Man's best friend rakes in the cash

One of the tabloids' favourite stories this week has been the details of Leona Helmsley's will, which cut out two grandchildren and generally shorted the family in order to leave $6 million to her dog. I suspect I am not alone, at least among dog owners, in thinking that while this was indeed rather cruel to the humans, it was perfectly logical.

If I had $6 million, and had already taken care of my family, I would happily leave it to my faithful Mr. Darcy (at right). Though given his fairly simple needs (eat, sleep, snuggle, take very short walks) he wouldn't make much of a dent in his windfall.

There is something both poignant and completely intoxicating about the adoration dogs give their masters. Darcy climbs into the car for a road trip, settles on the passenger seat, lays his head on the arm rest and proceeds to gaze adoringly at me for hours, until we reach our destination. The worshipful stuff would grow creepy rather quickly with a human, but in a dog there's something terribly reassuring about it. No matter how badly you've messed up that day, or how at odds with the rest of humanity you feel, the dog is there to provide unstinting love and support.

Helmsley, a famously difficult woman, must have been even more reliant on her pooch than the average dog lover. When people get difficult, it's always a relief to turn to the dog ... who doesn't argue. is never thoughtless and won't betray you. Granted, the conversations are a bit one sided.

What I'd really like to know ... and what no paper I've seen has reported ... is what happens to the £6 million after Helmsley's dog dies. As logical as her actions may be, they do reveal a terrible tragedy. Dogs supplement and enhance human existance, but they can't replace human interaction. How lonely and isolated she must have been to make such a dramatic decision. I nurse a secret hope that Helmsley might have been generous enough to forward the money on to one of those charities that trains dogs and provides canine visitors to nursing homes, so that others who are old and alone could capture some of the same benefits she obviously got from her best friend.

Food: Expensive. Drinks: More expensive. Friends: Priceless

Two of my closest friends are being posted to Luxembourg for a two-year stint. This weekend, the nearest and dearest gathered for a really special send-off. That required a really special restaurant. We chose the Waterside Inn, on a sleepy stretch of the Thames in the excruciatingly posh village of Bray.

The Waterside Inn is the culinary cousin, quite literally, of Le Gavroche, reviewed here earlier this year. The famous Roux brothers both founded restaurants, both of which were taken over by their sons. The food and the feeling is similar in both, but the Waterside Inn has a setting to die for: in a rambling, half-timbered house, at the end of a country lane, sitting directly on the Thames with its own private mooring, overlooking an uninhabited stretch of water meadows, oak and willow with a lush tree line in the distance. According to the Wold Press Organisation, the Waterside Inn beats its urban cousin in the rankings of the world's best restaurants, coming in at 19 to Le Gavroche's 47, and claiming three Michelin stars to its cousin's two.

The mood here is marginally more casual, primarily because of the fantastic natural setting. The relatively small, amphitheatre-shaped dining room faces a glass wall that turns the river view into a stage. On summer days ... of which Sunday was an exquisite example ... the doors are thrown open and diners have their cocktails and canapes on the terraces leading down to the water. This is the restaurant's strongest feature. The six of us started in the mellow sunshine, drinking kir royale, nibbling on slivers of duck wrapped around bread sticks and drinking a summer soup of melon and crab meat served in shot glasses.

It was such a beautiful night, it was a disappointment to move indoors, though we did have the benefit of a table just beside the windows. The food, decor and service were up to expectations but, I have to say, not above. Expectations for the 19th best restaurant in the world were pretty high, of course. The menu was balanced and classically French. The presentation exquisite. The flavours delicate. The service perfect, including a table visit by chef/owner Alain Roux.

I started with a ellipse-shaped form of rice and crab with mango sauce and mango salsa; the Caribbean inspiration seemed to go with the good weather. Excellent, though I did think the boys ... who all went for the pan fried fois gras with fig chutney ... all made a better selection. On to a petite plate of lobster (one claw and a bit of tail meat). Then fruit sorbet before the mains. I opted for the duck: medium rare, sliced wafer thin, accompanied by a duck-shaped choux pastry brimming with a creamy sauce. Others at the table had lamb with a timbale of eggplant. (I had a taste, also good.) For dessert, I had the "assiette" ... I can never resist the option to have three small, separate sweets rather than making my mind up for one. The best thing on my plate was the pistachio creme brulee, but again I found myself wondering if I had chosen badly. The cheese cart was extremely impressive and the raspberry souffle looked great. We adjourned back to the garden for coffee and tea, consumed in a cozy tea house with a tent-like interior overlooking the now inky blackness of the river.

So, an exquisite meal, prepared perfectly, served without a hitch. But my final verdict always comes down to value for money; something felt more acutely here since this was a personal dinner, coming out of my own pocket rather than a savings account. At Le Gavroche I never saw the menu with prices. Here, I grabbed one from one of the boys to find that starters and desserts were in the £20s, mains in the £40s. We all opted for the four course chef's menu, which comes out pretty much the same as ordering three courses a la carte. So if you're very conservative, you can probably get out of here for £120 a person. If you're enjoying your drinks, that number is going skyward.

