Royal Ascot is great fun, but not as posh as the hats suggest

I thought of Eliza Doolittle a lot at Royal Ascot. Not just for the spectacle of the famous race scene in My Fair Lady, awash with fabulous clothes and hats. More specifically for that wonderful moment when Eliza's facade slips and she bellows decidedly un-ladylike encouragement at her horse in a rich cockney accent. There were a lot of Elizas in the crowd.

Next to getting invited to Cowes aboard somebody's boat, Royal Ascot is probably the event within the English social season that I most wanted to attend, but had never managed. I was fortunate to snag an invitation this year and was as excited as a kid in the run-up to Christmas. I plotted my outfit: Blue, early '60s patterned and styled skirt, blue top, slimline white jacket; big white hat with very big bow. Designer shades at the ready, though we never got enough sun to need them. I even withdrew a bit of cash for betting and paid close attention to the Radio 4 picks.

There's no doubt about it: It's a grand and glorious occasion. From the time you hit the High Street in Ascot you're surrounded by the fashion parade. Men in tailcoats and top hats (necessary for the Royal Enclosure), women in their best summer frocks and showy headgear. It was here that I encountered my first Elizas. Dressed to kill, standing barefoot next to the pub, 3-inch heels beside them, long-neck beer gripped in one hand, fag in the other, braying like donkeys.

Eliza or not, the fashion statement for the year seemed to be fascinators. While hats were still in abundance, those little clumps of feathers and whatnot ... corsages for the head ... were in the very large majority. Although not, I hear, in the Royal Enclosure, where women are still required to cover the whole crown of their head.

Though we weren't in the uber-posh Royal Enclosure, we certainly weren't suffering. The Pavilion Restaurant is a long, glass-walled building at one end of the front of the course complex, looking out over the entry gates, the bandstand and the winners' circle. You can't see the course from here, but the Pavilion is filled with large screen televisions giving you all the action. And girls wandering around with hand-held betting machines. So you can, in theory, have the whole Ascot experience without ever standing up. Or seeing a real horse. Which, given the champagne that was flowing regularly from the moment we sat down to the end of the day, would have been easy to do.

Getting out to the course (or track, for all you Americans) wasn't difficult, however. After a satisfying lunch (salmon terrine, roast chicken, chocolate tart, large quantities of champagne) we wandered beneath the grandstand and emerged onto an exquisite scene. Before us the vivid green jewel of turf stretching for miles, bisected by bright white fences, bordered by the trees that cloak leafy, suburban Ascot. Behind us, the striking modern architecture of the new grandstand, its canopy like a flock of birds on the wing and each balcony below filled with merry makers, the women's bright dresses and hats turning the whole facade into a blaze of colour. If 19th century races were the same, no wonder the Impressionists painted them. In the centre, the grand glass bubble of the royal box. Too far away to make out details, but if you'd seen the royal arrivals earlier you could pick out the queen (purple splotch) and the Duchess of Cornwall (blue).

The most beautiful element in the whole scene was undoubtedly the horses. Delicate, gleaming, muscles quivering with excitement, mounted by jockeys whose vivid silks made them the only men in the place to outshow the feminine fashion parade. Beguiled by the scene, I made my usual mistake of placing my bets based on the combination of prettiest horse and jauntiest racing silks. Of course, I lost. But only eight of the ten pounds I had set aside for the day. Tired of losing, I decided not to bet on the race for which I had the Radio 4 tip. The Duke of Marmalade, of course, won.

Having watched a few races and giggled at a few drunk Elizas and their even more sozzled dates ("chav city", my hostess sighed in her cut glass accent, shaking her well coiffed head sadly) we headed back to the more exclusive confines of the hospitality area. Just in time for the cheese and port. Then a bit of a wander to the winners' circle to see some hefty silverware being handed over to some top hatted owners. Back to the pavilion again, where it was time for afternoon tea. Delicate sandwiches (cucumber, salmon, egg and watercress), scones with cream and jam, bite-sized pastries. More champagne. Good Lord, didn't we just finish lunch? But how can one resist? Far too sated for walking, we took in the last race from the comfort of our table. Allowing us to capture several extra rounds of bubbly just before the bar closed down. (You will not be surprised to know that it was NOT a good week at Weight Watchers.)

