Paris delivers its magic through surprises good and bad, and despite hotel's bad mattresses

The things that defy expectations are the ones that make a good story. Thus in these upcoming Paris reports, you’ll find the surprises getting the most attention.

There’s the restaurant on our first night that was far more formal, expensive and gourmet than we expected. We loved it, but wished we could have prepared timing, wardrobes and budget to match its magnificence.

Crowds, poor management and a horrific modern art display at Versailles all prompted disgruntled disbelief, turning a day we thought would be our best into the nadir of the short break. On the other hand, the weather was a pleasant surprise. A forecast of consistent chill and rain was often, in reality, crisp blue skies and clement temperatures. The transformation from one state to another took place, magically, on our way up the Eiffel Tower.

My boyfriend’s much-anticipated visit to the army museum disappointed, but a last-minute pop into the church of La Madeleine left him gasping in wonder. I, never before impressed by Notre Dame … which, being very early Gothic, is dark, gloomy and squat compared to many English cathedrals … was moved to a state of reverence this time by a combination of a choir delivering an ornate accompaniment to All Saints’ Day mass, sunlight streaming through the stained glass and the sobering news of the premature death of a family friend.

One thing did, however, live exactly up to expectations, and was all the better for it. As the song says, Paris loves lovers. This was an anniversary trip, celebrating a very happy year and looking forward to more. I have been to this city many times. There’s no doubt it’s a different place when wandering hand in hand with someone special, or standing in an embrace on a darkened bridge admiring the illuminated spires of Notre Dame while the sounds of an accordion drift over the Seine.

But enough mush. You want the inside scoop on the food and travel. So let’s start out with the basics of accommodation.

We stayed in the Latin Quarter, on the Rue Des Ecoles just below the Pantheon. It’s a convenient area, jammed with great restaurants (of those, a dedicated entry to come), connecting easily to Charles de Gaulle airport via line B of the RER train and within easy walking distance of the bulk of the major tourist attractions. The trip had been a somewhat last minute decision and spanned what was a holiday weekend for most of Roman Catholic Europe, so I couldn’t get into either branch of my usual favourite, the Hotel Saint Louis (see 4.12.09), and had no luck with any other small, charming boutique hotel.

Defaulting to Expedia, we ended up at the Hotel Sully Saint Germain. Functional and adequate, though lacking the Saint Louis’ quiet elegance. The public spaces are lovely, with exposed stone walls, historic decorative touches and a pretty little courtyard kitted out with formal topiary. It out-does the St. Louis on the lift, useful for the higher floors (we were on 5) and central air conditioning (which would be great in the summer). But the rooms themselves lack charm. In ours, terra cotta coloured walls and striped fabrics were functional, but didn’t carry the promising charm of the ground floor upstairs. The bed was distinctly uncomfortable and the pillows tiny. A broken shelf in the closet and chipped enamel in the bathroom showed some wear.

For a room price of 115 euros a night, this is pretty much up to expectation. But I did find myself wondering if, at this price point and with the St. Louis again unavailable, I might get over my aversion to the big chain hotels. Their bulk provisioning might at least result in better pillows and mattresses. Charm is pointless icing on the cake without a good night’s sleep.

We arrived at 5 on a Friday afternoon, staying until 7pm on the Monday. Time for three fairly aggressive days of sightseeing, three magnificent dinners and more than 30 miles of walking. It’s enough to feel like you’ve had a good break, and to tick off a number of the key sites. Staying much longer would, to be honest, risk serious crowd fatigue and break the bank on food and admissions expenditures.

Starting tomorrow, four entries: three on sightseeing, one on our culinary adventures. Read on.

Luxurious week sees great nights' sleeps at the Langham, bracketed by fine meals at Landau & Locatelli

Thank heavens the recession is easing. Financial confidence brings so many advantages. A more confident business environment. A more interesting work agenda with the possibility of bigger budgets. Nicer hotels on business trips. Call me shallow if you wish, but those luxurious venues for corporate events are important. (And let's face it: Without them, this would be a much less interesting blog.)

