Teaching singing and meditation isn’t an obvious calling for a former punk rocker, but this one helps our participant hit the high notes on a break in the remote Massif Central

‘Get that gob open, Liz,” says Peter. “I’m not seeing any teeth.” I obey, stretching my jaw wide as we’d done in an earlier “howling wolf” exercise, and find that not only can I hit a top F# without squeaking, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.

When I booked a three-day singing retreat at Peter Evans’s farmhouse in rural France, I had been apprehensive about displaying my pitiful abilities to some intimidating Oxford choral scholar type. But instead I found myself warbling to a skinny former punk guitarist with a strong “sarf” London accent and an array of truly terrible jokes.

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