Completely exhausted after all this hard work, the walk to Ascot train station seemed like miles. We even threw propriety to the wind and joined the Elizas, kicking off our shoes and making a bit of the trek barefoot. When you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Welcome to LA LA Land, where even the homeless have designer kit

Effusive customer service. Water pressure. Dinner plates piled to feed a family. Air conditioning that actually works. Yup, I'm back in America. But not just any old bit; I'm working in the positively gorgeous environs of Santa Monica, California.

I can't explain why at the moment; we're not releasing that news until later in the month. It will certainly be worth a blog entry or two. Let's just say I was in development meetings for a new marketing partnership, and I appreciated the fact that these future partners live someplace with a beach, nice hotels and a trendy, walkable downtown area. This may be the first time I've ever said this about any location in California, but with enough money to buy into the real estate, I could see myself living here.

The biggest revelation of my visit, however, was that I could be broke and move here, too. Every morning on my walk in Palisades Park I passed scores of needy souls wrapped in sleeping bags. This being Southern California, most were cushioned by cast off yoga mats. A little research yielded the news that the regular homeless in Santa Monica number almost 2,000, a full two per cent of the beach town's regular residents. They're attracted by the weather, a sympathetic city government and charities that offer good food daily.

These people occupy a different planet from the British homeless I walk by between Waterloo and St. Pauls. London's homeless are ragged, dirty, almost always in their 20s, strung out and thin as rakes due to whatever drugs are coursing through their veins. It's actually fairly easy to ignore them, as they are already wraith-like creatures with one foot in the grave. (And I'm not being heartless here. All the homeless charities tell you not to give them money, but to direct them to the official charities.) The Santa Monica homeless are in a different class. Older, well fed, generally well dressed and tidy enough to pass without notice were it not for the fact that they were pulling their belongings beside them in neatly packed parcels. Clearly, even the cast offs are good in this town, as the beggars' bundles were collected into nice bags or pieces of luggage, and piled atop various wheeled contraptions of fairly new provenance. I saw some distinctly upscale prams that would still be carting around middle class babies in most other countries.

I really wasn't sure how to feel about this discovery. Afraid to take my morning walk? Horrified that this level of homelessness exists in America? Proud that in my homeland even the street people are well dressed and have a lot of stuff? Or awkward about the fact that while these people were sleeping rough, I was calling the luxurious Huntley Hotel home?

I tried not to feel bad about the Huntley, but couldn't avoid just a twinge of guilt as I sat in its top floor bar, The Penthouse, sipping a perfectly blended cosmopolitan and watching the sun set over the mountains. Moving past the initial emotion, I acknowledged that as tedious as business travel can be, there are some benefits.

The Huntley is of a type: hip and uber-trendy, more reminiscent of a nightclub than a hotel. fortunately, the designers had gone for an elegant club with light colours, scented candles and art inspired by the undersea world, thus narrowly missing the tacky hideousness I despised in the W at Times Square. The rooms are black, beige and brown, with plenty of mirrors to reflect all that light spilling through the big windows. The views are of beach, mountain and the flower-draped suburbs, which, to my eyes, beats any view from New York on any day of the year. I really enjoyed the art, from the installation of white wooden fish swimming across the lobby wall to the coral fronds used as wall sculpture and the abstract prints of marine forms. The Penthouse bar is all gauzy white drapes and crystal chandaliers with views from every angle. Evidently it's not unusual to spot a star or two in the room, though everyone we saw looked fairly normal. If a bit overly botoxed.

(I had my LA star moment two days later when I shared a plane, and a brief stint in the security line, with Keanu Reeves.)

Almost as trendy was Sushi Roku, one of a small chain of Japanese restaurants in Southern California. More elegant design (black, polished wood, pale stone walls), more fine views (across Ocean Drive to Palisades Park with the water beyond), more excellent service and exquisitely prepared fish in great variety. At $70 per person for sashimi, three sushi rolls, a couple of martinis each and dessert, it was probably also the most expensive sushi I've consumed. But you have to pay for that view. And, no doubt, the contribution to the homeless soup kitchen.

