do, telling stories through the music and giving particular characters themes … he called them leitmotifs … that are a musical shout out to “look at me” when a particular character is doing something important.

If you’re the kind of person who likes grand, multi-generational sagas and has found yourself binge-watching Succession, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the Harry Potter films or Game of Thrones, you already like Wagner. In the hands of a great director (and Amy Lane, who’s been working on this for nine years of her life, is certainly that) The Ring is a binge-watchable epic that explores greed, love, ambition and tricky relationships within dysfunctional families. This is the stuff that keeps the streamers in business. The Ring just does it to music.

Yes, there are some issues with the plot. Avid haters of the fantasy genre may dislike the numbers of magical creatures and Norse gods on stage. There’s a small but important bit of incest that makes everyone uncomfortable. Most female viewers are frustrated by how one of drama’s greatest heroines can fall head over heels for a thick, self-obsessed lug of a hero and completely loose her mojo for a couple of acts. Thankfully, she rediscovers herself and drives the plot to a thrilling conclusion. She’s so central to the plot arc, in fact, the cycle could have been called The Brünnhilde rather than The Ring. Those plot issues fade to minor irritations, however, within the opulent big picture. 

So what does it mean to do a whole Ring Cycle? 

You’re committing to four operas, stretching across about 15 hours of performance time, in one week. The first one, Das Rheingold, is just under two hours and is generally performed without an intermission. The rest … Die Walküre, Siegfried, and Götterdämmerung … run between three and four hours each and usually have two intermissions. Performances are generally held every other day to give both the audience, and most importantly the singers, some time to rest. Delivering Wagner’s demanding, powerful scores is hard work, and a specialism restricted to a subset of opera singers. 

It would be possible to work through the week, taking some afternoons off for early starts of the weekday performances. But that's something you're probably more likely to do if it's being performed in a city where you live and work. Because Longborough is in the rural idyl of the Cotswolds, 90 minutes from home, we decided to take the week off and enjoy the delights of the area outside of the performances.  

The multiple intermissions increase the similarity to binge watching a compelling series. You’re taking breaks at logical places before rolling the next episode. It’s with these frequent intermissions that country house opera really comes into its own. Gates open 90 minutes before the show kicks off, giving you time to establish your picnic set up, pop a bottle of bubbly and have some nibbles. At Longborough, performances tend to start mid-afternoon so you’re kicking off just after lunch. If you’re on holiday all week in the Cotswolds, as we were, you’ve probably slept in and had a late breakfast, meaning the operatic progression of dining breaks will fill in for both lunch and dinner. 

A half-hour break between parts one and two gives you time to finish that fizz and have your starter. The main dining interval is between parts two and three, which generally starts between 6 pm and 7 pm, and runs for 90 minutes. This gives you time for a leisurely main course and dessert, plus the opportunity to use the loos and stretch your legs with a stroll around the gardens. Performances tend to end just just after 9pm, when the Cotswolds hills are bathed with golden twilight. You can hang around the grounds for a nightcap, but with such a small audience traffic moves quickly and we were back in Stow by 9:30. In time to catch the magnificent sunset on the longest day of the year.

Four performances gives you a chance to mix up those picnics. We started with a German-themed spread of sausages, cheese, and dark, seeded bread to honour the national origins of the story and composer. Other nights featured roast chicken and a particularly delicious roasted-then-chilled salmon with an Asian glaze. In past years I’ve cooked up al fresco delicacies for opera picnics, but having to assemble four of them in a week skews you towards the store-bought. Luckily, Stow is home to D’Ambrosi, an upscale deli and caterer who will assemble a basket of delights for you with no effort beyond waving your card in front of their reader. There are two restaurant options on site if you don’t want to do your own thing, but you have to book them when you buy your tickets as space is very limited. 

These dining breaks transform the overall experience. Fifteen hours of continuous opera does indeed sound like a marathon to be endured rather than enjoyed. Spreading that over a week, when you’re never in the opera for longer than the run of a typical film, and intersperse it with an equivalent amount of time swanning about country house grounds in formal wear eating and drinking nice things, and you have a very different thing. 

