Crowds make Versailles more chore than a delight

Louis XIV's monumental palace of Versailles is one of the most influential buildings in history, setting a pattern for lush magnificence copied by anyone aspiring to the concept of "palatial" for the next 200 years. It is a "must see" for any visitor to Paris who's serious about art, architecture or history.

And that, I'm afraid, creates a problem. As huge as Versailles is, it's not big enough to accommodate all the crowds that flock through its gold-encrusted gates. Especially not without some innovative crowd management, a element completely missing here.

We arrived just before 11 on the Sunday of a holiday weekend. Admittedly, a high traffic time, but my memories of the palace were of a complex so sprawling that it swallowed crowds once they cleared the ticket office. I expected to wait a while for tickets, but not for an hour. We snaked back and forth through the courtyard without ever laying eyes on a palace employee who could tell us about the waiting time, or what would happen once we got our tickets. When we finally got to he head of the queue (being briefly distracted by an information desk that appeared to be the ticket office, but was not), we found just three employees dealing with the thousands. Over to the left, however, was a room full of 10 ticket vending machines, almost all of them unused. One or two staff members channeling visitors to those machines could have cut that queue significantly.

Of course, that would only have gotten you to the next queue faster. Because, after emerging from the trial of ticket procurement, we realised that the hundreds of people all snaking around the other side of the courtyard were waiting to get through security for the palace proper. We almost left at that point, but having invested £15 each and more than two hours (travel and queuing time), I was damned if I was going to give up. Another half hour found us in the inner courtyard, finally entering the building. Again without the help of any palace employee. We just followed the crowds.

It quickly became evident that the masses weren't going to disperse into a variety of spaces. Instead, everyone channels down the same path, doggedly following the signs for the Hall of Mirrors. Remember, this is a palace, and the spaces are vast. But with so many people, it might as well have been the Central line at rush hour. Body to body, shuffling forward, hardly able to move independently, no clear line of sight except up. Given that Versailles has few furnishings, and most of the sights are indeed walls and ceilings, I suppose that's a relief. But by this point you're grumpy, tired and feeling claustrophobic. Culture should be a delight, not a chore. This experience, sadly, is the kind of thing that puts many young people off history, art and architecture.

And then, amazingly, it got worse. Because jostling for floor space in this exquisite setting, fighting for attention between the bodies, the mirrors and the gold leaf, was an exhibition of Japanese sculptural cartoon art by Takashi Murakani. Brightly coloured plastic figures right out of a manga cartoon strip. Perhaps interesting at the Tate Modern, they were hideously out of context here, almost offensive against this august setting.

After 40 minutes of cattle herd tourism we emerged from the state apartments grumpy, unsettled and starving. To be amazed once again. This massive palace, with some of the biggest crowds for any attraction in Europe, has a cafeteria about the size of a small regional museum, with one cooler of sandwiches, a counter with a few quiches and pies behind, and three employees valiantly trying to feed the thousands. It was here that we found the only attempt at crowd management (clearly, this operation must be outsourced), with the manager ordering the queue and letting a handful of people in at a time to prevent a riot. By the time we finished eating, the gardens were closed for the grand display of fountains, a separate 25 euro ticket I hadn't purchased because I thought we wouldn't have the time. Changing our minds now would mean another hour back in the ticketing queue. We left.

So here's a first. Eight paragraphs into a blog entry about an architectural wonder without describing what we went to see. And that, of course, is the point. The whole experience was so unpleasant that it completely overshadowed any appreciation of or delight in the palace itself. It was only later that evening, reviewing some photos and reveling in the fact that I was no longer packed like a sardine into my environment, that my brain started to review what we'd seen.

The gold gilt on the gates and the main facade has been completely refurbished since my last visit and is quite jaw-dropping, especially when the sun hits it. From your first glance, it would have proclaimed that Louis had more money than God. The chapel, kept clear of tourists, is an exquisite space. Lots of work has also been done on the Hall of Mirrors in the last decade, with more refreshed gold and re-silvering on the mirror backs to make everything glisten. Most impressive to me were probably the complete restorations of both the King's and Queen's bed chambers, with lush, vivid fabrics on the walls and the imposing beds.