Like many business-to-business firms, my company hosts an annual summit during which we bring together our most valued customers for meetings with our executives, insight into our strategy, a chance to tell us what they really think, and a bit of a treat in a location that rewarded their time and effort to be with us. In years past this event had been at a variety of glamorous spots, but last year was the annus austeritious. I contemplated writing up the Radisson Edwardian Grafton, but was just too depressed by the dark, dingy bar, the tiny rooms, the lack of service and the grungy surroundings of the top of Tottenham Court Road. As the economy creeps back to normal, we return to settings more appropriate to our customers and their importance. Bring on the Langham.

This is one of the grand old dames of Victorian London, a bastion of polite society since its opening in 1865. A haven of serenity within a stone's throw of Oxford Circus, it's always been a luxurious place for ladies who shop to stop for a respite. In fact, they claim to have given birth to the tradition of afternoon tea in their Palm Court. Unlikely, as the Duchess of Bedford is generally credited with the ides, but you have to give these marketing types some leeway. Whatever the detail, it's a place with a rich history that's recently been given an £80 million renovation, making the grand dame quite sprightly and sexy, too.

The look downstairs mixes the grand Victorian classical architecture with modern design and a touch of art deco. The Palm court is bright with beveled mirrors, updated with modern art and interesting lighting. The bar is darker, with a wonderful Chinese theme, while the main restaurant (keep reading for more on that) is traditionally English equestrian, matching its name of "The Landau".

Upstairs, I was treated to the single most comfortable bed I have ever encountered. Some hotels go in for exceptionally high thread count sheets, others huge down pillows with just the right balance of structure and softness. This had both, underpinned by an almost obscenely thick and plush mattress. I could have stayed there forever, though that would have prevented me from enjoying the unusual tub (figure 8 shaped, with one circle bigger than the other) in a classically elegant bathroom fitted out with mahogany, chrome, marble and glass, or the oversized arm chair with the gorgeous upholstery. Yes, the renovation has modernised things, but not too much. Oscar Wilde would, I think, still be comfortable here.

The Langham also benefits from a great restaurant in The Landau. I remember a time when hotel restaurants and fine dining did not go hand in hand. The food would be good, but it was usually traditional, unexceptional fare for the convenience of the residents. No longer. More and more frequently, famous chefs are taking over these magnificent old hotel dining rooms and making them destinations in their own right. Today's Landau was the creation of celebrity chef Andrew Turner, and though he's moved on, the place still delivers to "Master Chef" standards. (Indeed, it's been the host kitchen and dining room for past episodes.)

The menu fits into that "modern European" category, meaning mostly French, mostly gourmet, with a few surprising twists. While it doesn't have a Michelin star, it's certainly priced as if it did, with starters averaging £15, mains around £30 and sweets at £8. You can find slightly better value for money in this category (keep reading), but you do occasionally see the Landau with 50 per cent off deals on Top Table. If you see one of those, book quickly!

I started with pan fried foie gras with roasted peaches. An unexpected but pleasant combination. The pleasant flavour combinations continued though my main, a perfectly cooked fresh pigeon (very hard to do, as they dry out so quickly) in an unctuous red wine sauce. Too substantial a meal for desserts, but the Landau won points with me by bringing a generous plate of sweets with the coffee. Jelly, praline, chocolate ... just a mouthful of each, and enough to let me leave without feeling deprived of my sugar fix.

Interestingly, my favourite restaurant in London is also attached to a hotel: Locanda Locatelli in the Hyatt Regency. It was here, when business was done, I went on my own time and my own money to celebrate with friends, and it's here that I can attest the prices are slightly lower, and the food even better, than the Landau. With a Michelin star thrown in to validate my opinion.

