From the opening seconds, it was never in doubt: this was to be a Figaro full of imagination, surprise and delight.

The unexpected became the norm – paradoxical yet fitting for an opera whose twists and turns themselves inspire constant wonder and lead to a conclusion inconceivable to anyone experiencing Figaro for the first time. And that’s without even considering the revolutionary nature of the plot itself, the triumph of the witty, resourceful servants over the despotic aristocrat, in an opera composed just three years before the French Revolution.

We knew something was up when a rock guitarist opened the proceedings (one could almost sense the alarm rippling through segments of the audience!), followed by the arrival of Waterperry’s own removals van and a chaotic stream of bicycles hurtling across in front of the stage, as the quiet buzzing of the overture’s opening bars reassured everyone that this was, after all, what they had bought tickets for. Yet one more opening surprise entrance awaited us before the familiar sight of Figaro measuring up the bridal home. Surely one of the youngest performers ever to grace an operatic stage appeared, unexpectedly, in the arms of the Countess. This was none other than the Rt Hon Hugo Almaviva II, an indication that, whatever shenanigans we were about to witness on stage, the noble dynasty would survive.

The orchestra (newly dubbed the WOFO) had been sensibly reduced for this production to an eleven-piece wind and string band of outstanding soloists, the line-up that of a generously resourced salon ensemble. They played with verve and energy, sparkling in the flickering details popping up yet limpid and silken at moments of high emotion, commenting throughout on the narrative and realising every subtlety of Mozart’s score, with entertaining surprises emanating from Ashley Beauchamp’s alert, supportive continuo.

Once Figaro and Susanna had got the opera well and truly under way, it was clear that this was a duo for our time. Adam Maxey in the title role brought not only a wonderful, sonorous richness to the arias in particular, but showed himself to be a fine actor too in both his passion and his vulnerability, and a dancer who could have been the star of an Elvis tribute show. Jessica Cale (Susanna) was the perfect foil and, ultimately, the indomitable begetter of the whole intrigue, communicating vividly at every moment with her eyes, her voice by turns sensuous or flirtatious, its quality undimmed even in her soaring, highest register. Her relationship with the Countess – surprisingly modern and daring at the time – was reflected too in her Lady’s own humanity and dignity. Alison Langer brought all the pathos of the position of women in society then to her great aria towards the start of Act III (a moment of sublime beauty), and particularly to the dignity and tenderness of her supremely moving act of forgiveness before the finale, in which she realised perfectly the ultimate goodness of the human spirit as conceived incomparably in Mozart’s score. Forgiveness is of course the very quality denied by the Count to those around him only moments before he begs for it himself. Jerome Knox had been the epitome of entitled arrogance until that moment, when, the intrigue suddenly revealed, he finds himself stripped of all his ephemeral authority and status, his reputation in tatters. The aching, endless silence of that instant was a dramatic high point of the evening, and Knox, whose commanding persona and powerful singing had been such a feature until then, seemed to find a new vocal identity well suited to his excruciating circumstances.

Annie Reilly was captivating and irrepressible as Cherubino (the production swapped the ardour of a young boy’s character for that of a young girl – Cherubina?); Ashley Mercer was suitably rustic in voice and demeanour as Antonio the gardener; Marcellina (Katherine Crompton) and Bartolo (Edmund Danon) balanced perfectly the menacing and more joyful parts of their roles, giving a strong focus to the revelation of their (surprise) relationship to Figaro. Barbarina wove her presence in and out of the chorus with exuberance and flair, while the chorus itself, drawn from among the Waterperry Opera Festival Young Artists brought an enthusiastic presence to every appearance, their fine ensemble singing never interrupted by the frequently complex actions demanded by the effervescent production. The rock star music teacher Basilio (Lawrence Thackeray) was charismatic throughout, both contributing to and commenting on the action with notable irony.

