Fog

Buxton Festival is on at the moment, which is always a good opportunity to take in a little culture. Particularly so in such genteel surroundings, with the grandeur of the Opera House and the elegance of the Pavilion Gardens, incongruously set amidst the desolate beauty of the Peak District. You rather wonder why they ever bothered to build such a substantial town in what is, you might be forgiven for saying, the middle of nowhere. But the Romans had a mind of their own, what with their curiously straight roads, and under floor heating. And the Victorians clearly relished taking the waters. And that sadly is about the limit of my knowledge of the history of the place.

If you must know, I went to see The Turn of the Screw, in my lifelong quest to get round to seeing all the operas of Benjamin Britten. It's pretty tough going on a first hearing, although full of his characteristically dramatic and inventive vocal writing. And, being based on the Henry James story with its ghosts and possessed children and general sense of impending evil, it's a fairly cheerless affair, not exactly a feelgood experience that leaves you skipping out of the theatre in high spirits. (Hence surprisingly unlike last week's Beauty and the Beast.) I usually look forward to a gentle stroll around Buxton before (and sometimes after) the performance, but it was an irritatingly drizzly evening. And to add to the downbeat and otherworldly mood of the evening, the drive back over the Cat and Fiddle was through thick fog, with visibility measurable in centimetres. Which added to the frisson of what is a hair-raising enough drive at the best of times.