Storm Dennis raged in Wales, and I sought sanctuary in the Millennium Centre for an experience on my bucket list – my first opera.
The space age reception area of the theatre prepared me to be transported to the alien world of opera. ‘Beam me up, Mozart,’ I muttered as I waited for The Marriage of Figaro to begin. Convinced I would need to abscond from the three and a half hours marathon during the interval, I planned the best route for the exit.
My great uncle, a coal miner from Barnsley, was a great fan of opera and blasted out the music on his gramophone. I never met Great Uncle Jimmy but of family legend deemed him eccentric for a Barnsley lad. Always amused by an opera loving miner in the family, I had to discover if one could inherit this passion.
Opera seduced me with the very first note. The poetic actions of the performers showed me the way into the narrative. And the incredible harmonies of the signing convinced me that my Level 2 seat was in heaven. Performers blended their actions and singing and taught me the emotional language of an operatic performance. Suspended in the drama, I hardly looked at the subtitles.
For three hours, I felt as if I was able to interpret the Italian language that seemed perfect for the expression of the emotions. Wow! I now understand that Uncle Jimmy would enter a trance like state to escape the darkness and toil of his life under the ground. And I know he warned my late father, ‘Don’t go down the pit, lad.’
There were layers and layers of humour and then emotions. I do not think I blinked throughout the entire performance because I could not miss one single detail of this musical tapestry. I loved the way the opera tested loyalty and love and relationships, but I was not prepared for the wonderful comedy.
To me the final scene seemed to be an expression of joy and happiness when everyone found their equilibrium. I reached in my handbag for water to ease the emotion in my throat. I couldn’t believe it! The curtain call arrived too soon. It couldn’t possibly be the end because I hadn’t heard Figaro’s Aria – the tune I’d attempted to warbled for months before this experience. Where was it? Well, now I realise this is in the Barber of Seville. A perfect ending for me as I will have to return to watch the Barber of Seville later in the year.
I am in love with opera. However, I’m unsure if this love is passed down through Uncle Jimmy, my father’s uncle. My mother also attended the opera for the first time and adored it too. I have found a new love!
“I speak of love awake I speak of love in my dreams, To the water, the shadows, the mountains, To the flowers, the grass, the fountains.” Mozart, The Marriage of Figaro.
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’. Currently, she is working on the frolics and escapes of ‘Mavis and Dot’- need I say more?
Angela: My father, Kenneth Sutor, who died twenty six years ago. He introduced his three young children to Italian culture in the 1960’s, when he relocated to Rome to work for the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. I still have his 1956 edition of Hachette’s World Guide to Italy that he carried in his pocket for our excursions. Every Sunday he would take us to Mass and afterwards treat the family to a slap-up meal in a simple trattoria. Then, out would come his little blue book and we would be guided round the Villa d’Este or the Via Appia Antica, Colosseum, Subiaco, Assisi…He refused to have us penned up in an apartment in the centre of Rome and found us a ramshackle villa on the outskirts of Rome. The garden was stuffed with Roman statues, orange trees and bordered by vineyards and peach groves. How could I, as an impressionable seven year old, fail to fall in love with Italy? He was self-educated. Today he would have enjoyed a university education but his family were not wealthy enough to support him. I remember him often engrossed in a history book, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
Fifteen miles from nowhere, we saw a faded sign for ‘Fish Shack’. We followed a road to the middle of the beach desert until we reached a decaying old boat that was almost as big as a whale. Yes, and the 
Expecting greasy fish and chips, I was handed plaice and salad with a large cup of builder’s tea. The food was absolutely delicious! The plaice, caught only hours earlier, was cooked in olive oil on a hot plate. The fresh salad had an olive oil and lemon dressing. It was served in a small cardboard box, but they will probably steal this idea on the Great British Menu. And builder’s tea could be the new Pinot Noir. I must confess that I declined the bread roll, but understood that it was a nod to the fishermen who eat this food.
Seizing the moment, we decided to go for a walk on the beach. We were told it was fine to walk on the beach if we didn’t touch the ‘fishing tackle’!! Forget visiting a maritime museum, there were artefacts on the beach such as rusty anchors and abandoned nets. These savvy people are obviously protecting the objects d’art to prevent art galleries and Michelin starred restaurants from displaying them in their gaffs. The food and the setting were perfect: The Fish Shack is indeed a funky little shack. Get yourselves off to the food getaway!