We had another excellent meal at The Lobster, perched on the hillside directly above Santa Monica pier. Top quality seafood, fine wine and service so cheerful I was paralysed by culture shock for several minutes.

By Friday afternoon my culinary elegance was heading south with my car, however, as I stopped by my favourite taco stand in Redondo Beach. Business wrapped, it was off for a quick visit to my family in Palos Verdes. A romp with the little people, a catch-up with my cousin and his wife, more sushi, a good night's sleep, a bit more visiting and a spot of power shopping on the way to the airport. Thus 24 hours of life got packed against the work of the trip. And that, of course, was the best benefit of all.

Pont de la Tour squanders fine view with poor service

There are two major problems with business lunches. The first is the challenge of staying true to the healthy ethos of Weight Watchers when you're presented with a menu of tempting delights. The second is the fact that you always seem to pay double for that lunch, working far more hours into the evening than you actually took for the meal. Finally flipping off my email at 10pm tonight was, however, probably a fair trade for Thames-side dining in the open air on the finest day of the summer so far.

The Pont de la Tour is a London classic that's been featuring on the short lists of the rich, famous or simply expense accounted for many years. It's greatest claim to fame, so my host informed me today, was that the Blairs took the Clintons here during their first presidential visit so they could play at being normal, middle class couples. How things changed... The politicians are gone, but the venue has hung on and still packs the diners in thanks to its long-standing reputation and its magnificent location on the south side of the river directly below Tower Bridge.

The restaurant is a long, narrow one, making the most of its frontage in one of the old warehouses along the river. On clement summer days, two rows of tables stretch along the full length of the restaurant beneath an awning. Oddly, once they placed the tables they seem to have forgotten about the view, as they'd made no effort to arrange chairs to appreciate their best asset. They'd set our table for three so that two of us had our backs to the river.

The outdoor dining effectively doubles the capacity of the place, though today there was nobody dining inside and not all the outdoor tables were booked. Even with that reprieve, the staff didn't seem to be able to handle the requirements of the diners. I have rarely had service so slow. This spilled far beyond a continental attitude allowing you to linger over lunch to pure neglect. All glasses empty and two requests made before someone finally topped up wine, 30 minutes waiting for someone to take our order at the start, 40 waiting for dessert menus, another 30 waiting on the bill. This is NOT the place to go if you need to be out promptly.

Did the food make up for the service? Not really. It was extremely good, but to the same standard I have come to expect at any high-end French restaurant in the city. Dishes were beautifully presented and perfectly cooked; I was particularly happy with a fillet of sea trout that balanced a crisp, blackened skin with a moist, flaky interior. My starter of crab was tasty and generously sized. But neither were anything surprising or innovative, nor did anything on the menu fall into that category. Dependable and basic, you could have been in any one of a dozen restaurants in London. Desserts were the only thing that pushed towards a high point. I had a strawberry meringue fool that achieved a balance of tart, sweet and creamy, and my companions both had something similar to a very rich chocolate brownie with clotted cream, a bite of which had me wishing I'd thrown caution to the winds and gone for the high fat choice.

So overall, very average. If you're dying for a view, grab a few drinks at a riverside pub. Then get some French food that's better served and altogether more pleasing at The Bleeding Heart or Orrery.

Ushering in "The Season" at Chelsea, the Opera and Levant

Despite the fact that I am little more than a minnow in the London social pond, I still relish the official start of the town's social season. Traditionally, this is the Chelsea Flower Show. But in this last week of May the whole city seems to be buzzing, with the new Opera season in full swing, women plotting their hat choices for the upcoming races at Epsom or Ascot and invites arriving in mailboxes for Wimbledon.

My Wimbledon summons arrived courtesy of the Economist, but sadly had to be turned down as I'm being shipped out to our global sales conference in Las Vegas that week. Nothing, however, stood in the way of my Chelsea Flower Show tickets, so the 22nd found me drinking my ceremonial first Pimms of the summer beneath wonderfully clement skies. In fact, in more than a decade of attendance I can only remember one show with better weather.

