On one of summer’s rare dry days, I spent an evening watching The Rakes Progress at Glyndebourne’s Festival Opera. I’m a big opera fan and have travelled to Italy, Spain and Germany to see some fantastic performances but had never felt the urge to go to Glyndebourne. I am not sure why. I guess the idea of all that pomp and dressing up, instead of just listening and enjoying the performance, felt a bit up itself and initially put me off. Plus, this performance was in English, and I always assumed Italian and German operas would flow more easily in song. It was, as it turned out, completely worth dusting off my black tie. It was an outstanding performance and an English aria is just as thrilling as any in Italian or German. The grand picnic on the grounds during the extra-long interval made the dress-up more fun. Plus, it is cheaper to travel to East Sussex than Europe. So, sorry, Glyndebourne, I got it wrong.
Our idea of an army officer seems to be clouded by old stereotypes like Blackadder’s public school boys
As proven by the very first words of this diary piece, we Brits love to talk about the weather and when it rains, we love to complain about it even more. But you know what? I am starting to appreciate being soaked to the skin and I have two reasons why: Firstly, our house is remote and we have no mains water. So any drop of rain is always appreciated as it keeps our borehole well supplied. Secondly, I’m starting to appreciate wet weather even more, wet is good after the extreme heat, drought and fires in North America and Europe. We might all find we love getting our brollies out in the UK even more as the climate continues to change and the non-rain-blessed have trouble providing drinking water and irrigation for their crops. Who knows, we might even start exporting it.
I recently started ‘the rounds’ of a PR tour to promote my new book. The Rescue, all good books shops etc., and an Irish Radio station asked me what I thought was my most outstanding achievement. I knew what it was while serving in the military: becoming a member of the SAS. Out of 220 on my selection course who wanted to wear the sand-coloured beret, only eight passed. But what about since you have left, they asked. That was a hard one, not because there have been so many but because of my scattergun approach to writing, TV and film production. I have sold over 30 million books but still sign deals book-by-book. My publishers want to make our relationship more formal, but one at a time feels good to me.
But anyway, back to my point, living project by project means there isn’t any time to think about anything else. One of this year’s obsessions was making a documentary that will be filmed later this year following officer cadets throughout their year of training at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. I wanted the MoD to let this documentary be made because our idea of an army officer seems to be clouded by old stereotypes like Blackadder’s public school boys. But over 50 per cent of officer cadets come from state schools, and many of these young men and women haven’t been to university. So, I feel it’s important to show what our officer corps is really like and to see social mobility in action. I’ll take that as a post-SAS achievement. If only I had thought of it during the radio show.
Another upside of the crazy weather this summer was that there have been some excellent waves. An obsession that I try to control but can’t is surfing. I entered my first competition in Costa Rica just before lockdown and got through to the third heat, only to be beaten by Zac, a 17-year-old from the US West Coast, who annoyingly seemed to be glued onto his board. I used to make fun of friends whose surfing has become a religion but I now understand why. It’s so easy to become a convert, if you’re not careful. In Costa Rica, there is a way of life for surfers called Pura Vida. It’s about attitude, emotion, and contentment rolled into one. Even churches in surf towns get into it and have crucifixes made from surfboards fixed to their doors. In the second heat of the competition in Costa Rica, I caught a wave and then it was as if I was at one with Pura Vida. Everything was in perfect balance, I was in a state of flow. I didn’t know why, I didn’t know how but it was as if the surf god had grabbed the back of my rash vest and kept me upright. My perfect, soulful experience lasted less than a minute but felt like hours. Then the surf god let go of me and I wiped out spectacularly. I am off to Costa Rica next year to compete once again. I don’t think I’ll go all the way and covert to Pura Vida but I’m hoping I convert just enough to get through to the fourth heat and maybe this time, the surf god will see fit to let go of Zac’s rash vest as soon as he pops up on his board.
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