I've written about Locatelli's place multiple times on this blog and it never fails to impress. No exception here. I started with chestnut tagliatelle with wild mushrooms, a classic autumnal dish. I did steal a bite of the evening's special off my friend's plate, however: spaghetti with bottarga. That's dried fish roe, common in Italian and Sardinian food, grated and incorporated through the pasta. It's an extremely pungent taste. If you like anchovies, you'll love it. If not, best not to venture towards this extreme.

How good was my main course? The first thing I did when I got home was to pull out Locatelli's cookbook to see if the recipe was there, and almost cried with joy when I found it. Sea bass with a tomato crust and Vernaccia wine sauce served on a pillow of artichoke puree; some of my favourite things all on one plate. I love artichokes in any way, but this puree was exceptional. I will be trying hard to duplicate this, I can tell. Moving on to dessert, I'm not sure desire and patience will combine enough to see me creating white chocolate soup with passion fruit and pistachio ice cream at home. But you never know. It was both delicious and a beautiful presentation. The winner in the table's dessert stakes, however, was Hillary's Italian cheese platter, which came with a clock-face style arrangement of honey pots to match. One honey with each cheese, the duos going from mild to extreme.

Add to this a handsome and charmingly flirtatious young waiter from Rome, a sommelier who steered us towards and unusually bold white with a slight sparkle on the tongue that worked with everyone's meal, the company of some of your best friends and discussion about travel (Hillary's recent China trip described, the NU girls' next venture to France planned) and you get a perfect evening.

Coworth Park brings modern luxury wrapped in tradition to Royal Berkshire

Last entry I revealed my new love of historic exteriors with a modern heart. Today I'm lucky enough to be describing a particularly luxurious example of the genre.

Coworth Park was an almost-derelict, 18th century country house in the lush triangle between Virginia Water, Wentworth Country Club and Sunningdale. This is Royal Berkshire, rich in leafy estates, polo clubs, exclusive schools and the Queen's relatives. And yet, surprisingly, there's not much in this stretch by way of serious luxury hotels or Michelin-quality restaurants. Good, yes, but for film stars, CEOs, heads of state and the like, it was a trip up the Thames to Cliveden. The people behind the Dorchester spotted this omission and, thanks to Coworth's parlous state, were able to initiate major building works to create something distinctive.

I am, of course, not a movie star, a Fortune 500 boss or a politician. Just a corporate hack who occasionally hosts or attends events in places like this, lucky enough to get invited with a bunch of colleagues to a special opening week dinner and tour hosted by marketing communications agency Phoenix Partners. (Thank you, ladies, for a special treat.) As of its opening this week, Coworth is now a late Georgian gem surrounded by sprawling parkland and achingly picturesque outbuildings, yet with a completely new interior that's glamorous, elegant, high tech and most assuredly of the 21st century. If last night was any indication ... which, given my experience of the Dorchester mother ship, it will be ... this design combines with fantastic service and fine food to deliver the best in hospitality. There are 70 rooms between the mansion house, the stables annex (a self-contained group of buildings with its own restaurant, resembling a small village) and the three-bedroom dower house.

Regular readers of this blog will know I’m not a fan of much of modern “luxury” design, mostly because it all looks the same. Coworth has kept to the modern essentials of pale colours, nods to traditional furniture styles and quirky modern accents, but they’ve done it with elegance and sophistication. You’ll approach the neo-classical portico expecting Robert Adam or William Kent; instead you’ll find a magnificent open space with a floating, spiralling grand stair to one side and a sculpture of a tree, bare of leaves, in the centre of the room. The check-in staff is subtly positioned behind a sleek refrectory table to your left, behind which a massive modern interpretation of a Knole sofa stretches in front of an austerely beautiful fireplace. That tree is important, as is the delicate shade of green on the walls. Coworth is proud of its sustainable green credentials, and design throughout the mansion brings the outside in.