For that kind of money, I want transformational. I want something in the top five meals I've ever had in my life. And while this was good, it wasn't there. Recent meals at Le Gavroche and Maze were both better. The failure of the value for money test became clear to me as I spent so much of yesterday doing mental gymnastics to validate the expense in my own brain. Had I offered to cook for the six of us, I would have thought nothing of spending the same amount on groceries, but would have been in the kitchen half the night. Or ... I'm out at really fine restaurants on someone else's money all the time, so if you amortise this spend across all the places I've been this summer, I'm still way ahead. Or ... we were paying for the view as much as the food; consider part of the fee to be short term rental of riverside property. But mostly ... you had a wonderful, intimate evening with your best friends. How can you put a price on that?

And that, I suppose, is why this evening will go down in memory as worth the expenditure. Not because of the meal, but because of the company. I looked around that circle of five dear faces as we sat in our fantasy tent at evening's end; everyone relaxed, mellow, suffused with contentment. These are amongst the very few people who know me best, who are there in good times and in bad, who celebrate the victories, support you in disasters and know you well enough to point out and help correct your shortcomings when you're heading down the wrong path. This is actually what life is all about. To me, the biggest victory of my life will not be counting up what's in my bank account as I near death, but toting up the relationships I've had at this level. Having dear friends is the finest reason to celebrate in the world. And while you can usually do that in the local pub, I suppose sometimes it's worth breaking the bank to do it in a place that's as special as the relationships you're commemorating.

At home with Prince Charles

London is filled with little sightseeing secrets: Private places that open their doors to tourists through one scheme or another once or twice a year. Clarence House, the official residence of Prince Charles, his wife and sons, is one of those. Open for just six weeks a year (August and September), only through advance ticket sales and in limited, guided groups of less than 20, this is an opportunity you're not going to stumble upon by accident.


It's certainly worth the planning effort. Clarence House is unique in several ways. First, of course, in the exclusivity of access. You can't even see the house from the street ... it is literally a hidden gem. Second, it's a beautiful example of Regency style, an era that was so brief there aren't that many good examples in the country. Third, it's tiny by the standards of a Royal palace. Fourth, the combination of high walls and carefully planned garden makes it hard to believe you're in the middle of London. Finally, it is very much a private home and gives you a delicious feeling of evesdropping on the most famous family in the land.

The tour takes you through five reception rooms on the ground floor, connected by a long entry hall, a staircase hall and a side hall hung with equestrian art. Every room is exquisitely and tastefully decorated, packed with wonderful works of art, fascinating decorative nick nacks and tempting shelves of books. (I believe you can tell whether you're going to get along with a person simply by inspecting his or her bookshelves. I could have happily been abandoned for hours with the Clarence House library.)

The halls are panelled, somber and a bit imposing, which makes for a delightful contrast when you enter the main rooms. All are high, light and airy, a perception helped by those wonderful full length Regency sash windows that, when opened from the bottom, create an open door to the garden beyond. The artwork is, as you would expect, dominated by portraiture. But there's some unusual stuff here that isn't regularly made public. Delightful, informal preparatory sketches that capture more of the essence of the sitter, childhood portraits, unfinished efforts. Probably most significant paintings, however, form a collection of John Piper watercolours of Windsor Castle, done just before WW2. My personal favourite, though, was the Landseer painting of Queen Victoria's dogs that took pride of place in the dining room, with a lounging spaniel at its centre. My kind of decor.

A lounging Landseer spaniel takes pride of place on the wall above the dining table. My kind of decor.

The hand of Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother is still heavily felt here, from her favourite pieces of furniture and feminine colour schemes in the drawing room to the sculptures of her racing horses, all the novels by her former jockey, Dick Francis, and the well worn copy of the Noel Coward song book on the piano, autographed by the composer (who was a close friend).

The left side of the house is, since the Prince of Wales' alterations five years ago, a single progression of three rooms that can be turned into one by throwing open the large double doors between each. Drawing room merges with a rather small library (it was originally the entry hall), and library with dining room. You're shown the drawing room first, then go through to the library, and it's only when they finally throw open the doors into the dining room that you fully appreciate the drama of the space. And yet, it's very liveable. In square footage, these rooms aren't that much bigger than the suburban mansions that the average American chief executive lives in.

The other two rooms are a waiting room, which I would have assumed was the library had the guide not told us this is where guests are left to enjoy their G&Ts until the Prince arrives. The last room you see is a very large drawing room with a mildly Asian theme. This was actually an addition to the original house, built by one of Queen Victoria's sons for the benefit of his wife. She was the daughter of the Russian Tsar and was horrified at the tiny house she was expected to live in. Thus her husband almost doubled the size of Clarence house, turning it into what's on show today. Though it's still probably smaller than the homes of many of today's top sports stars.

The architecture and the decor were wonderful to see, but at the end of the day it was the family memorabilia and the personal stories that made Clarence House a delight. This is worth going out of the way for, for any fan of the modern royals.

Random highlights from the Lake District

If I had more of a head for numbers, I might accurately remember the statistic I recently heard on the percentage of the main island of Britain that is technically considered mountain. It was a shockingly high figure ... something between a quarter and a third. You just don't tend to think of Britain as a mountainous place. Perhaps because the mountains are less visited than the rest of the country, perhaps because our mountains are gentle, ancient and on the small side. But we are, technically, a mountain nation, and those mountains provide some spectacular sightseeing.