I wish I could say the same for the gardens. Despite an unusually high crop of gold medals, this year's displays didn't do much for me. That is perhaps because the 2008 show might have been re-named the "Chelsea Foliage Show". Flowers are clearly out of fashion, as some of the most dramatic show gardens did lots with hedges and banks of greenery. When they did appear, blooms seemed to all purple, dark blues and red. I was deep into the show before I caught any pastels. Quite predictably, then, my choice for best garden was out of favour with the judges; the George Harrison memorial garden mixed a riot of colour, representing the mad '60s, with a calm Indian temple to capture the peace of his later life. I loved it.

Fortunately, unlike last year I wasn't there looking for inspiration, only for enjoyment. My own little garden has moved on dramatically since I attended the show last year, notebook in hand and brain working furiously on what my own space could become. Thus I'll illustrate today's blog not with a show garden, but with my own. It's still a work in progress, but does show how Chelsea's grand designs can inspire small oases of pleasure. And how the flower shows can outfit your garden. The firepit is a new purchase at this year's Chelsea, the French iron table and chairs on the deck were on sale at Hampton Court Flower Show last year.

The next night it was off to the Royal Opera House for Simon Boccanegra. Unlike our magnificent seats in Prague, this time we were close to the rafters. For the same price, of course. But this is one of the best Operas in the world, in one of the most expensive cities in the world, so attendance doesn't come cheap. And affordable tickets don't come easy; I booked these in February. It was worth the effort, however, and made me think I should make the effort for myself, not just when my father is visiting.

The recent restoration of the ROH has made it a superlative venue, packed with restaurants, bars and elegant vistas. There's really no bad seat in the house, and similarly there's no bad place to while away the pre-show or interval times. The best spot, however, has to be the long balcony running across the top of the building looking down into Covent Garden. Standing here in the glow of the sunset, sipping champagne and watching London below as the well dressed and elegant swirled around me, I felt perhaps a bit bigger than a minnow in that social pond. Small carp, perhaps?

Oh, and the opera was fantastic as well. Boccanegra is one of Verdi's lesser known works. Even my father, the opera fanatic, had to look up the plot. It has all the classic Verdi elements: political intrigue, star-crossed lovers, passion, double crosses, huge crowd scenes, dramatic deaths and bombastic music. The story is set in Renaissance Genoa, but Verdi wrote it with Italian unification in mind and the ROH followed his thoughts by placing the costumes solidly in the 19th century. The sets were simple yet suitably atmospheric, the voices strong, the acting resonant all the way up to our lofty seats. A thoroughly satisfying, if emotionally draining, evening.

Flash forward a few more days and I'd planned Dad's last evening out in London to be a lovely walking tour around the hidden pubs of Marylebone. Sadly, the weather didn't oblige. Cold and rainy once more, it was hard to believe that the sunny summer day at Chelsea was less than a week ago. Even the guide, presumably hardened to London's atmospheric challenges, decided to cancel. He did so across the street from a wonderful restaurant called Levant. Thus Dad's last night out in London was spent in the exotic Middle East.

Levant is in a basement in Jason Court, just off Wigmore Road. It's an easy place to miss, and one you're unlikely to stumble upon unless you're looking for it. But plenty of people find this hidden gem, because it's been packed every time I go. The cuisine is Lebanese and the decor is straight out of Aladdin's cave. We opted for one of the set feasts, which provided an array of traditional mezze to start, followed by a variety of roast meats on skewers. It's a refreshing change from the formality of European dining to be able to graze, sharing tastes from a range of small plates and sampling a bewildering variety of the menu. The first two courses were both substantial and delicious, but dessert was a fitting climax. We started with a beautiful platter of fresh fruit. I thought we were being healthy, until the four-tiered serving piece came laden with Turkish delight, honey-based pastries, stuffed dates and apricots, and pistachios. And then came the hot mint tea, poured with maximum drama from an impressive height out of a gleaming silver pot.
From the decor to the way the food is served, everything is a bit of a show at Levant. The real show starts, however, when the belly dancers emerge from the back room. Four women circle the dining room, alternating places for about half an hour. They had gorgeous costumes and performed with fluid grace and athleticism; it's obvious what good, and challenging, exercise that form of dancing must be. Of course, I doubt that's what the men in the restaurant were thinking. I left them to their lustful thoughts while I lusted after the pastries, wondering if I could manage just ONE more, and how much belly dancing it would require to work off the accompanying calories.

