A Night That Flew: Ballet Flamenco Sara Baras – Vuela

When I chose Vuela as the next show to watch, I honestly didn’t know what to expect.

The Spanish are known for being so vibrant, so confident and proud of their roots—that when I sat down for a straight two-hour flamenco production, paying tribute to the legendary guitarist Paco de Lucía, I only knew I would be engulfed in their energy.

Vuela (meaning “fly” in Spanish) is performed by Sara Baras, one of Spain’s most celebrated flamenco dancers and choreographers, alongside 12 exceptional musicians and dancers. And from the very first step, it took my breath away.

I was utterly blown away—by the footwork, the movement, their synchronicity. The dancers were gorgeous and moved with featherlight precision, their feet striking the stage like thunder. The musicians? Full of fire. Their drumming and strumming radiated with deep emotional pull—like a heartbeat from the earth's core.

The singers sang from their guts. Passionate, raw, almost primal—so much so that they earned spontaneous claps and cheers again and again. The performance was a conversation. A declaration. A ritual.

The band was completely besotted and enamoured with one another. They fed each other’s energy, joy—cheering each other on with every solo, teasing, encouraging, laughing, whooping. It was clear they had spent intimate time together, and you could feel the bond between them onstage. A family in business, rhythm, and devotion.

It was a dance of dancers feeding the musicians’ fire, and the musicians pouring that energy right back into the dancers. Two hours passed in the blink of an eye, and I was left full of adrenaline, entirely alive. Sara Baras and her luminous team had the whole theatre clapping and whooping for about 20 minutes encores—one after another.

Imagine the practice. The repetitions. The pre-show rituals. The post-show comedowns. The entrance of new members, the quiet exit of others. All the things we, the audience, will never see—yet still feel. We only glimpse the final cut, but beneath it is a lifetime of movement, memory, and muscle.

I’m not a critic, but the show left me full of questions that still linger:

What exactly is flamenco? What is its heritage and its heartbeat? Why does it feel like both a battle cry and a lullaby?
Why does it feel like the soul of Spain, pressed into sound?

So, the show ends. The lights rise. And just before I leave, I run into one of England’s most formidable actors. Someone who scared me as a child (you know the type—voice like fire, eyes like ice). He locks eyes with me, gives a charming little nod, and with a charming smile, grants me permission to say hello and take a photo. Right after, he legs it out of the building to avoid the rest of the crowd.

A perfect end to a perfect evening.

I walked home on a warm spring night, London still singing all around me, with memories that I know will never leave me.

I already have another show in mind.

Want to come with me?

If you accompany me, I’ll tell you who the actor was...

Ciao for now,
- S x