A school friend is heading to the Lake District for the first time this autumn. As it's a slow week in the Ferrara diary, I thought I'd fill in with an entry on my top tips for sightseeing that bit of mountain Britain.

There's no doubt that this is one of the most beautiful places on earth. Rocky, heather-covered mountains dotted with sheep, a lake in every valley, picturesque villages, expansive views. This is hiking country: Many people take the train in, book into a hotel for a week and hike up a different hill every day. I can't claim such a physical experience. Though I've been to the Lake District at least five times, all my visits have either been too brief for long walks or with parents who weren't up to vigorous climbs. So I'll refer you to other guides for the best tips for walks. Here are my favourites when visiting.

1. Just drive around. You don't need to do anything to extract joy from this area but meander down any road. Take a picnic. Pull into lay bys. Take a little meander. Take lots of photos. No need to plan, every path affords a view.
2. Castlerigg Stone Circle. One of the most impressively sited monuments in Britain, this small but fairly complete stone circle stands in a field on a hilltop above Keswick. The mountains stretch away before you, often shrouded in mist. Out of season, you're often up there alone. Dramatic, marvelous, a bit creepy. Don't miss it.

3. Kwelas Restaurant, Windermere. Most food in the Lake District falls into one of two categories: hearty pub food for a the walkers and upscale continental dining for the luxury weekenders. Which makes this African restaurant a very pleasant surprise and a great change of pace. The menu runs from North African (tagines, cous cous) to South (bobotie, ostrich steak, great wine). Minimalist but comfortable surroundings, good service and, as I recall, quite reasonable.

4. Sarah Nelson's Gingerbread. How amazing to find a local culinary specialty that hasn't sold out to big business. Every slice of this pungent, crumbly treat is actually baked in the ovens of the tiny cottage in the churchyard in Grasmere. You can only get the gingerbread here, or by mail order direct from them, and it's unlike any other recipe I've ever tasted. You'll stop in Grasmere anyway to see Wordsworth's grave and cottage (everyone does). So go ahead, treat yourself. And I suggest you buy multiple packages, because the first one will be empty long before you leave town.

5. The Langdale Chase Hotel. I've yet to stay at a moderately priced B&B here worth writing about. All acceptable, but unextraordinary. The one time I went upscale, however, I struck it lucky. The Langdale Chase is a massive, late-Victorian country house sitting right on the banks of Windermere, with marvellous terraced gardens running down to the water and the boathouse. The interiors of the public rooms are in the grand "Tudorbethan" style with lots of wonderful carving, panelling and oriental rugs. Massive bay windows take in the view and, if you're visiting in the winter, you'll be treated to roaring log fires. The bedrooms are a bit pokey (probably why the place only has 3 stars) but who cares? You're here for the public spaces. If you don't want to invest in spending the night, you can enjoy the grounds and the view by dropping by for afternoon tea.
6. Lakeland. Probably not for Americans, who have better retail therapy than us. But in the UK, Lakeland's treasure trove of kitchen gadgets, storage options and household gizmos and solutions is unique. It's the kind of store you enter not needing anything, and walk out with a bag brimming with stuff you don't know how you lived without. (My latest example: a wonderful garlic press that works without the need to peel the clove.) Whilst the mail order giant is now opening outlets across the UK, the mother store is bigger and more fun.
7. Hardknott Pass and Roman Fort. If you doubt these are really mountains, head up Hardknott Pass. A recent BBC show said this was the most dangerous, nerve-wracking drive in the country. I don't remember being that stressed as I took the procession of hairpin turns up the narrow blacktop track lacking verges and rarely wide enough for cars to pass, but my mother's knuckles were white and she didn't breathe for long periods. If you can brave the road, and keep your eyes off the remarkable scenery until you get to the top, you will be richly rewarded. Views are expansive and breath taking. The Roman fort is a bonus,completely excavated and well interpreted, so you can see where the main roads, commander's house and baths were. And pity the poor sods who got posted up here. I imagine the drama of the view would have faded quickly in light of the weather and the loneliness. As you get to go home at the end of the day, you can revel in the view without pain.

A night of surprises in Camden

Camden, a bustling area just north of central London, divides opinion. Some people find it one of the most exciting parts of the city: edgy, interesting, modern, colourful. Others (yes, including me) find its hotch potch of tattoo and piercing parlours, leather accessory shops, new wave emporia, goth pubs and down-at-heel mini marts to be ugly at best, and magnet for dangerous and unpleasant people at worst. I fired a PR agency with offices here two years ago (for performance, not location) and breathed a sigh of relief that I would never have to wander into Camden again.

But circumstances intervened. I was shopping for something nice to do with my team at work, and we hit upon a boat ride through the Regent's Park canal system. The boats leave from Camden Dock. Once there, I figured I might as well find us a restaurant nearby.

