I am writing this on a grassy slope in Buxton’s beautiful Pavilion Gardens in the shadow of a Viennese Spiegeltent – once familiar as a venue for Oxford’s Creation Theatre – where Prof Sir David Cannadine, the editor of The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, will shortly be talking about his hugely acclaimed new book on the Victorians.

(And about Brexit, it turned out. The sage Sir David noted that this was an attempt to go back to the trading arrangements of the Victorian age, which he thought unlikely to prove conspicuously successful in these changed times. Cue for loud applause.)

Across the way are the Serpentine Walks, the creation of a great Victorian, Sir Joseph Paxton, designer of the Crystal Palace.

Sycamores stand sentinel at the entrance to this lovely stretch of urban landscape fashioned during the extensive improvements carried out in the spa town at the behest of the 6th Duke of Devonshire. Beyond are yew, hazel and horse chestnut trees, reflected in the sun-dappled waters of this tributary of the River Wye as they gurgle over staircases of stone.

What a truly glorious setting the gardens and the surrounding buildings – especially Frank Matcham’s exquisite opera house of 1903 – supply for the Buxton International Festival, which next year celebrates its 40th anniversary.

I have been a regular for the past decade, since being introduced to it by Trevor Osborne, the developer of Oxford’s prison site. He is now behind the restoration of Buxton’s Crescent, built under architect John Carr from 1780-89 for an earlier Duke of Devonshire.

This year, what might be called the festival’s ‘Oxford interest’ is especially strong.

Besides David Cannadine, the opening day’s programme included a debate ‘News but not as we know it’ featuring John Lloyd, of the Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism at Oxford University.

Later, during a sell-out Oldie Literary Lunch, author Miles Goslett discussed what he claimed was an Establishment cover-up of events surrounding the death of the Southmoor-resident weapons scientist David Kelly.

At night, in the Opera House, there was a superb 90 minutes of entertainment from husband-and-wife team Lucy Fleming and Simon Williams, well-known these days for their roles as Miranda and Justin Elliot in The Archers.

They captivated us with readings of witty and hugely affectionate Second World War letters that passed between actress Celia Johnson at her home in Nettlebed (where Lucy, her daughter, and Simon now live) and husband Peter Fleming on duty with India’s Viceroy Lord Wavell (educated at Summer Fields, Oxford) in Delhi.

Here is Celia writing in September 1944: “The next offer which might be interesting is to be a new film of Noel’s [Coward], founded on one of the plays in Tonight at 8.30 called Still Life.[It] sounds rather fun and a very good part.”

The part in question was that of Laura Jesson in the film Brief Encounter with which the actress will forever be associated.

Besides one disastrous visit to the shambolic Palace Hotel – Buxton’s worst hotel which ought to be its best – our stays in the town have always been at genteel B&B establishments along Broad Walk.

This year, however, we opted to stay in the Queen’s Head Hotel in High Street. The move represented, in Oxford terms, a translation from Gown to Town. This gave insights into two very different Buxtons.

Saturday evening’s performance of Verdi’s 1845 opera Alzira – amazingly its UK premiere and highly enjoyable – was preceded by England’s trouncing of Sweden in the World Cup quarter final and followed by celebrations well into the small hours in the pub bar.

We loved the Queen’s Head, and were very comfortable in our stylishly tricked-out room in a courtyard extension at the rear.

Its owner Ian Howarth became an instant pal and we were delighted as well to meet his brother Alan and mum and dad, Ken and Olive, who had charge of the hotel previously for four decades.

Helping with the glass-washing as a youngster was their eldest child Karen, well-known these days as Karen Bradley, the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland.

Buxton International Festival continues until July 22. For details go to buxtonfestival.co.uk

WHAT’S in a name? Who’s to say? But the choice of a name might perhaps reveal something of the character of those doing the choosing.

Thus I couldn’t help noticing that the former BBC Philharmonic Orchestra leader Sir Edward Downes and his wife Joan, who decided to end their lives together at the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland in 2009, had children called Boudicca and Caractacus.

How well these must have sounded bellowed across a park at bedtime!

Caractacus, the Sunday Times Magazine reported, was investigated by police following the suicides.

Sir Edward, 85, had not been terminally ill, but could not bear the thought of life without Joan, 74, who was dying of cancer.

The same edition of the Sunday Times Magazine carried another article in which were examined other deaths that had about them a disquieting air of mystery.

These involved the so-called Cipriani Five, a group of friends who it is feared may have perished after crossing the Russian Mafia.

I have seen allusions to the story from time to time in other publications, always noting them because one of the quintet – Paul Castle, a polo-playing chum of the Prince of Wales – once hosted a very jolly lunch for the two of us.

This was not at the Cipriani, a high-end London restaurant where Paul and the other doomed businessmen regularly ate, but at the Chequers, in Berrick Salome.

As owner, he made national headlines for dismissing Michelin-starred chef Ryan Simpson for serving food that was “too poncey”.

But there were bigger headlines shortly after when he died under a tube train in an apparent suicide.

Ryan went on to open Orwell’s at Shiplake, which still thrives.

THE contempt shown to the travelling public of Oxfordshire by the bus companies that exist to serve us can hardly be exaggerated.

In decades of sampling their shoddy operations, I have grown used to service with a snarl as often as a smile.

This was perfectly exemplified in the conduct of a Stagecoach driver we encountered on an S1 bus on a journey home from Witney some weeks ago.

That it was some weeks ago will be gathered from the fact that it was pouring with rain. So heavy was inundation, that it caused floods, through which our driver hurried, seemingly oblivious to the danger of aquaplaning.

In so doing, he picked up a lump of plastic of some sort which lodged behind one of the wheels.

During the minutes he spent trying to remove it outside the Seacourt Bridge in Botley, we spoke with him of the night’s storm, by then over.

It seemed this had led to the closure of Botley Road at its east end because of floods under the railway bridge.

Our driver saw fit to mention this, though, only after his abrupt and unannounced left turn beyond Seacourt Tower, after which he proceeded along the bypass to the Pear Tree roundabout and from there into the city centre.

This infuriated many Botley Road passengers – us included – who might have preferred to alight at the Seacourt Bridge and walk.

“Why didn’t you tell us of the diversion?” we demanded.

“Why didn’t you ask?” was his absurd response.

Last week (on Tuesday), the Oxford Bus Company let us down by cancelling the 7.40pm service from Magdalen Street stops (though a vehicle was in plain view opposite).

This made us late for a play at the North Wall, in Summertown.

The short piece over by 9pm, we strolled round to Woodstock Road for the 9.06pm No 6. Nothing doing till 9.26pm, according to the times on the illuminated display.

This is pathetic.