Four performances also gives you a chance to mix up your operatic outfits. Longborough is not as formal as Glyndebourne, the grandfather of all country house opera, and its web site emphasises coming in something that is celebratory and comfortable for you. For at least 60 percent of the crowd that’s still dinner jackets (tuxedos) for the men and the equivalent for the women. But we saw lots of variety. A subset of men went for magnificently patterned jackets from luxurious … often oriental … materials that brought a touch of Oscar Wilde to proceedings. (Wagner and Wilde were contemporaries, so that's rather appropriate.) 

Some alternated velvet smoking jackets with traditional black DJs. Long, embroidered or dyed silk jackets over neutral bases were a go-to for the women, with a few turning up in some fabulous ball gowns. If you like getting dressed up, a Ring Cycle is a tremendous excuse to take a circuit through your whole formal wardrobe in a week. 

Longborough’s sartorial flexibility meant that we went for a Bavarian interpretation of formal wear for opening night, fitting for an opera cycle with its heart in that part of Germany. It was such a hit with fellow guests we decided to bring it back for closing night as well. 

Opening night, however, was not as planned. We’d popped out to the grocers to pick up a few things for our picnic and returned to discover that our 12-year old spaniel had climbed onto a table, snatched the slide of his heart medicine and consumed 10 days’ dosage at one go. On a Sunday, when almost all vets are closed. A call to our own vets' emergency service confirmed this was a life-threatening emergency; the longer the drugs were in his system, the more danger he was in. So instead of getting dressed and swanning off to watch some Rhine maidens get their gold stolen, I was desperately searching for a vet open on a Sunday, driving an hour to get there, then holding a bowl while my beloved but stupid dog emptied his stomach multiple times, triggered to do so my special drugs. I’ve had better afternoons. The dog recovered quickly, though his little adventure added a significant expense to our holiday. We found a version of Das Rheingold on YouTube, spread our picnic on the coffee table and enjoyed an alternative kickoff to our Cycle. The dirndl and lederhosen made their debut for Die Walküre two nights later. 

The opera house at Longborough holds just 500, and for a Ring Cycle it’s the same people in the same seats for every performance. If you’ve reserved a dining spot, the people at your neighbouring tables will also be the same all four days. With only 500 in total, you start recognising people in Stow during the week and feel like you know most attendees on sight by the final performance. This all adds to that communal viewing experience, because you’re sharing opinions about the performance throughout the week. The further in you go, the deeper the conversations get.  

If this weren’t enough community building, Longborough put on additional events on the off days to for those who wanted to learn more about the production. Back to the binge-watching analogy … these were like tapping into the extra features on the director’s cut DVD. On Friday we attended two lectures in Longborough’s parish church. The first was a Master Class in which two singers who played smaller roles were performing bits and pieces and getting coaching from Rachel Nicholls, who played Brünnhilde the first time Longborough did The Ring. Underlining the intimate nature of this opera festival, current Brünnhilde, Lee Bisset, was sitting in the pew behind us and happily chatting to audience members. I don’t think I’d be able to get out of bed the day after delivering a performance of such power, much less enjoy chatting with strangers.

The second session featured director Amy Lane and Longborough’s Ring Conducting Fellow Harry Sever talking about the challenges of putting on the Cycle. The behind-the-scenes view into the complexities of something this monumental, yet staged in such a small space, was fascinating. In between, all the audience members … who’d now seen three of the four operas together and were all mates … rolled into the local pub for a few pints and more Wagnerian bonding.  

To be honest, I doubt I’d enjoy the experience as much at the major urban opera houses. There are more than 2,200 seats at Covent Garden, far too many to build the same kind of community with fellow audience members even if you are sitting together for 15 hours. While I’ve come to love these operas, would I enjoy them as much without all those dining and drinking breaks in a pretty garden? I’m not sure. Sadly, I can’t recommend any other country house operas at which you might try a Ring Cycle, as this has traditionally been considered impossible for small companies to deliver. Longborough is unique. They’ve done it twice in their thirty year history and are now regularly called “The English Bayreuth”. (Bayreuth being the Wagner-built opera house in Bavaria where The Ring was born.)  

But I do recommend sampling Wagner, and caution you against thinking that attending a Ring Cycle is something strange and foreign. It’s as modern as binge-watching Netflix with your mates. And if you’re lucky enough to do it at Longborough, it’s magnificent fun.