The weather wasn't ideal: about 60 degrees, overcast and windy. But everyone had travelled to London and we'd committed to an outing, so we headed to the docks. To find that it was so windy that the old fashioned canal boat we'd hired to take us out couldn't leave its berth. Its engine wouldn't be strong enough to keep it stable. The company manager suggested we take over the front of their commercial vessel and take the regularly-scheduled ride. We could still unpack our jug of Pimm's and sit together, we'd just have to deal with other passengers in the back. And then, miracle of miracles, she gave me my cheque back and said our ride was on the house. Their main boat was going anyway, we were there, why not? Yes, this is logical, but this level of customer service is almost unknown in Britain.

Whether or not my description of Camden appeals, do consider a boat ride with the LONDON WATERBUS COMPANY, my customer service stars of the year.

The ride itself is lovely. Once you clear the grotty, slightly industrial feel of Camden you're gliding through Regent's Park itself; first the zoo, then past ridiculously expensive villas. You end up in Little Venice, the canal lined with pricey houseboats and the streets above a parade of pristine white Regency townhouses. There, you turn around and head back, making it a two hour cruise in all.

After a brief stop in a pub to get warm and keep out of the rain, we headed to The Mango Room, 10-12 Kentish Town Road. I knew nothing about the place but what I'd read from internet reviews. It was near the lock, moderately priced and Caribbean. The last seemed a good antidote to the weather. Maybe the food would make us feel like it was summer holidays, even if the atmosphere was not participating.

The Mango Room is a real find. The atmosphere was far more sophisticated than I expected from Camden. Once you're through the doors you find linen covered tables, tasteful flower arrangements, a bold space of stripped brick walls hung with vivid Caribbean art. The anticipated Reggae music was playing, but not too loudly, and the tables were filled not with pierced Camden goths but with 30- and 40-something professional types who looked like us. Clearly, there's more to Camden that the freak show of its high street.

The food was excellent, though not for the faint of palate. They don't go light on their spices here. The menu included expected classics, like salt cod fritters and jerked chicken, but also carried a fine range of fish done simply in various spices. I started with a fish soup, abundant with a variety of seafood and the spice to bring it all to life. Then, despite all the lovely fish on the menu, I moved on to the dish the restaurant is famous for: curried goat. Once again, a remarkably spicy dish, with the spices eliminating any gamey flavour in the meat, leaving you with a deeply satisfying stew. Ironically, I realised this was exactly the kind of food I wanted, but never saw, on my Caribbean cruise in January.

The desert menu was a bit disappointing, but probably only because I'm so conditioned to want key lime pie after this kind of cuisine, and they didn't do it. There are some good options here, though, including cinnamon ice cream, mango and passion fruit cream brulee and roasted bananas.

Mango Room is great value for money. You can get out of here for £20-£30 per person before alcohol, and the wine list has some excellent options for under £15. And it's just across the street from the tube station, so if you're a Camden phobic you hardly have to feel like you're there. However, with fine food and excellent customer service, Camden may be growing on me.

One year cancer-free is a fine excuse to celebrate

There's nothing like a proper brush with death to teach you the value of this wonderful, precious, extraordinary thing called life. Were it not for a mammogram thrown into an executive health check 14 months ago, my mortality would still be growing inside of me, and by this point I would ... in wasteful ignorance ... have one foot solidly in the grave. Instead, I'm now acutely aware of the glories of the simple things in life. I'm less stressed, more appreciative of my friends, more likely to savour joys great and small, more respectful of the privilege of getting out of bed in the morning.

Thanks to quick action and the magic of modern medicine, I've been through the treatment, recovered, and now only need to focus on cancer fears every six months when it's time for a fresh scan to confirm that the danger has stayed away. Do stress levels rise before those scans? Absolutely. But it's a beautifully sweet moment when my surgeon smiles broadly and tells me I'm all clear.

What a fine excuse to celebrate. And to do so in sardanapalian surroundings. (Sardanapalian = excessively luxurious and sensual, after Sardanapal, an Assyrian king of legendary decadence. I don't get a chance to use that word enough.)

Maze is the newest entry in the esteemed London Top 10 restaurant ranking from Harden's guide. It's yet another horse in the Gordon Ramsay stable, and the man has another winner on his hands. Innovative concept, beautiful surroundings, exquisite food, magnificent tastes and smells. Heaven.

The concept is ... no, I'm not kidding ... French tapas. Imagine the most carefully constructed, balanced and complete entrees. Now cut the portion size by two thirds. The presentation is still artistic, the tastes just as perfect as a full plate, but done in miniature. This gives you the chance to try multiple items without feeling guilty. Or, if your PR agency is treating you and your dining partner is equally adventurous, the concept allows you to sign up for the seven course tasting menu without guilt. Well, without a lot of guilt.

We arrived at the discrete location on Grosvenor Square (thankfully the summer growth on the trees blocks the horrific view of the American embassy, surrounded by the ugly detritus of concrete crash barriers, warning signs and armed guards.) and sank into comfortable leather chairs in the elegant bar. My account director, in possession of my good medical news, had called ahead and the pink champagne was on ice. The interior was elegant, sophisticated, calming and quiet ... although the latter might only be because it was a Monday night. The decor actually felt African to me, though not in any easily identifiable way. Browns and creams, geometric designs, natural materials. Reminded me strongly of some of the high end design I saw in Cape Town. The link to the Maze of the name wasn't entirely obvious, other than in the spiral, labyrinth-like design of the carpet beneath one of the dining areas.

