Sure as night follows day, I find myself back in Northern Bavaria, collaborating on an industrial-sized chunk of Wagner's finest pages to be presented to the paying public as part of the oldest music festival in the world, the Bayreuther Festspiele. For those who've never heard of it, Wagner started this annual summer festival in 1876 as a showcase for his recently-completed Ring Cycle. The festival is still going strong today, somewhat surprisingly as the composer advocated burning the theatre down after one performance. Admittedly, he suggested that before the building had actually gone up, but the 'concept' was there: that a performance of this monumental work should be something unique. It still is in certain ways: even though many theatres all over the world now have the resources to mount a decent Ring (if you'll excuse the turn of phrase) a Ring in Bayreuth is always an event, even if they sometimes disappoint for whatever reason.
Outside of work, the environs of the town are a delight to discover and rediscover. I've posted regularly from my hidey-hole at the top of the famed Green Hill over the years so I won't bore you with any other bourgeois, bucolic crap, suffice to say that this year I've bought a bike and ride it as often as I can (oh, stop sniggering at the back). It's good for my mental health and my gut. Compared to Toulouse, cycling in Bayreuth is like jogging up and down Everest so you have to be up for the challenge, particularly around 7.30am when I head out to the nearby forest for a four mile, pre-breakfast warm-up. Not always easy, as it turns out. The joy of careering down steep slopes is tempered by the knowledge you're going to have to travail back up the other side.Roberto Carlos would be proud of my thighs already, though…
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