Racing at Glorious Goodwood and then off to Glyndebourne to see Donizetti’s wonderfully intoxicating romp L’elisir d’amore. And not a jot of rain on either day. How we beat the downpours the poor farmers waiting to harvest are close to despair I will never know, but when you do, those are the days where Britain sets itself culturally apart from other nations.
With all its natural charm, in a saddle of the South Downs, Goodwood now surpasses Royal Ascot, with its increasing binge drinking, as the most stylish place to go racing during the summer.
Glyndebourne has never had a rival, and, on its present form, it never will. The gardens had survived the storms and the Russian soprano Ekaterina Siurina was wonderful as the beautiful, contrary Adina. There is a magic that surrounds the place.
It’s just a shame that the words ‘thank you’ seem so hard for some opera-goers. Common courtesy wouldn’t go amiss as you stand to let them shuffle past you to their seat, but it was too much to hope for in my row. I’m sure that these same people would be the first to complain about manners in this country. They should practise what they preach. Rant over.