No matter how elegant, the room quickly took a distant second to the amazing (another Maze reference?) food that started rolling out of the kitchen. At £55 I'd wouldn't say this tasting menu was cheap, but good value for money. Individual dishes were around £10, so you came out well ahead of an a la carte experience. And with two people, there was no need to make any choices. We were able to get, and share, one of everything on offer. In the interest of full disclosure, and because I know you want the details, here's what we ate.

Course 1: Devon crab and summer squash soup with corn puree. (A concentrated aroma that almost knocked me out of my chair.)

Course 2: Marinated beetroot slices, sairass cheese, pine nuts and cabernet sauvignon dressing. (Like three little white heads wearing round red hats, marching in precision across the plate.)

Course 3: Honey and soy roasted quail with Landes fois gras and spiced pear chutney (Has some kitchen magician figured out how to reduce pieces of meat like a sauce? Tiny thighs with the concentrated flavour of a entire bird) and Roasted Orkney sea scallops with cured ham and maple syrup, quail's egg and mushy peas (yes, sounds like there was a lot on the plate, but it was an elegant and limited assembly of geometric shapes. I've never seen a quail's egg so small. One wonders if there are five-year-olds in the kitchen to provide hands small enough to manipulate this stuff.)

Course 4: Duart salmon with fine beans, fois gras, smoked bacon and verjus reduction (The only dish that didn't blow me away. Excellent, but equal to similar dishes had elsewhere.) and Roasted Scottish turbot with hollandaise, jersey royals and pickled cucumber (Fresh dill used for the pickling made an explosive backbone for the whole dish)

Course 5: Roasted rack of lamb with braised shoulder and four onions (I'm not a lamb fan, but I could eat this every night) and Braised Suffolk pork belly and cheek with spiced lentils, confit of baby leek and parsnip puree (Hadn't had pork belly before, thinking of it as hunks of fat consumed by poor southerners. This was fantastic, though maybe not what they serve in Mississippi. And certainly not lean.)

I was flagging at this point, but having worked through fish, fowl and hoof, it was time for sweets.

Frankly, any meal with three desserts has an unfair advantage

Course 6: Maze tiramisu coffee granite and chocolate croquant (Once again, deeply concentrated flavours, this time with a sharpness that cut pleasantly through the richness of course 5)

Course 7: Bitter chocolate and hazelnut parfait with salted caramel jelly and milk mouse and Coconut panna cotta with black olive caramel, white chocolate granite (In both cases, a bizarre mix of sweet and salty that worked beautifully, one taste heightening the experience of another.)

At this point I'd crossed the portals of perfection and decided that this was definitely in my life's top 10 dining experiences. (Frankly, any meal with three desserts has an unfair advantage on that list.) Reviewing the menu today, I think it might be in my top five.

So top marks to Maze. If you have an excuse to embrace your sardanapalian side, this is the place. Carpe diem, carpe vita.

Tyntesfield: Good enough to brave the traffic

When I took my first assignment in the UK, I filled every weekend with road trips. My job came with a company car and a fuel credit card. For this anglophile, it was a license to milk every weekend of my 2-month assignment for all the sightseeing it could offer. Clocking up 600 miles in a weekend wasn't unusual.

The country seemed a lot emptier then. I remember getting bored with driving long distances, but I don't recall ever becoming frustrated by the traffic. This memory brought a grim smile yesterday as I spent more than an hour crawling around Bristol in bumper to bumper traffic to get to a grand country house called Tyntesfield. It was even more ironic as I'd chosen to head in this direction, rather than my original plan to go to the Festival of History outside of Northampton, precisely because last weekend's traffic on the M1 was so horrible. My lesson, I suppose, is that these days going almost anywhere in this country ...especially on a sunny day ... may see you forfeit an hour or more in traffic. So your destination better be worth the pain of the getting there.

Tyntesfield was worth the effort. The house is one of the National Trust's newest acquisitions, bought amidst massive news coverage in 2002. I was one the millions whose donations helped raise £8.2 million in just 100 days (then matched by a £17 million grant from the government) to save the house from being sold into private hands. The Trust ran a masterful PR campaign playing on everyone's fears: the only people who could afford to buy the house were media or sporting celebrities or Russian oligarchs, all of whom could do unimaginable damage to this Victorian jewel. It was a horribly snobbish campaign, and quite possibly wrong, but it did save something unique for the nation.

Why unique? I'd argue that it's not the Trust's most vocal claim, that it's a rare example of Victorian architecture. In fact, there are two Trust properties in the general area (Lanydrock in Cornwall and Knightshayes Court in Devon) that come from the same mould: 19th century new money builds retro gothic mansion to make self look like old establishment. Nor is the fact that it was purchased lock, stock and barrell with four generations of family detrius jammed in every corner a rare occurance. The Trust inherited Chastleton in Oxfordshire with the same circumstances.

No, what's different here is that the Trust opened the place almost immediately, allowing the public to walk through a restoration work in progress. Seeing the grandeur of Victorian decorative work next to peeling wallpaper and beneath festoons of cobwebs, peering into some rooms closed to traffic because the floor won't hold ... this paints a picture of the magnitude of the concept of "restoration", and honours the work the National Trust does, in a way nothing else could.