Lamp bases are silver sprays of bull rushes, sconces over wall lights sculptural interpretations of leaves. A series of framed, multi-dimensional paper cut outs of forests and stags was striking. Meeting and dining rooms have fascinating light fixtures cum sculptures on their ceilings, the most amazing of which being a giant, bronze crown of oak leaves and acorns that hangs above the dining room, echoing the oversized plaster leaves and nuts on the room’s walls. The elegant suite in the centre of the house is dominated by a four poster bed, the posts of which seem to be trees growing from floor to ceiling.

The other design element is equine. With polo fields surrounding and Ascot up the road, it’s no surprise that sculptures of horses dance across table tops and their noble forms race across paintings.

Before we had too much time to study the beauties of the design, it was time to go into dinner. The Dorchester folks have lured John Campbell, Michelin-starred chef of the Vineyard in Hampshire and regular TV star, to run food and drink. He dropped in before dinner to greet us and emphasise his philosophy, which is all about appropriate preparation of local ingredients (which a not-so-subtle slam of Heston Blumenthal and his chemical delights). Source the best, and let its excellence shine through. He’s introducing a “shire menu” here, with all ingredients sourced from no more than 20 miles away; I suspect we’ll be back to sample it. I’m not sure of the provenance of last night’s menu, but given the season it’s likely that it was all local.

The risotto of fresh peas and mint was perfectly al dente and delivered a concentrated burst of its vegetal flavours. The Gressingham duck breast that followed was gently cooked to a perfect medium rare, complemented by tiny diced apples and calvados. But the star of this course was the pinot noir from Gevrey-Chambertin (see 19.10.08 for the vineyard tour) that was so good I thanked heavens I wasn’t spending the night; I would have drunk far more than was wise. We wrapped with apple tarte tatin with sauternes grape ice cream, again served with a wine that almost stole the show. In this case, a little red number with a powerful bouquet like raspberry sorbet.

This was all delivered with abundant and attentive service. And while the food and decor are both stunning, this is where the hotel will really differentiate itself if they keep it up. Cheerful staff anticipated our every need. Glasses were always full, coats whisked away, generous umbrellas provided to shelter you through the rain from car to house and back again. Open just three days, they’ve already mastered that wonderful art of being invisible when not needed, and at your elbow just before you think you want something. The icing on the cake? The valet brought me back to my car, keeping the raindrops at bay, and said “good night, Miss Ferrara, I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening and that we see you again soon.”

The real sign of luxury isn’t truffles, foie gras or gold leaf. It’s natural, unaffected service that recognises you as an individual and makes you feel like a superstar ... even if you’re just a marketing hack out for a rare treat.

House move hits the spot despite ... or because of? ... all the mod cons

History first drew me to England and, in my early years, I couldn't understand how any citizen of this country could resist wrapping himself in the glories of the past. I remember my profound shock the first time I dined at the house of a dear friend ... and quintessential Englishman ... and found him living in a featureless, modern brick block no older than my university memories. How could any resident of this country, unless forced by penury to do so, not choose to wrap himself in charm and antiquity?

It's been 16 years since that first dinner party in modern architecture. In the mean time I've lived in three quaint villages, one Victorian flat with character windows, one mock-Georgian place that pretended to be old, and bought a 200-year-old cottage with views of Queen Anne architecture out the front and medieval half timbering to the back. So far, true to form. And then, I moved to Basingstoke.

Though technically not a new town (there's a handful of venerable buildings in the town centre, Basing House saw a major civil war battle and The Vyne once hosted Henry VIII), most of what you see now has been built in the last two decades. Today's Basingstoke is a modern town centre, mostly comprised of an indoor shopping mall, ringed with office and apartment blocks, anchored by a train station with excellent, high speed connections. Sprawling away from that are vast housing estates of winding roads and detached houses with garages, punctuated by strip malls with plenty of parking in front of their new, or freshly-remodelled, chain stores. It is as spiritually American as Starbucks, baseball caps and overly-friendly shop assistants. And I love it.