Touring with American relatives demands the Kent and Sussex circle tour

Dealing with visiting American friends and relatives is always a bit of a challenge. I want to give them the most memorable time possible, taking them to the best options and entertaining them with great stories, without spending too much time in the car and or dragging them to the places everyone at home has been to already. And, of course, it's lovely to vary my own routine, so I don't end up bored rigid seeing the same sights time and again.

Ergo, one of the most oft-repeated tours in my sightseeing bag of tricks is a circle tour from London, dropping down into the leafy back lanes of Kent, picking one blockbuster sight out of the many on offer, then meandering through some picturesque villages to the coast before taking a main road home. That's about 280 miles on the odometer in the day, which isn't for the faint hearted driver, but does deliver excellent value for the ambitious tourist with just a day to get outside of London.

This weekend's tourists were my best friend from high school, with whom I've just spent the week in the Lake District, and her parents, who are stopping in London en route to Paris and Venice. It was their first trip to the UK. They'd spent an intense few days in London doing a power circuit of the main sights. Now it was time to introduce them to the joys of the English countryside.

Sadly, the weather was absolutely miserable. Cold, grey, with a steady drizzle for most of the day. Fortunately, Americans are conditioned to expect rain in England and actually say it adds to the atmosphere of their experience. Anne's Dad, a keen amateur photographer, even insisted the leaden skies would help his shots. They're probably just being polite.

We started the day at Hever Castle near Edenbridge, Kent. This place has grown on me. When I first visited, I was a bit more of a snob about my sightseeing and tended to discount Hever as more Disney than real. Purchased by the Astors in the early 20th century and heavily restored, it's a stage set from a film about the Tudors rather than an authentic Tudor site. It's also privately owned, so doesn't have the academic gravitas of properties managed by the National Trust or English Heritage. Experience has taught me to say "who cares?". If there's one property in the Southeast likely to delight Americans, this is it. And the private ownership ensures that everything is in the best repair, with displays constantly changing and attractions being added to keep visitors returning.

Hever is a little gem of an early Tudor castle, square with a deep internal courtyard, given added light by a generous courtyard in its middle. It was the childhood home of Anne Boleyn and frequently serves as a film set, most recently for The Other Boleyn Girl. Visitors love those associations because they make history more tangible. The rooms may be Tudorbethan recreation, but they're beautifully done, with rich carving demonstrating that workmanship in the early 20th century could be just as beautiful as much older examples. The Astors were very rich and spared nothing on their collections. So while the rooms are new, their contents are precious and authentic. As you would expect, there's a great collection here of things related to the Boleyns, and a beautiful set of Tudor portraits. The admission price includes an audio guide.

Hever's gardens are as noteworthy as the house. Near the moat, they're resolutely Tudor in flavour, with a maze, topiary (including a famous topiary chess set) and formal knot gardens. Moving beyond, the landscape is typical English picturesque, with rolling hills, a variety of noble trees and knots of azaleas and rhododendron currently in vivid bloom. The blockbuster sight, however, is the Italian gardens, hidden from direct view from the castle by a large wall and gates. Once through the barrier, you find yourself in a huge walled enclosure ... perhaps 150 yards long and 75 yards wide, with a pergola running down one side, a long walk down the other, perfect lawns and hedges in the middle and the sides segmented into smaller garden rooms by pieces of wall. The wall running along the pergola is planted grotto style, packed with ferns, mosses and dripping rivulets of water. The other wall shelters a magnificent collection of Greek and Roman statuary, now used as focal points for floral display. An architectural flourish at the end of the garden can hold a band or theatrical group (they still do many events here), and a pass through the open arcade there brings you out onto a terrace dominated by a baroque sculpture group facing the large lake Astor had dug for the view and a bit of messing about on the water.