The house is a delight, and comes with all the lavish attention to detail you'd expect from frightfully wealthy Victorians. The Gibbs family made their money importing bat guano (yes, that's poo) for fertiliser from South America. Within 50 years of the business' start they'd become one of the richest families in the country. Though they spared no expense on the house, its building took just one year of company profit.

It's large and ornate. A series of grand entry and stair halls connect a massive, cathedral-like library, a dining room fitting a big table seating at least 24 and three "small" tables fitting 10 each, an opulent sitting room and several smaller living areas. The majority of the decor is Victorian gothic, with the kind of patterened wallpaper, arched furniture and elaborate carving Pugin made famous at Westminster. While you can see similar furniture, wallpaper and fireplaces around the country, the quality of the carving here might just be unique. The second generation to live in the house was headed by a man who carved as a hobby, and was so good at it that experts now can't distinguish between his work and that of the professionals he brought in. But they are sure that it was his attention to detail that drove much of the craftsmanship lavished on the house in the later 19th century.

Tyntesfield may hold the finest gothic revival carving in the country.

Examples include carvings at the corners of the entry porch, each using different plants to show the four seasons; specially cast hinges for the library door that carry a quote from Horace about the value of the written word; and a magnificent set of panels running round one of the drawing rooms depicting all the flowers, fruit and veg grown on the estate. My favourite story, however, had to be that of the wallpaper in the dining room. A two dimensional, heavily patterned floral meant to copy embossed leather panels of the 17th century, it was outrageously expensive. But once up, the owner decided he didn't like the burgundy background. So craftsmen were given tiny paintbrushes and painstakingly worked around the twining flowers and leaves to paint the background cream.

Whilst most of the interiors stick to the gothic theme, there is one large drawing room that got a fanciful makeover in Venetian style. Dark, ornate, burgundy ... one wonders if the man responsible for THIS renovation wasn't pining for the wallpaper his father had brightened.

Back to gothic, you find one of the grandest chapels I've ever seen attached to a country house. In its exterior and two level design it copies Sainte Chapelle in Paris. Its decor is a little less detailed than that French jewel box, but only just. The stained glass windows, the mosaic floors of semi precious stone and the wall mosaics completed by Venetian craftsmen were the best money could buy. That such beauty could be created for one family is breathtaking, and makes you wonder if today's "new money" is achieving anything close.

The best part of Tyntesfield, however, is the fact that it's not perfect. The peeling paint, cobwebs and doors opened onto unexplored rooms filled with stacks of stuff beneath dust covers give you the delicious feeling you're sneaking around somewhere you shouldn't be. Part of me regrets the thought of a restored Tyntesfield, with every room catalogued, walls returned to pristine condition and nooks and crannies cleaned. Somehow, it just won't be as much fun.

Despite the blog, I'm an "old world" kind of girl

Yesterday I experienced the delicious irony of discussing web 2.0, social networking and internet revolution in Economist magazine's boardroom, whilst enjoying a leisurely lunch with men in suits and ties whilst taking in a view across over some of the oldest and grandest bits of London. Talk about old world clashing with new. I had to confess, as a sipped a venerable French red and eyed the roof of Prince Charles' palace, that I rather liked the old world.

I would not, as per recent suggestions by Sir Elton John, advocate the abandonment of the internet. Even the most traditional amongst us can find great value. (Did you know there's a web site that provides family trees for all the characters in Jane Austen novels?) I am, after all, a blogger, an internet banker, and ... on most days ... a home worker through the magic of my broadware line and some clever bits of software. I love the internet and would not turn back the hands of time.

But there are things that worry me. The move to do it yourself journalism, the rise of blogs as news and the idea that people can graze the internet to find out what's going on in the world scares the hell out of me. Publications like the Economist play a role that can't be matched by anything in this new world: providing expert editors to sort, validate and prioritise, so we can find out what's important, true and real.

And social networking? Fine if you get out there and do real networking. I'm happy to have a presence on "Linked In", but I use it as a repository of people I've already met, not a way to create virtual friends and colleagues. I worry about the social skills of anyone whose friends were made, and relationships developed, in cyberspace. They're probably fast typers, but can they make small talk at a cocktail party and captivate a business dinner with their engaging conversation? Those qualities may seen trivial, but they remain key to moving up the corporate ladder. I've already seen them as sorely lacking in most executives I've worked with, putting them at serious disadvantage when they're mixing and mingling at executive events. And these guys are mostly the pre-internet generation. I shudder to think what's coming.

Finally, there's the shortening attention span. Again, I must plead guilty. I find it hard, now, to be on a conference call without also checking e-mail, and perhaps holding an IM conversation. Just doing one thing seems a bit wasteful of the day's time. However I'm still old enough, and mentally sluggish enough, to sit quietly with a good book for hours on end, or concentrate exclusively on conversation at the dinner table. How will society change when every moment is like my conference calls, driven by the need to do multiple things and the inability to concentrate for more than two minutes? It's not a promising picture.

I must plead guilty. I find it hard, now, to be on a conference call without also checking e-mail, and perhaps holding an IM conversation.