Why this betrayal of my long-held aesthetic beliefs? I could be sappy and say it's for love. (The move was triggered by household consolidation with the man in my life.) But it's far more pragmatic than that. I like the fact that my walls are straight, and that none of the doors stick. I appreciate how the house actually retains heat, thanks to those stout yet large double glazed windows. I revel in hallways large enough to get down without knocking my elbows, and no longer have to worry about Piers smacking his head on low-hanging door frames and light fixtures.

Most of all, I love my new, American-style, double-sided fridge freezer with enough room for even the food-iest of couples to host a gourmet dinner or a big housewarming. (The former was the birthday feast my partner slaved over for me: chilled cucumber soup, lobster ravioli, steak Rossini ... topped by foie gras and grilled mushroom ... and white chocolate cheesecake. The latter our house-warming BBQ, Middle Eastern themed with chicken or fish skewers, home made hummus and baba ganoush, Moroccan rice salad and, returning closer to home, American-style chocolate chip cookies.) And how could I forget, for the first time in my life in England, decent water pressure!

The convenience of the neighbourhood is remarkable. Quick access to both motorway and train station, without much traffic. Every shop I could need nearby, with both easy access and parking. Trails for walking and cycling connect everything, thoughtfully landscaped. The town planners set aside generous parks and fields; the view from my office window is mostly treetops up to the crest of a hill miles away. We even have a local pub, built 10 years ago, thatched and stage set to look like it's been here for a while. It's disturbingly similar to the pub at Epcot in Walt Disney World, and the food on our last outing left a great deal to be desired (a crayfish and avocado salad with none of the second ingredient, a lovely tuna steak cooked beyond taste) but the menu is broad, the prices are reasonable and the place was packed on a Tuesday night. Certainly worth giving them another chance.

Of course, I haven't completely abandoned old England. My subscription to Country Life still drops through the letter box every Wednesday. A five-minute cycle from my front door takes me under the M3 and back to entirely rural communities. Half timbering, thatched roofs, crumbling parish churches, all available for easy enjoyment, without the personal maintenance responsibility. The venerable, ancient capital of Winchester is just half an hour down the road. We've already checked out its twice-monthly farmers market, rich with specialist producers offering fruit, veg, meat, game and all manner of luxury goods. Sometime soon I must make a pilgrimage back to the cathedral there to visit the grave of Jane Austen, who spent her last days at Chawton ... an easy cycle ride from the our house.

Unleashed with a generous lottery win, my dream house would still be historic. A Georgian rectory, a rambling half-timbered gentleman's farmhouse, a Kentish oast or perhaps a small Jacobean estate with a long gallery suitable for viewing the surrounding countryside. But on the back of just a few weeks of convenience, insulation and water pressure, my fantasy has shifted somewhat. Historic exterior, interior gutted and refurbished to the highest modern specifications.

Until the millions come through, however, suburban Basingstoke will just have to do.

Having divested the single state, a wedding weekend becomes a memorable delight

Single women over the age of 30 hate weddings. Oh, they may assure you that's not the case, but trust me ... they do. I've spent years dreading wedding invitations. Delighted for my friends, of course, but angst-ridded over a day spent with a false smile upon my face, surrounded by couples, celebrating a desired state that I have no chance of reaching. Most of my wedding memories end with me alone in some posh hotel, crying myself to sleep with wet, gasping sobs as the sound of celebration continues to seep through the walls from the reception steaming along below.

Thankfully, those days are no more. Last weekend, for the first time ever, I attended a wedding as half of a whole. How that changes the perspective! You're no longer the lonely outsider peering through the window, you're a full participant in a glorious celebration of love. The dread is gone, there's only enjoyment. And perhaps a bit of hopeful dreaming for the future. So while I've been to more elaborate weddings, the circumstances mean that Sarah and Mark's simple Kentish country celebration has vaulted to best amongst my memories.

Of course, even in my formerly embittered state I would have appreciated the day, with Sarah's rigorous party planning and venues that could have sprung from a Jane Austen novel.

