Another chapter closed

It's a relief when you go to an opera you don't know and realise at the final curtain that you need never see it again. Not that we didn't enjoy Les Vêpres Siciliennes, relayed from Covent Garden this evening. It has some good tunes, and opera doesn't come much grander. Though the programme strangely didn't mention his name, the excellent director Stefan Herheim spared no thought, and his paymasters no expense: the updating from 13th to mid-19th Century was an ingenious solution to what's pretty much an old war horse. It could be dire done straight.

During the intervals we were treated to tweets from cinema audiences around the world: someone from Ulster "wished we were there at the Royal Opera House": Caroline and I begged to differ. We felt far better off sitting in acres of space in our local Cineworld, enjoying our picnic topped off with a Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

And I reached the final chapter of "Still in the Game" last night. Charlotte had lent me her copy of Antony Hornyold's book when we met him at lunch with them last month. I much enjoyed its mixture of autobiography, history, adventure and reflection. Antony's own photographs are accompanied by good maps and some judiciously chosen archive material. Biggles was an earlier generation, but there are echoes in this self-portrayal of a brave and modest man, still very much with us. When's the next one coming out, Antony?

Laden

My mother gave her son-in-law a Cox's Orange Pippin sapling. She died in 1993, so it is now well established - and this year well loaded.

Besides apples, Bill has several extremely productive pear trees in his orchard: he has rigged up an impressive scratter in his garage, worthy of Heath Robinson himself: this year's resultant juice is well on its way to becoming next year's perry. Bill describes his perry-making activities in this fine piece he has written for his parish magazine; and you can email him via this link if you would like to enquire about buying his perry. (It's delicious!)

The Whittington Show

Despite an iffy forecast, it has been a fine day as usual for the Whittington Show. Charlotte came to lunch, and we took her up Ham Hill with us, sneaking in the back way and parking outside Kim and Ruth's. Doing this, we get to see the fête proper twice, on the way to the Court and on the way back: otherwise, it can be an effort to drag ourselves down to the village and back, what with the attractions of the Press, the church and the Court itself - where Jack was today looking particularly dapper, sitting in splendour in the bay window of his bedroom. Hugo presided in the hall, having to close the door when too many threatened to invade the house. Jenny, Lucy and Giles were on downstairs room duty.

At the Press, John cruised genially; Rose and Patrick were busy selling, and 20 or so stalls were set up under the trees, showing fine books from other presses, marbling, weaving, bees and much else: it's a unique gathering surely; and more and more come each year. Miriam peered through borrowed specs.; Freddie brought Zazie and guests; Kitty, Antonia, Rory and Judith, Toby and Ursula and family, Heather, Julian... And by the produce tent, I spoke to Jill and the Frys, and of course Ian with photographs and fudge as well as beef brochures. Roger and Dave were around the Hall, where we paused for tea before returning to the car, clutching second hand books for the grandchildren, the brass band still playing, but clouds gathering to spoil the brightness of the afternoon.

Wetlands

We drove to Charlotte's for New Year drinks today, in the sunshine for once: the rain has been virtually incessant over the holiday period. I have never seen the River Avon valley so flooded (Bredon looked like a seaside village from the M5). At Upton, the level of the Severn made it unlikely you could even pass under the road bridge in a canoe: the water was across the road by the marina. Cars were naturally getting stuck on Bill and Charlotte's paddock, flat though that is.

Winter water - 2

I was struck - as I often find myself - by something in the Jesuit, Guy Consolmagno's Tablet column this week: "As the nuns used to tell us about occasions of sin, we are in a situation we should have avoided. Two centuries of dumping carbon dioxide in the atmosphere leads to trouble; as surely as sitting at the bar of a strip club, pretending nothing will happen."

And linked to that, Kumi Naido of Greenpeace International made a strong impression on the World Service's "Hard Talk" recently: towards the end of his interview (at the UN Climate Change Conference in Doha), he said, "Our religious leaders have been deafening in their silence, by not standing up strongly to speak for God's creation." Amen to that.

Finally, this photograph - not unconnected (perhaps): I paused illegally on the hard shoulder of the M5 this morning near Bredon, to take it just where the road crosses the River Avon. (I was on my way to visit Charlotte, having discovered that Upton High Street at least was not flooded.)

Florence

Thanks to Charlotte's introduction, we are staying for our last two nights with an Italian friend in her apartment at the top of a palazzo near San Ambrogio. In other words, we have a room with a view - over San Miniato al Monte to the South and Fiésole to the North.

Two nights, but really only one day, so we have been making the most of it, and are now completely exhausted, what with so much walking. We started off at Santissima Annunziata, its beautiful square and del Sartos - rather a shock after Siena's Gothic. Going backwards in time, we moved slightly West to San Marco: they were dismantling a dinosaur exhibition behind the church. Fast forward to Fra Angelico, however, and those extraordinary frescoed cells. On to San Lorenzo, and Michelangelo's Medici tomb sculptures ("Let me have men about me that are fat." Women too in his case.)

But even after all of this, and a caper through the Duomo and over the Ponte Vecchio, Santa Maria Novella has been the highlight of today. The church's outside appearance is no preparation for what's within, particularly the Ghirlandaios. All the history of which our hostess has been explaining to us over tea in an amusing way and in faultless English!

Château Bill

My Worcestershire brother-in-law planted a vineyard a little while ago, and with all this Summer's rain the grapes are currently looking good. We look forward to a wine tasting in due course. Meanwhile, in recent years he has been making a mean perry, using pears from some of his mature orchard, and - following today's visit - we returned home with a case of 12 bottles. It's delicious!

Secret Tewkesbury

This garden, a plaque says, was designed by Peter Healing. What a good name for someone associated with such a peaceful place, right beside Tewkesbury Abbey! I had never come across it before yesterday, when I cycled to Tewkesbury to meet Charlotte for lunch there. I started out in drizzle, but that soon gave way to sunshine, the clouds blown along by the breeze - a perfect biking day. On the suggestion of a Cheltenham and Tewkesbury Cycle Campaign colleague, I went via Southam and Gotherington, cutting across to Tredington, and so avoided the busy Uckington road out of Cheltenham. 28 miles in all, and - away from the main roads - hardly another vehicle.

News from Miri

Jemima Louise Rose Lawrence is the newest name for our family tree, born 7,000 miles away in Sarawak just over a week ago, to Kate and Oliver. With her cousin Sofia Filippi, arriving six months earlier for Hannah and Fabio, she evens things up as between my father's male and female offspring - seven apiece now.

Two granddaughters will surely keep my sister busy for a few years, particularly coming as they do from the more multinational department of our immediate family: she's naturally planning a visit to Miri fairly soon.

A rare sight

On Wednesday, I put on a brave face and cooked supper for four. This happens only once in a blue moon. The marrow was grown by brother-in-law Bill: plenty left still - it was enormous.

The mince ended up rather too dry and too salty; but our guests - Robin and Felicity Littlewood - were too polite to say so. The pears in red wine weren't cooked enough, on the other hand. Better the next night, when Thibaud de Saint-Quentin was staying; but cooking for a Frenchman is not something I feel up to.