Will we work with the Economist to explore this trend? Perhaps. If we do, I suspect that none of the web surfing social networkers about whose impact on the future we are speculating would actually read the report. It will no doubt be too traditional and take too long to get through.

Being American in British Business Brings Natural Advantage

There are certain things that Americans are both naturally and uniquely good at. Presentation skills. Optimism. The desire to get things done. A competitive spirit. Honesty. The ability to sell and deal with money without embarassment. When you're surrounded by these qualities, you don't question them. They're just "normal". It's only when you move away that you realise much of this stuff is actually quite unusual, and is part of what makes Americans different from others.

I am led to this morning's musings following attendance at a "Pampered Chef" party last night. This home sales company, on the Avon model, was founded in America but has been running here for a couple of years. I've been to several parties in St. Louis and Texas, but never here. The friend of a friend who was doing the demonstrating and selling was new to her role, and started out promptly by explaining that the company was American. That, she implied, explained the perhaps over-slick presentation materials, the funny measurements on the cookware and the focus on selling stuff. She was particularly apologetic about the last one.

Being an American company explained the over-slick presentation materials and the focus on selling stuff

She launched into her demonstration ... not yet confident in her patter, missing opportunities to promote and generally losing control of the group. Fortunately, this didn't really matter. It was a small room of close friends (few British houses can fit a crowd in the kitchen), many of whom were already fans of the product range and all of whom where affluent enough to buy kitchen gadgets without penny pinching. But the whole experience did make me chuckle to myself and think "how frightfully British".

It's the presentation skills that I believe Americans take most for granted. Who knew, when we were doing "show and tell" in front of our first grade classes that we were developing global business advantage? And yet, it's true. Watch a multi-national room of execs and the Americans will almost always be most comfortable stepping to the flip charts, presenting on the hoof, generally hogging the attention. Professional presentation coaches have agreed with me. I rarely train Americans, one recently said to me. "I've never met one of you who didn't have the abundant self confidence to get on a stage with comfort." Of course, there are Brits who can do this, too. But they're the exception rather than the rule. (And they often end up as politicians, actors, TV presenters or PR people.)

Who knew, when we were doing "show and tell" in front of our first grade classes that we were developing global business advantage?

The other quality we forget is unique is our optimism. Every American child is raised with the maxim: You can be anything you want to be if you work hard enough. We may get cynical about that sometimes, especially when contemplating the problems of the urban poor, but scratch away at the overwhelming majority of Americans and I guarantee you'll find a soul that believes this. Anything is indeed possible. Before leaving the States, I thought that belief was part of the human condition. After years of living internationally I see how rare it is. I've only seen Australians incorporate this attitude into their soul in the same way. Most of the world still lives in societies stratified in some way, where cultural beliefs and economic realities mean people are limited ... or at least, believe they are limited ... by where they were born. In practice, in the office, I believe this translates to simple optimism and pessimism. Your average American will jump into any assignment when told, believing any problem can be solved with enough grit and hard work. Your average Brit will bitch for days about what a useless project it is before he is coerced to start work on it.

So, if we have all these advantages, why don't Americans dominate global business even more than they do today? And why do so many people not like them? First, Americans don't really "do" humility. They have a charming but somewhat innocent belief that their system is the best in the world, and that everyone else on the planet will follow happily if given the chance. This irritates people.

Americans have a charming but somewhat innocent belief that their system is the best in the world ... this irritates people.

Americans tend to lack cultural sensitivity and an awareness of the world around them. Frankly, I'm not sure that, proportionately, Americans are any more myopic than other nationalities. If you've spent any time at all in France, you'll agree with me. But they are the world's only superpower and get more attention than others. I, personally, believe that the American expat community is now amongst the most globally savvy and sensitive group of international business people the world has ever seen. But we still get bashed regularly with American stereotypes. What else does the stereotype include? Americans are loud, brash, insensitive, preoccupied with money and culturally limited because they do nothing but work.

So, giants with feet of clay. But you can shake that clay off. Adopt some humility, turn your attention towards the rest of the world, lower the decibel level. Wrap yourself in a cloak of ironic wit to fit in with the English. With the rough edges polished off, and a bit of local adaptation, Americans can indeed have an unfair advantage. Now, how we use it ... that's another discussion all together.

Wrest Park: A Slice of France in Bedfordshire

The English have a great talent for borrowing architectural styles from around the world and making them their own. The classic English country house of the 18th century is, after all, a Venetian villa. You can visit a London townhouse that looks like a Turkish harem and a Cotswold garden that transports you to India. Yesterday, I decided to walk the dog in France.

This piece of international wandering only required a short drive north, rather than a cross-channel hop.

Wrest Park lies about 12 miles north of Luton, in a part of the country you usually travel through to go somewhere else, rather than one you'd make a destination. The house and gardens were trend-setters for the French revival style popular in the 19th century, the Rothschild mansion at Waddesdon being perhaps the best known. Had Wrest's House remained furnished, and had it been in slightly more picturesque countryside, it might be just as famous. As it is, it's a bit of a backwater. And though the motorway traffic indicated that everyone was heading out to enjoy the sunshine, Wrest was so sparsely populated that faithful spaniel Mr. Darcy and I spent long interludes wandering down leafy allees alone.