I wonder if today's super rich build with this sort of elegant style?

We'd worked up quite an appetite after several hours of soggy wandering, thus we made it no further than the pub outside the castle gates for lunch. I've avoided this place for years, assuming that any pub directly across from a major attraction was bound to be a tourist trap. Wrong again. The Henry VIII inn was packed, at least half the crowd obviously local. Selections from the traditional pub menu (pies, sausage & mash, burgers) were served promptly, piping hot and tasty. We had a bit of a chat with the locals before mobilising for the rest of the day.

Next came a bit of a wander through Kent, showing off a few picturesque villages. First to Chiddingstone, just a single street but one of rare beauty. Merchant Ivory fans will recognise it instantly as the village where the Honeychurch family lived in Room with a View. Next on to Penshurst, another charming collection of village architecture, this time dominated by the impressive, late medieval pile of Penshurst Place. It was too late in the day for a visit, but we had a peek at the house from the outside and the gardens spreading around it.

With plenty of time before sunset, I turned the car toward the coast to give my visitors a taste of white cliffs. But NOT Dover; natives know there are better beauty spots. On the way we passed through Eastbourne and drove along the seafront, providing a completely different look and feel from the earlier part of the day. The high Victorian promenade of seaside buildings, pier and waterfront attractions are a snapshot of imperial glory days and, as this is a fairly prosperous part of the world, still maintain their old world elegance. It's up above Eastbourne that you come for the cliffs and spectacular views.

Beachy Head is a large piece of coastal land now owned and protected by the National Trust. Farm and grasslands sweep upwards to cliff edge, from where there's a sharp drop of several hundred feet into the channel. The cliffs are composed of white chalk. Beautiful, but not recommended to get too close; this unstable material crumbles into the sea at points each year. The best views are to be had from Birling Gap, about half way along the coastal drive. Here the land lowers between two cliffs. There's an observation point from which you can climb down to the beach, or just appreciate the magnificence of the Seven Sisters Cliffs sweeping away to the west. Back to our movie theme: Often when you see the white cliffs of Dover in films, you're actually looking at these, which are more beautiful and devoid of the industry that clutters Dover today.

Driving off the headlands, we even managed to encounter a game of village cricket on a well-maintained ground surrounded by adorable village buildings. The tourists were delighted. And I was quite delighted with myself, able to give a coherent explanation to my visitors of what was going on out there. Of course, I used baseball language for understanding, which would have made my cricket-mad Australian mate shudder, but I think I did quite well.

Almost time to turn back towards London, but not before a quick hop down the coast for a drive along the seafront at Brighton. The main sight here is, of course, the Brighton Pavilion. This outrageous Indian palace with Oriental interiors was George IVs holiday retreat. Though it's well worth a visit inside, it's possible to grasp all the insanity, garishness and beauty of the place looking at the exterior. Which is a good thing, because it was 7 o'clock and time to call it a day.

We stopped for a curry half way back to London, dropped Anne's parents off at their Mayfair hotel and arrived home before 11. Tired, but mission accomplished. Despite the weather, the tourists had all tasted the magic of the English countryside in a variety of its guises. I suspect they'll be back. Once bitten, it's hard to resist.

Beneath sunny skies, England's Lake District is one of the world's most beautiful landscapes

I have been to the Lake District many times, but never have I been this lucky with weather. Our three days in the region each dawned sunny and cloudless, yet still a bit cool. Perfect weather for hiking, which is what this region is all about. Mountains loomed into blue skies, green lakes offered endless reflections, bluebells cast a blue haze over meadow and forest.

We chose Keswick, in the north of the district, as our base. Like many tourists, I'd previously stayed closer to Windermere, in the centre of the tourist hot spots. I will never do so again. Keswick, it turns out, is actually not so far from Windermere on the main road, yet feels a little bit less touristy. (Just a little, mind you. This whole region is about tourism; nowhere is "off the beaten track".) The surrounding landscape is bigger, bolder, wilder, with jaw-dropping views. Keswick itself is a lovely town with lots of restaurants and outdoor shops. A bit less picturesque than Windermere, Grasmere or Ambleside, but a town that actually gives you a sense that it serves at least a few locals in addition to the tourists. It's also connected by a major "A" road to the motorway, so very convenient for arriving and departing.