Who knows? Maybe this place will become either the Dungeness Modern Art Gallery or even the Derek Jarman Modern. An art gallery and restaurant without walls could be the new concept of the 21st century. Visit now as in the future you may need a credit card without a limit.
I found myself laughing so much that my husband wanted to understand what was so funny, but I couldn’t articulate it without reading sections aloud. Indeed, I can echo the author’s words that ‘I have been crying with laughter and sniggering – Himself was not amused’.
You cannot ‘loiter politely’ or ‘cough Englishly’ in France; it’s not even sufficient to speak French. The narrative shows you that ‘if you want to integrate, you have to do it at the locals’ pace.’ You will learn subtleties of why the French mock the English and why we laugh at the French. Mais oui, we have so much in common as we like to eat drink and laugh. It’s not that simple! It was pure genius to invite the locals for an English breakfast and afternoon tea; fight traditions with more traditions and vive la difference. One must accept that the British will never know what time bonjour becomes bonsoir. One must rejoice in the fact that ‘in France, you spend a lot of time eating’.
Patricia’s witty observations will instruct you in French way of life. However, it is refreshing to view British culture through French eyes and laugh at our own idiosyncrasies. Despite the culture gap, Herself and Himself charmed the locals. In turn, you will also be charmed by: Henri, Loony Tunes, P’tit Gui and a comedy of wonderful people. However, the most endearing characters in the book are Patricia, Himself and, Purdey, the dog. Wouldn’t it be great fun to invite Patricia and Himself to a dinner party? I dare you to ask Patricia if Henri almost made her blush. Perhaps, Himself would agree to partake in a spot of demolition after coffee.
Initially, I complained that it was another rainy day in Wales and it wasn’t worth braving a potential storm. I was happy to admire the colours of the garden from my writing room, but the writing wasn’t flowing. Finally, I put on my walking gear and went to the Brecon Beacons. The beep, beep, beep of my phone was left behind as we drove into the heart of the impressive mountain range.
Always one to admire the cloudless blue sky, I was surprised by depth of the grey sky. I had been adamant that I needed the blue sky for some ‘blue sky thinking’, but I was wrong. I needed the reality of a dramatic landscape to chase away the writer’s block.
We stood in the landscape as the colours were dissolved by silver, grey and bronze tones. We discussed how the scene was changing before us, and how the moving clouds were like the curtains opening and closing on the stage. This made me aware that the weather re-writes the landscape in the same way that a writer changes the shades of meaning in a story.
We agreed that the spirit of the woman seems to beckon you. From a distance, the sculpture looks like a projected image – prompting: is she real or imaginary? As you approach, the sculpture is flat like the silhouette on a stamp.
I decided this was also a sculpture but others were sceptical. A plaque marked the spot as if to reassure me.
I wonder if you would be able to spot the sculptures that instigated our discussions?
Giuseppe’s grandson, Francesco, and his English wife transform the ancient houses into holiday lets. Their son, Davide, encounters some of the emotional challenges of childhood that Giuseppe, his great-grandfather, had to face.
Today, I attended the Bennet household. Alas, Elizabeth was not at home. I was rather shocked to be greeted by her father, Mr Bennet. I did not see a servant.
Finally, he asked the parlour maid to show me into the library. Strangely, every book on the shelves has been penned by a Jane Austen. I was most impressed with a book entitled, ‘
Lost in Austen’s books, I read until the clock struck four and my stomach rumbled. Venturing into the corridor, surprised that the house was silent, I decided to depart. A Miss Austen opened the door and insisted on my company. She informed me that Mr Bennet lives in her imagination, but he had been seen loitering on the doorstop on many occasions.
Amused by my breeches, Miss Austen invited me to take tea with her. She smiled when I explained they are cropped trousers. We sat in a very modest parlour. The maid served tea and a buttered apple tart. Delighted that her books had made me forget time, Miss Austen commented that. ‘…for my own part, if a book is written well, I always find it too short.’
