Buxton Autumn

Buxton, meanwhile, is an old friend. I spent a week here in 2005 staying in the house of a woman whose mood swings were so extreme she must have been on HRT. Because there's so much to see, I've been trying to spend more than a few hours here ever since, without success, but at least this time we're here for two nights.
It does seems to be the land of oddball landladies, though. I'm staying with Carol, Anna and Helen in a lodge - a stately, slightly tired house a few minutes out of town. Our landlady has cleared out of the house entirely and is living in the caravan in the drive, which (in a note) she assures us is fine for her because "I have facilities under the verandah". There is also a pungent and delicious smell of frying smoked bacon in the lounge, the origin of which is a mystery.
Anyway, the thing Buxton is famous for is the water, and one of the great delights is filling your bottle at the free fountain which flows directly from the spring - slightly warm because of its volcanic origin.

A Victorian BYOB

I reveal this fact to Malcolm but, tragically, only after he has been to the Co-op to buy some water which has been dragged all the way from Scotland or France or somewhere even more distant. Oops. Shut ma mouth.
The Opera House couldn't be more different from The Landmark. Classic Matcham design, Victorian dressing rooms with elaborate ironwork and thunderbox toilets; and a perpetually manned (or rather womanned) Stage Door, it's a very traditional experience. The rake makes it difficult to maintain your balance as a horse, though, and in the fight call Alan nearly ends up in the pit. We muster 200 on our opening night but that contrives to feel a little sparse, it's such a big room.