Tiny Tudely church near Tonbridge hosted the ceremony. The simple, whitewashed interior is enlivened by a set of windows by Marc Chagall, dappling the space with jewel-like blue light. The reception was at the nearby Plough at Leigh, the kind of rambling, architecturally venerable pub you always wish you could stumble upon in the countryside, and rarely do. The building dates from 1570 with a barn added about 100 years later.

A classic Kentish construction with hung tile exterior walls, it sits far enough down a leafy lane to give the impression of being in the middle of nowhere, though it's actually quite close to civilisation.

Sarah had booked both the garden, with its wedding-appropriate wishing well at its heart, and the barn. We were blessed with fine weather, afternoon sun gilding linen-draped tables set for a traditional afternoon tea. Sarah's party favours were chutneys and jams she'd made herself; the wedding cake was of the carrot variety also born in her kitchen. (Thank God. I'm still American enough to find the British tradition of wedding fruit cake with royal icing absolutely vile.) One guest at this event had a particularly bad time ... the spitted hog that had been dancing over the fire from the time we arrived. His noble sacrifice made a fine centrepiece for a buffet once the sun went down and we'd decamped to the old barn for dancing. The whole day was simple, highly personal and elegant, and I'm delighted to say the only tears I shed were ones of joy for my friend's happiness.

The wedding had also given us an excuse to briefly abandon the box-filled moving site that is our new home. We spent the weekend at The Hand and Sceptre, a gastropub with rooms on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells. The place scored high on value for money: £110 for the two of of us for Friday and Saturday nights, with Sunday ... or a late check out ... thrown in for free. Thus you have to take my criticism with a grain of salt.

The Hand and Sceptre is trying very hard to be an elegant, modern, hip and trendy hotel. The colour palette is the inevitable beige, taupe and mushroom with stone tiled bathrooms and a few Asian decorative elements. I'm convinced somewhere there's a handbook everyone is using to make their places all safely the same. And yet, The Hand didn't quite get there. The first thing I noticed was a dead fly on the window sill, followed by badly-stained grout in the shower. The decorative elements in the room were nice, but two huge walls were completely empty. And then there's the ultimate betrayal of the luxury look: foam pillows and polyester-based bedlinens. It's as if they ran out of money near the end of their renovation, thus didn't have enough for finishing touches or maintenance.

It's a low budget version of the kind of thing you get for real at The Wavendon Arms in Milton Keynes (19.7.10) or The Crown in Wells-next-The-Sea (12.7.10). Had I not been to such places recently, I might not have been so critical. But I found myself wishing The Hand had either charged a little more to deliver on its promise, or not tried so hard so their delivery could match my expectations.

The restaurant was much the same. Cool, modern interior, heavy on walls of glass, pale wood and butcher block tables. A huge menu of the dining-around-the-world style (wood fired pizzas, country pate and Thai curry). The wine list was equally diverse and mostly in the £10 - £20 a bottle range. The food was good, though we both agreed that the fusion idea went too far in places. Haddock carbonara was interesting enough to be tried, but it really shouldn't have moved past the experiment stage. Breakfast, however, was a triumph of the traditional English fry up and embarassingly large. (Your room rate comes with a generous cold buffet and the cooked breakfast is a reasonable £5 surcharge, an idea I think more B&B's should adopt.) On the whole, the restaurant lived up to the promise of its design more than the rooms did. While I'd return here for a nice meal out, an overnight return would only be if we needed something functional and cheap in the area. For memorable charm I'd look elsewhere.

Fortunately, it was never the accommodation that was going to make this weekend memorable. I finally understand, and have partaken fully in, the celebration of togetherness that is a wedding. Long may it last.

August Restaurant Roundup: Mon Plaisir would have topped the list but for the service

Carrying on from the last entry ... this busy month featured lots of dining out, but little worth a full review. Here are the highlights.