The B&B
Our B&B was a couple of miles past Keswick in the village of Braithwaite, and gets a high recommendation. Maple Bank is a large Victorian house with accommodation spread over two floors. The ground floor has a spacious lounge and dining room, both with truly spectacular views over valley and hills. There's a huge garden with a big deck in the back. Owners Rhona and Tommy took over just six months ago, are delightful hosts and are obviously lavishing care and investment on the place. Paintwork, wallpaper, linens and curtains are all obviously new. Breakfast was suitably hearty for a day's hiking, and the village had three pubs serving dinner within walking distance. Dogs are welcome for a small additional fee, and the rates for people are very reasonable. We paid £25 per person per night as part of a mid-week special, a price that had me expecting something far more humble. Maple Bank is super value for money and becomes my top B&B pick for the area.

The Sights
Neither words nor pictures will properly capture the drama and spectacle of our hike in the hills above Buttermere. The walk, which has one steep climb and covers about seven miles, was graded "easy" in a local tourism magazine. That's more than a bit of understatement, unless you consider climbing 12 stories a doddle. But with rests along the ascent, it's manageable for anyone reasonably fit.

The walk starts in a beautiful wood above the village of Buttermere, where you need to step carefully as you follow a follow a forest path on the edge of a ridge above a merrily babbling brook. After about half a mile you clear the woods to see the daunting slope of a very large hill before you. Should you need any encouragement, all you need to do is turn around every 50 steps or so and take in the views, which get ever more dramatic as you near the top. The summit gives you a remarkable view of two lakes, Buttermere and Crummock Water, ringed by low mountains. From the summit, we cut across a grassy alpine meadow and then started a more gradual descent between looming hills, accompanied by another babbling brook. It's near the bottom, only in May, that you encounter one of the most spectacular sights in England: The Rannadale bluebells. The flowers cover the valley floor, casting a pale blue haze over the whole scene in gorgeous contrast to the vivid greens of the turf and trees and the deeper blue of the sky. The path eventually comes out on Crummock Water, then it's a mile along the road back to Buttermere. Where, thankfully, there was not only a pub with hearty ploughman's platter, but a farm famous for selling home made ice cream from the Ayrshires we'd just walked past.

A less strenuous but equally pleasant day took us to Hill Top, Beatrix Potter's farm. Like many homes of famous writers, its fascinating for the insight it gives into the author and her creative process. Throughout the house you'll find copies of her books open to illustrations that took inspiration from something within your line of sight. The guides throughout the house are all passionate about their posts and happy to share fascinating stories. From one of the small sitting rooms upstairs, a guide will point out the house on the other side of the village ... perhaps 200 yards away ... where Potter moved after she married in her mid 40s. She maintained Hill Top as her private domain, however, and continued to work here until her death. Anyone who's seen the film Miss Potter will find the visit even more poignant.

In addition to revolutionising children's literature, Potter was instrumental in preservation of Lakeland farms the establishment of the National Trust. Much of the land around Hill Top is now owned by the Trust thanks to Potter's donation. It's lovely hiking country of a different sort to the hills around Buttermere; gentle, lush, wooded. There's a lovely 2.5 mile walk through the village of Sawrey down to the Windermere lakeside, where there's a ferry in good weather.

We also made the obligatory stop in Grasmere to visit the Wordsworth Graves and Sarah Nelson's gingerbread shop, practically a sacred obligation in this region.

Dining
Braithwaite is generously served by its pubs. We sampled two of the three, and both rank highly for traditional English fare. The Middle Ruddings, closest to the B&B, prides itself on its local ingredients and has a menu that lists the provenance of its meats, vegetables and cheeses. I opted for sausage and mash with onion gravy followed by sticky toffee pudding. Hardly weight watchers friendly, but a perfect meal after an active day.

