Schubert, Rossini, Vaughan Williams, Elgar, Baldaccio, card games in the square…and it’s all over.  I am sitting in my hotel room awaiting the taxi to take me on the first leg of my journey back to the UK, and I should be tucked up in a familiar bed tonight, if not quite yet home.  This year’s Festival has been as impressive as always, creating memories, and forging links, but now it is time to put it all to bed and to take a deep breath.

Yesterday was a funny one for me.  Maybe it was the impending end of proceedings, maybe it was the music itself (Elgar’s Cello Concerto is always a source of wistfulness), and maybe it was the other thoughts around my head, but it was all a little wonky, storto as they say in these parts.  It was the kindness of strangers and those familiar to me that brought me back to who I want to be, though, people offering drinks, support, uplifting comments about Petrus (yes, even dreary man had to admit it was “wonderful, perfect”), tales of the transformative power of music, chatting about being a composer, and so on.

After this run, though, it is nearly holiday time for me, and that means writing.  I have thrown notes onto paper while here, but the rhythm of the day can make it tricky to do that unless done first thing in the morning, so August should be much more conducive to getting ahead on work.  Nothing today, though.  It is a day to make sure that connections are caught and that my case remains by my person throughout.  I am certainly looking forward to being home, but also looking forward to being back.