The set and the setting themselves were magical, particularly as night fell and the inspired lighting crew came into their own. This was a production that explored the themes of Da Ponte’s libretto – and Jeremy Sams’ witty, evocative, contemporary translation, of which we heard every word – in a manner well suited to our age. But much more than that: moments of heart-rending ecstasy alternated with episodes of pure slapstick; the use of the Waterperry House frontage and interior was inspired and added much to the atmosphere; and the timing of Isabel Kettle’s direction was impeccable throughout, missing a trick only at Susanna’s sudden, unexpected appearance from behind a locked door in Act II. The memorable moments followed in quick and sometimes uproarious succession: the ensembles in which every character conveys different emotions; the constantly changing partners in the wedding dances; the disco in the upstairs ballroom; and most thrilling of all, Cherubino’s death-defying leap from the rooftop balustrade into the flowerbed below – a theatrical moment of pure genius – before we glimpsed her scuttling off into the gardens.

This is a Figaro to be savoured and treasured (an exceptional achievement given the universal, lasting popularity of Mozart’s opera), and an evening of pure delight, the result, not least, of Bertie Baigent’s scrupulous attention to detail and his undemonstrative musical direction.

Oh, and that baby, the Rt Hon Hugo Almaviva II? Perhaps a coincidence, but was Ted Thackeray just possibly the off-stage son of Don Basilio? A final, teasing surprise, either way!

We like to think that every cloud has a silver lining. When Glyndebourne, in 1991, was marking the bicentenary of Mozart’s death, five composers were commissioned to write wind serenades, each connected with one of the operas. As Jonathan Dove recounts in an interview recorded some time ago, one of the composers “ran out of time”. The cloud that must have hung over Glyndebourne that year turned into a genuinely silver lining, recreated in the beautiful formal gardens of Waterperry by members of the Oxford County Youth Orchestra and the Oxfordshire Music Education Partnership.

“Rather late in the day”, Dove recalls, “they asked if I could write a serenade to go specifically with The Marriage of Figaro.” The result is a delightful, seven-movement piece, based entirely on tiny fragments of Mozart’s music, little scenas in their own right, with titles such as ‘Voices in the Garden’, or (this being England) ‘Susannah in the Rain’. The wind ensemble captured convincingly the contrasting moods with vivid contrasts and lively syncopation, under the authoritative baton of conductor Bertie Baigent.

But the gardens played host to more than just the sounds as a prequel to Mozart’s opera. Eight dancers from the Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance gave an enthralling interpretation, now light as air, now conspiratorial and humorous, as in the opening movement, ‘Dancing in the Dark’, which immediately showcased the elegant synchronising of this troupe, ending, like the music, with an outburst of joyful cheek. The intertwining musical threads of the band in ‘Susannah in the Rain’ came to a chattering climax in perfect harmony with the surging dancers. In ‘A conversation’, two musical stories were intimately and seamlessly linked, while ‘Barbarina alone’ gave the dancers the chance to show the best of their poise and balance, at times hypnotic and, suddenly, quite motionless. The ensemble playing was rather less tight in the opening here.

The sixth movement, ‘Voices in the Garden’, conveyed a slow, mock solemnity, two of the dancers holding centre stage while the others wandered around, watching, wondering. Even the seriousness of those moments dissolved – like so many moments of tension in Figaro itself – into unexpected teasing, the mood instantly becoming light and relieved. Complex choreography was at the heart of the final movement, ‘Nocturne – Figaro and Susanna’, in which the oboes chirped merrily over the stately horns and bassoons, until the troupe created, out of nowhere, a group pose of almost classical grandeur.

But perhaps the highlight of the performance was the central movement, ‘The Countess interrupts a Quarrel’. Here, after a hectic, staccato, foot-tapping introduction, the luscious sound of the clarinets evoked her regal melody from one of the most beautiful, human moments in all music, as the Count begs the Countess for forgiveness. Hubert Essakow’s imaginative choreography had her majestically enthroned by the team of pastel-clad dancers. The rest of the ensemble engaged in gossipy commentary, as the music turned into a supremely satisfying courtly dance.

This was a perfect combination of music and dance, Mozart (often mischievously hidden but peeking through the texture) and Dove, mini-narratives on a stage of grass browned in the drought, stylish grace and impish fun. Truly, a silver lining for Waterperry, as it must have been, thirty years ago, for Glyndebourne.