Spectator Life

The restoration of any run-down English country mansion is likely to involve extensive re-roofing, re-plumbing and re-wiring. Only one, however, is likely to uncover microphone wires hidden deep within walls by MI6, or involve the polishing of a grand, three-storey oak staircase over which Hitler’s top henchman, dressed in full Nazi regalia, tried to throw himself (failing when he got his leg stuck in the balustrade). Mytchett Place, between Ash Vale and Frimley Green in Surrey, is a sprawling 23,000 sq ft Victorian house that has just hit the sales market for £15 million. In recent years used as commercial premises, it’s in need of complete renovation, but comes with all the trappings of a trophy home: a sweeping driveway, several huge receptions, at least 12 bedrooms, 11-plus acres and a three-storey tower.

In the hot, dry summer of 1976, I was working as a gardening student at Arboretum Kalmthout in Belgium. The temperatures in July were frequently 40°C by lunchtime, so we worked in the early mornings and through the evenings. My job was to drive a tractor pulling a trailer, on to which were placed dustbins full of water drawn from a borehole. These were ferried around the grounds so we could water rare, precious and drought-hating rhododendron and tree species. The owners of the garden were white-faced with apprehension all that month but the stratagem worked and we saved the lot. Something of that anxiety comes back to me, for my garden is at risk of losing plants from drought. We have had a measly 0.157 inches of rain in this corner of Northamptonshire this month, and no appreciable quantity since 16 March.

My first reaction to anyone buying even a bog standard two-up-two-down terrace in London is a fake congratulations through gritted teeth. So when it was reported last week that the Duchess of York, ex-wife of disgraced Prince Andrew, had bought a £5 million mews house in Mayfair, I was surprised that I didn’t share the outrage of the general public. Sure, she does very little, spending her days lounging around in Royal Lodge, the Grade II-listed Windsor property she shares with her ex. But there’s a part of Sarah Ferguson that is totally relatable, and as she has tried – and often failed – to navigate the inner workings of the royal establishment, I have watched her with admiration. Since her marriage to Andrew in 1986, she has never been far from controversy.

Chances are you will have heard of Hay-on-Wye. You might even have been. It’s the town on the Anglo-Welsh border where more than 30 years ago a man called Peter Florence began what has become the world’s most famous literary festival. Now some 200,000 people descend on the place each May and June, and for 11 days it feels like the centre of the literary universe, with hordes carrying tote bags traipsing hither and thither and pubs and restaurants overflowing like Venice in high summer. If that’s what floats your boat, then get stuck in. But for my money, Hay is worthy of a visit in its own right – and preferably when all those other visitors (not to mention ex-presidents and Booker prize-winners) aren’t there.

Of all the things in the world of entertainment that might get me excited, 'a new Michael Mann project' tops the list. A film writer and director, Mann not only is a talented storyteller, but has mined the criminal underworld for his subject matter, from his debut feature in 1981, Thief. Since then, he’s rarely veered from criminal elements in his subject matter (Last of the Mohicans and Ali being the two notable exceptions). He is the great auteur of the crime genre; in other words, he makes arthouse films for dads. In 1995 Mann released what many consider to be the greatest crime film ever made. Heat told the story of Neil McCauley (Robert De Niro) and his crew, a group of master thieves who live to take down scores, in a cat-and-mouse game with a relentless cop named Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) and his team of detectives.

Every August, thousands of comedians make the pilgrimage to Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. By the end of the month, those who manage to stand out in this crowded field (and it is a very crowded field) might have Live at the Apollo or Netflix calling, or maybe even a sitcom commission. But this year, with performers facing hefty registration fees, rent more expensive than a luxury foreign holiday and exorbitant marketing campaigns, all in the midst of a cost of living crisis, more and more are asking: has the Fringe lost its edge? As the festival kicks off for its 75th year, comedian Vittorio Angelone says its culture seems to have changed. ‘It feels like the letting agents, journalists, PR companies, venues and TV industry have doubled down on all the ugliest parts of the ever more corporate “Fringe”,’ he says.

I’ve never been very good at leaving things be. I tend to gild the lily. I may plan to do something simple, but I always find myself adding to it, primping, faffing. This is true in every area of life, but never more so than when I’m cooking. For that reason, this time of year can make me a little uncomfortable. When summer arrives in earnest – as opposed to those brief, misleadingly sunny weekends of late April and mid-May – we are inundated with beautiful fresh fruit. Right now, it’s strawberries, gooseberries, peaches and cherries; raspberries, blackcurrants and figs are just around the corner. And we are told over and over that it is impossible to improve on ripe, raw fruit, fresh from the tree. But I promise you (and this is not just me being a fusspot): there are occasions when it is worth cooking ripe, seasonal fruit; where it improves the fruit, and heightens its deliciousness.

The flights are booked, the passports are dusted down and it’s time to pack. But which books deserve space in your suitcase? Here, Spectator writers share their all-time favourite summer holiday reads… Matthew Parris My all-time favourite re-read at any time of year is Thornton Wilder’s The Bridge of San Luis Rey. A very short novel with the kind of perfection a geometrical proof may command, it starts with the death of a group of travellers crossing a Peruvian rope bridge who are linked only by the fact that they were on the bridge when it snapped, and traces the life of each up until that point. Wilder’s quest is to discover whether there exists any divine plan. Toby Young For pure escapism, I Am Pilgrim by Terry Hayes is hard to beat.

People complaining about supposedly offensive pop lyrics is hardly anything new. It’s as old as the form itself; never-ending proof that everyone is offended by something and that every era has its own set of taboos. But the speed with which music stars appear to be acquiescing to other people's hurt feelings today is surely something new. Take Beyonce. She’s one of the biggest stars in the world. A genuine living legend. And yet because a handful of disabled charities and irked right-on tweeters have complained about one word in one of the songs on her new album Renaissance, her ‘team’ has almost immediately promised to scrub and re-record the offending lyric as soon as possible. The word that has caused so much offence? ‘Spaz’, which Beyonce uttered a couple of times on the track 'Heated', which was co-written with Canadian rap star Drake.

It was Barbara Amiel, whose copy I used to edit at the Sunday Times, who first alerted me to the important point that one private jet isn’t enough. One jet is always in the wrong place. Or having heavy maintenance. Two was the minimum, she said. Plenty of others appear to live by the same maxim. Roman Abramovich has five jets, including a Boeing 787 Dreamliner worth $350 million. Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Jeff Bezos et al. are not short of a jet or two either. But soon all these symbols of tycoonery may be made obsolete by the world’s first supersonic business jet, announced by a start-up unfortunately named Boom Supersonic (presumably after the noise its aircraft will make when it passes overhead). Boom insists it has solved the sonic boom problem (which raises the question of why the company is in fact named Boom).

In a 1965 issue of Playboy magazine, the late Sean Connery said: 'Bond is the invincible figure every man would like to be.' If you’re such a man (or woman) you’ve probably left it too late to step into the Crockett & Jones chukka boots worn by outgoing Bond Daniel Craig in No Time to Die – but you could buy his Barton Perreira sunglasses from the film, or even that grey Tom Ford suit he made such a mess of during the motorbike and train chase sequences. Both are up for grabs in a forthcoming charity auction organised by Christie’s and EON Productions that could prove to be the highest-grossing sale of Bond memorabilia ever staged. Each of the six stars who have played Bond in the ‘official’ films will be represented by the last six lots being offered in the live auction with the rest of the sale set to include watches, clothes and other significant props that have appeared on screen as well as artwork, behind-the-scenes photographs - and even a five-night stay at GoldenEye, Bond author Ian Fleming’s Jamaican villa.