Slightly less impressive food but marginally better atmosphere is to be found at the Coledale Inn, which benefits from an impressive hilltop location above the village. The dining rooms have a grand Victorian elegance to them, the crowd is convivial and the staff delivers excellent service. Stake and ale pie emerged from the kitchen flavourful and piping hot; profiteroles delivered the sweet comfort needed after a day of exertion. Matched with several pints, a perfect end to a perfect day.

Prague delivers on, but doesn't exceed, its reputation

If you are truly blessed, you will have moments in life of such satisfaction that if Death arrived to proclaim "game over" you could shrug, smile and admit that you had no complaints. Other than your frustrated desire to keep on with the fine game in progress. What more could anyone really ask?

I had a moment like that in Prague last week. I was sitting in Kampa Park, one of the finest restaurants in the city, replete with a delicious four course meal and the discovery of excellent local wines. The view over the river and the famous Charles Bridge was sublime. One of my best friends was celebrating her birthday, and was glowing with joy over the perfectly selected gift to which we'd all contributed. Hillary had brought together a fun and fascinating group of people from a variety of countries and professions. We'd started the evening quaffing sparkling wine on the rooftop of the Hotel Aria, watching the sun set behind the picturesque city skyline. Now the room buzzed with wit, charm and intellectual stimulation. How can life get much better?

It is perhaps strange, given my love of history and architecture, that this sublime moment was the highlight of my trip to Prague. Maybe it was just that the party was so good that any sightseeing had to pale in comparison. Or perhaps Prague is so oversold these days that it's almost impossible for it to live up to expectations. I enjoyed the city, and found it a lovely venue for a long weekend, but I felt that a three day weekend quenched my thirst. I left happy that I'd gone, but with no great desire to return any time soon. Unless, of course, Hillary has another birthday party.

The highlights? Prague is indeed an architectural wonder. I found it to be a spiritual twin to Venice; an architectural masterpiece, captured in time, existing now almost entirely for tourism. At its core, it is a city of gracious baroque palaces, towering domes and hills topped with castles and monasteries. There are many streets you suspect Mozart would still recognise. It is almost achingly picturesque, thanks to the way the famous buildings layer one on top of another in your line of sight. Charles Bridge, the Cathedral of St. Nicholas (my favourite building), Prague Castle, St. Vitus' Cathedral ... all jockey for eye space as in one of those architectural capriccio drawings. But this is real.

The city clearly has one of the liveliest music scenes in Europe. Concerts are being advertised everywhere, and the quality of the buskers is remarkable. While prices are going up, it's still much cheaper to see an opera here than in other venues in Europe. (Cosi fan Tutti in one of the best boxes at the State Opera cost us £35 per person, the same price as the nosebleed seats at London's Royal Opera.)

Shops are abundant and clearly geared toward the masses of tourists. Galleries, charming artisan shops and glass works abound. Prices, however, are on par with any other European city. If I were planning to buy a crystal chandelier I'd probably come here; prices on such big ticket quality items looked good. But there was little else to tempt me. I kept suspecting I could get the same thing for less in the housewares departments of one of many American department stores.

Prices, in fact, were generally surprising. And not in a good way. Prague had a reputation for ages as a fantastic bargain. That's long gone. The taxi from the airport cost £35, a three course meal with drinks cost £40, a three-star hotel room close to Charles Bridge cost £100 per night. Marginally cheaper than London, but I can think of many other places in Europe where I felt my money stretched further. That hasn't kept the crowds away. Returning to the Venice comparison, the only other place I've felt so packed in with tourists was Venice during high tourist season. Prague, frankly, can be hard work.

All I have to do is look at my pictures, however, to remind myself of the worth of the place. If you're going to emerge yourself in the picturesque, there are few places better.

Readers will, hopefully, forgive me for only including the briefest of highlights. An intense work week followed my return from this trip, that followed by an activity-packed weekend, and now I'm off for four days' holiday hiking in the Lake District. Quiet time for reflection and writing is at a bit of a premium at the moment. I promise there will be more to come on Prague at a future date.