The site is dominated by a massive house that appears to have been snatched, intact, from the outskirts of Paris. Sold into corporate use in the first half of the 20th century (after a stint, amongst other things, as the U.S. ambassador's country house), it's now part of a scientific R&D office park. But English Heritage, which looks after house and garden, has renovated several main rooms in the mansion. Whilst there's no furniture, the opulence of the staircase hall, library and drawing room leaves no doubt that this place was built to impress. But you're not here to see the house. (And, even though dogs are allowed ... as this is the only way to access the gardens ... you feel that it's not too appropriate to linger with the pooch beneath the roccoco ceilings.)

The estate served a brief stint as the U.S. ambassador's country residence in the early 20th century, hosting a visit from Teddy Roosevelt

Strolling through the opulent French doors of an opulent French Roccoco drawing room, you emerge into the main event. A single, dramatic axis stretches away from you, dead straight, for perhaps half a mile. Nearest to you, it's a gravel path decorated on each side with symetrical parterres loaded with gaudy blooms. The gravel path continues through groupings of classical statues on plinths. Then there's a massive, flat lawn (the French image is slightly blown here by the fact that it's occupied by the local croquet club) before the line is emphasised again by a water feature that runs straight to the eye-catcher at the far end. It looks like a miniature Baroque cathedral but was, in fact, the banqueting house. Like any classical French garden, it's a giant stage set, made for people to parade around, see and be seen. You expect Louis XIV and a pack of courtiers to emerge from the bordering trees at any moment.

The place is, actually, quite reminiscent of Versailles. But on a smaller scale and without the crowds. And like Versailles, numerous tree-lined allees lead off the main axis, drawing you to other mysteries of the garden. Some are nearly as big and brash as the main axis: the outrageously ornate orangery, dripping with roccoco ornament; or the bowling lawn with its refined classical pavilion. Others are more subtle: a bathing house built as a Roman ruin that melts into a bosky dell; a circle of benches beneath pleached limes surrounding a statue of a woman on horseback; numerous "rooms" walled by high hedges with quiet seats around the edges or monuments in the middle. And, of course, lots of long, shady paths ending in monumental urns bathed in sudden sunlight (on the right day, of course).

This isn't the place to come for flowers. With the exception of the bedding plants in those gaudy parterres, and one herbacious border tucked in a side garden near the house, this is a garden absent of blooms. It's about trees, bushes, architecture and long views. It's for walking, contemplation and ... no doubt the intent when it was built ... covert trysts.

While it's not my favourite style of garden, it's a great change of pace. And, thanks to the enlightened policies of English Heritage, one of the few great gardens that's actually dog friendly. Mr. Darcy and I enjoyed our little outing to France.

Pimms & Shakespeare Outdoors: It Must Finally be Summer

Finally, after the wettest, coldest, most miserable summer anyone can remember, the skies are smiling on us. This week has been nearly perfect. Mild, sunny days in the high 70s, overarched by vivid blue skies and picturesquely puffy clouds. Followed by gentle, cool evenings. The English are dusting off their sunglasses and heading outdoors. After all, we don't know how long this will last.

The timing was perfect, therefore, for me to accept a corporate invitation to the open air theatre in Regent's Park. There is nothing, after all, that says sophisticated summer quite so well as "A Midsummer Night's Dream" under the stars.

It was a brilliant production. Although, to be fair, it's hard to do AMND badly. It is, quite simply, one of the funniest, most perfectly constructed entertainments ever. Surely proven by the fact that we're still laughing heartily at it almost 400 years after its debut. And I suspect that, like me, most of the people in the theatre had seen the play multiple times. In fact, this was the first Shakespearean play I ever saw, on a grade school field trip to a university production now lost to the mists of 1970s memory.

This event was, no doubt, a good deal more posh. Regent's Park is one of those strange secrets of London. Though just a stone's throw from the madness of Madame Tussaud's, it seems that only locals venture here. It is ringed by some of the finest Regency architecture in the country and filled with many fine features ... the theatre amongst them.

It is surprisingly small, especially to the eyes of any American raised on the massive, municipal outdoor theatres that were built by so many cities in the first quarter of the 20th century. The Regent's Park Theatre is just as old (it's celebrating its 75th year) but far more intimate. The stage is small and cradled by massive old trees. Its four sets of bleachers probably have no more than 40 rows, and blend into trees as well. In fact, the whole place has the feeling of being hidden in a forest; remarkable given its location just a 10 minute walk from the heaving traffic of the A40.

Beyond the arena there are restaurants and bars tucked amidst the trees. As corporate guests we were lucky enough to be quaffing pimms in our own roped-off area as waiters passed plates of nibbles amongst us. Frankly, however, everyone looked like they were having an equally good time, and when we all poured out into the fresh darkness of intermission beneath the sprinkling of fairy lights, we all shared the same magical environment.

Puck, Oberon and Titania could have been behind any tree. If they were, they didn't cast any spells or send any bewitched men into my path. Play over, I rushed for the train station and made my prosaic way home, reminding myself that I really must do this theatre thing more often.