Dean Street Townhouse: The latest offering from the owners of The Ivy. Homey atmosphere (furnished a bit like a Victorian gentleman's club), good food (v similar to The Ivy), but certainly not value for money. Starters £7 or £8, mains in high teens or low £20s. But Google it and you'll see photos of stars eating there; clearly the vibe is more about seeing and being seen than eating. I'll pass on a return.

Mon Plaisir: If you have five or six hours to linger over a meal, you could go here. You'll need it. Horrific service; despite a profusion of bustling staff we waited more than an hour between starters and mains and could rarely catch anyone's attention for anything we needed. Shame, because the food was absolutely delicious. The bread could have come from Paris. French onion soup, swimming in cheese was as authentic as it gets and the côte de boeuf with bernaise sauce and crisp, thin frites was a meat-eater's dream.

La Brasserie: This French bistro in Brompton Road has a very similar menu, in a lighter, airier setting that could have been plucked from the Left Bank and dropped in this fashionable bit of London. Good food, good service, though perhaps lacking the charm and intimacy of Mon Plaisir. I'd go back to either, however.

Gaucho: Yes, the steak was excellent. However, if I were in the mood for red meat I'd return to either of the French spots above as opposed to this outrageously expensive Argentinian chain. Yes, the interior is dark, funky and cool. Yes, the wine list is fantastic. And yes, the beef is of a quality that merits flying it half way around the world. But this is the kind of place clearly set up to extract every penny it can out of its well heeled clientele. Everything but the steak is a side order, and the sides are highway robbery. £3 for a cup of sauce that holds little more than two heaping tablespoons? Shocking. And, frankly, a testament to how much money there is in London that a place like this has survived the recession.

Lola Rojo: Tapas goes all funky and haute cuisine in Fulham. Delicious and unusual, with chefs reinventing the basics to give you variety and modernity. A world away from the chain food fare at La Tasca. Double the price, of course ... but much better value for money than the similar quality Fino (see 12.20.09)

Del Aziz: Lebanese/Middle Eastern food in a modern, cheerful place in the Blue Fin building on South Bank. Not worth going out of your way for, but if in the area, a good choice in a curiously restaurant-starved part of London. Particularly good for pre-theatre dining if you're heading to The Globe.

Headlines from a surprisingly busy August

Forgive me, dear readers, for disappearing over the past month. August ... usually the province of quiet workdays and lazy weekends ... has been manic. Work has been busier than the usual holiday season, the social diary has been quite full, and we decided we didn't have enough to do, so picked the end of the month to move house. Quiet time for blog writing simply hasn't been available.

And so, rather than living on in the hope that I'll get a bunch of complete entries written, I'm going to provide you with headlines and brief summaries of what I would have published, had those lazy weekends been a reality.

Ivy trounces Groucho on the private club scene
Both The Ivy and The Groucho Club have long been popular with the media and communications industries; now that the former has its own private club they can compete head-to-head. I had the chance to go to both within a fortnight, and the comparison was stark. The Groucho is poky, a bit tattered and feels badly in need of refurbishment. Its irreverent art collection tries too hard (do you really need a line drawing of a kitten and a penis hanging over your business meeting?). Its food and service are good but unexceptional. It doesn't feel like a private club, but like a business centre with rooms to hire.

The private club at The Ivy is in a different league. Beautifully decorated with design that echoes the restaurant, including those iconic diamond-paned windows with the spots of colour, yet with more comfortable lounge furniture. It's a cross between modern elegance and an old gentlemen's club. The staff clearly knows club members and bends over backwards to make you feel comfortable; very much a "clubby" feeling. And the food is exquisite. As you'd expect, all the best of The Ivy's great traditional British food, served at a cozy table while you sit in big, comfy wing backs. I could have stayed all day...

Ducal palaces provide stark comparison of how times change
Two flags hang in the guard room at Windsor Castle, each the annual, symbolic "rent" for a country seat given by a grateful nation to a triumphant general. United in their origins, Blenheim and Stratfield Saye couldn't be more different in their reality.

