Another wonderfully sunny day in London unfolded with that peculiar richness only this city seems able to provide—layer upon layer of experience, each entirely different from the last.
It began at the Jacobean Charlton House, where, somewhat unexpectedly, we found ourselves listening to a brass quintet. It’s not something I would normally go out of my way for—though I’ve always had a soft spot for brass bands, especially when they seem somehow connected in my mind with steam trains—but this proved a delightful exception.
The group, five young women calling themselves “Queentet,” performed a lively and varied programme. Not every piece was entirely to my taste, but their energy, confidence, and sheer musicianship carried the day. There was something particularly striking about seeing such a young ensemble, not least the player commanding a great, gleaming tuba with effortless authority.

From music, we moved into nature. Drawn by the sunshine, we wandered into the walled garden, where volunteers were hard at work among beds of spring flowers. It was there that I made a small but thrilling discovery. Among the blooms were Narcissus Poeticus—the very same delicate, fragrant flowers we look forward to each year on the Prato Fiorito. To find them here, in southeast London, felt almost uncanny. One of the gardeners explained that they are not easily obtained; their presence was due entirely to the head gardener’s passion for unusual species.

The garden itself was a joy—tulips blazing with colour, a sense of quiet dedication among the volunteers, and even a friendly young South African gaining experience while searching for work.

We rounded off our visit at the little tea house, where a perfectly judged bacon sandwich and a cup of tea were followed—on the recommendation of a nattily dressed gentleman in what looked like 1950s attire—by an excellent bread-and-butter pudding.
That gentleman turned out to be the day’s great surprise. In conversation, he mentioned he had once been a musician. When I asked what he played, he replied, quite casually, that he had been the bass guitarist for The Zombies. It was one of those improbable London encounters. We spoke at length about the 1960s, about music and venues, and of course about their enduring classic “Time of the Season.” It felt as though the past had briefly stepped into the present.

From there, we set off again, intending to visit the bluebells in Oxleas Wood, but instead stopped at Woodlands Farm—a place already known to us. The farm, now a thriving charity, was full of life: sheep on the verge of lambing (and indeed we saw a couple of newborn lambs), cows, and snorting pigs, alongside a carefully tended garden. It serves a vital purpose, reminding visiting children that food does not originate in plastic packaging but in living, breathing animals and working land. Once part of a Co-op dairy farm, it was sold to the charity for the symbolic sum of one pound—a small detail that somehow makes its continued existence all the more heartening.

Time pressed on. From Welling we caught the train into Cannon Street, pausing briefly for a complimentary coffee, before making our way to Covent Garden. There, in the old market—once a bustling fruit and vegetable hub, immortalised in My Fair Lady—we stumbled upon an impromptu performance by a lively guitarist. It was the perfect prelude to the evening.

By seven o’clock we were seated in the Royal Opera House for Mayerling, Kenneth MacMillan’s dark and psychologically charged masterpiece. Our seats were excellent, offering a clear view of what would prove to be an unforgettable performance.
The ballet tells the tragic story of Archduke Rudolf and Baroness Mary Vetsera, and it unfolded with extraordinary intensity. The dancing was remarkable. Rudolf, danced by a Russian performer, and Mary, by a Japanese ballerina, brought a rare emotional truth to their roles.
Here, MacMillan transforms the traditional pas de deux into something far more visceral and daring. The choreography becomes a language of desire, desperation, and psychological fracture. The dancers seemed at times almost to dissolve into one another, their movements fluid, weightless—less like bodies than like fleeting, ethereal forms shaped by music and emotion. It was deeply sensual, at moments unsettling, yet always utterly compelling.
And in the end, despite the darkness—the inevitability of tragedy—there was something strangely uplifting. Not happiness, but the sense of having witnessed a life lived intensely, even recklessly, to its very edge.
The applause was overwhelming.

Still carried along by that emotional high, we made our way home on the Underground, arriving close to midnight. It had been one of those rare days that remind you of the astonishing variety of London: from brass music in a Jacobean house, to rare flowers in a hidden garden, to a chance meeting with a figure from musical history, to the earthy simplicity of a working farm, and finally to the heights of artistic expression at Covent Garden.
All of it bathed in glorious sunshine—a day that seemed to promise that summer, when it comes, will be warm, generous, and full of life.
A truly unforgettable London day.