The duke of Marlborough's place at Blenheim (near Oxford) is Vanbrugh's architectural tour de force, a massive, baroque pile set in a famous Capability Brown park, open to tourists for much of the year. The duke of Wellington's place at Stratfield Saye is a charming but simple manor house of modest proportions in basic parkland just outside Basingstoke. It's open only a handful of weekends a year, and is still very much a family home.

There were plans to make Stratfield Saye just as grand as Blenheim, some of which you can see on the walls here. One of the architectural delights of the place is that it's packed with decorative items that were purchased for that never-constructed palace, gloriously oversized and out of place here. But times were different. Money was tighter and the crown had less power over it in the early 19th century than in the early 18th; Wellington had humble tastes, content to sleep on a camp bed and live simply; there was no equivalent to the energetic Sarah Churchill at Stratfield Saye, determined to build an unparalleled monument to a beloved husband. Stratfield Saye ranks low in the overall country house list, but its context makes it an interesting day out.
Lords in the rain shows me the other side of English cricket
My last cricket outing was an exquisitely sunny day at Lords (see 19.7.09). Evidently my recent visit to those hallowed grounds was far more typical of the game. We hung around the grounds for six hours, most of it spent watching grounds keepers inspecting the pitch and umpires taking light readings rather than the English taking on Pakistan. Even though it didn't rain consistently throughout the day, the officials called the light levels inadequate, so we got in just 12 overs (American translation: sets of six pitches each).

So we sat in the stands, ate, drank, watched the drizzle and talked a great deal. This, according to my host, is as much cricket as my first experience. And given the reticence to play, I can believe it. We could have squeezed nine baseball innings into the patches of decent weather easily. But, evidently, the conditions of the cricket playing field are far more delicate, and the use of a red ball means spotting it in the gloom is tricky, thus making the whole game more susceptible to inclement weather. You wouldn't have thought such a thing of a game developed on this rainy island, but there you are.

The best part of the day was a wander around the museum, currently hosting an exhibition on baseball and cricket. Rather than try to determine which game is better, it celebrates the similarities between them. From comparisons of stats to side-by-side displays of famous bats, it's a fascinating show. Most of the baseball stuff is on loan from the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, to which I've never been, so an unexpected treat.

Even Shakespeare's worst is a treat at The Globe
Every time I walk into the magical space that is The Globe Theatre, I wonder why I don't go there more often. This authentic reconstruction of Shakespeare's most famous venue is both lively, beautiful and small enough to make the experience intimate. We saw Henry VIII here, particularly appropriate because this was the play being performed when the prop cannons set fire to the thatched roof of the original.

It's the first time the new Globe has put on Henry VIII, perhaps not surprising given (a) the history and (b) the fact that it's just not a very good play. Yes, even The Bard can be average. It's not that it's terrible, but it just doesn't have the dazzling brilliance and emotional depth of most of his other work.

It is an over-the-top piece of propaganda, celebrating the glory of the eponymous king, the birth of Elizabeth and, ultimately, her heir James VI. In many ways, it's just as revisionist as television's "The Tudors", making Henry VIII a good guy, Katherine of Aragon a saintly martyr, Anne Boleyn a humble, modest girl and Wolsey the scapegoat and bringer of all evil. Since we all know the Henry VIII story, it's easier here to see how Shakespeare played hard and fast with history, manipulating facts to suit his political and dramatic agendas.

Fortunately, The Globe laid on full pomp and circumstance, which is what this play is really all about. The coronation of Anne Boleyn and the baptism of Elizabeth were exquisite set pieces. The closest the play got to tugging at heartstrings, however, was in the laments of the cast off Katherine. Unfortunately, the actress' attempt at a Spanish accent came out sounding like Russian, so I spent all of her scenes thinking about Boris and Natasha of the old Bullwinkle series. And that is definitely not Shakespearean...