Go and see it. You have to do it, at least once. But try to avoid our mistake. If you can, go on a weekday, go when the place opens, and buy your tickets in advance. And then go to some of the places Versailles inspired. Schonbrunn Palace, outside Vienna, is smaller but just as lush and still in possession of much of its furnishings. In the Buckinghamshire countryside you'll find Waddesdon Manor, an impressive pile built by the Rothschilds and filled with the kind of interiors and furniture that filled Versailles before the revolution. The list could spiral on. The point is, see Versailles because you must. Then go to the places it inspired, filled with furniture purchased from its glory days, because they will fill you with wonder. Without dangerous overcrowding and Japanese cartoon figures to ruin your day.

Exhausting power sightseeing ticks Parisian highlights in a day

Paris is an eminently walkable city, though most people might not want to do the 14 miles my pedometer reported in on our first day of power sightseeing. The majority of the key sites are in a reasonable strip along the Seine, with the real blockbusters being in the square mile around Notre Dame. That means that when you’re packing it in, you can accomplish quite a lot in a short time.

Saturday morning, full of energy and slightly under-estimating the distance between our hotel and the Eiffel Tower, we set out for a brisk walk. It had rained overnight; the water slicked streets were silent and beautiful. We cut up to the Pantheon (great dome, though seemingly out of proportion with the rest of the building), through Luxembourg Gardens, across the top of Les Invalides and finally came out on the far side of the Champ de Mars below Paris’ most famous monument. I remembered painful crowds from previous visits and wanted to start early. By arriving at opening time (9:30) and choosing the cash only queue (Southeast corner), we only had to wait about 40 minutes to buy a ticket.

Clearly, had I realised the RER was a straight shot from Saint Michel, we would have taken the train, gotten there even earlier and had a decent breakfast. Instead, we got exercise and downed a pricey repast of weak java … the French ability to serve up truly horrific coffee never ceases to amaze me … and slightly stale muffins while the skies erupted with rain. The day was not starting well.

Miraculously, by the time we emerged from the first lift, which takes you to the observation decks in the square girdle about a quarter of the way up the tower, sun was starting to break through the clouds. By the time we reached the top, wet streets glistened below us like fresh gold gilt, and by the time we returned to ground level, blue skies framed our photographs. Clearly, things were getting better.

From there we wandered down the Seine, past the new Musée du quai Branly. A striking modern building with a towering glass wall creating a sheltered garden beside the busy street, it holds collections covering indigenous cultures from Africa, Asia, Oceania and the Americas, and probably would be worth a wander on a more leisurely future visit. But we had a more critical objective ahead: the Army Museum at Les Invalides.

My boyfriend is a military history fan with a particular interest in Napoleon’s 100 days campaign and his final defeat by Wellington at Waterloo. (See 3.5.10) So Les Invalides, with both a sprawling military museum and Napoleon’s tomb, was always going to be a top priority. I had been here before and rated it highly, but his opinion was not so good. Probably for the same reason I enjoyed it so much. The collection … at least the bit from Louis XIV to the Franco-Prussian war … is dominated by uniforms, portraits and highly decorated weaponry. It’s full of beautiful things, and it’s rather easy to forget that these were accoutrements of war. It’s practically a fashion museum.

It was an information-hungry Piers who pointed out the dearth of dioramas, military models or much of anything that discussed the details of war. (The WWII section is supposed to be more balanced on this front, but we skipped that in favour of other attractions.)

The high point of any visit to Les Invalides, however, must be the church beneath the dome. Architecturally, it’s a beautiful and unique thing; a double church separated by a towering glass wall behind the shared high altar. This allowed the court to worship in the royal church and the "invalid" war veterans originally housed here to pray in their own building without mixing. Today the royal church is most notable for the tomb of Napoleon. He is enshrined amongst so much monumental architecture and hyperbolic carved panels, you’d swear this was a temple glorifying a pagan god rather than a military and civic leader. A man who, let’s face it, would have been a lot more successful if he’d known when to stop.

The giant, weeping angels surrounding his burgundy granite sarcophagus make for a somber and beautiful scene. But we both found the monument to WWI’s Marshal Foch far more moving. Eight life-sized and highly realistic soldiers carry their leader on a platform on their shoulders. The men’s faces convey the pain of war, the brotherhood of arms and their sense of loss. It’s the most real and emotionally stirring thing in all this baroque magnificence.

Time for a quick lunch in the museum cafeteria. Deeply average, expensive but practical.

Next, a wander back to the Seine and over the art nouveau magnificence of the Ponte Alexander III, which must be one of the architectural highlights of the whole city. Don’t miss the glass-headed river willows, actually street lamps, sprouting behind the water gods at the bridge’s centre. Behind you, the gilt dome of Les Invalides sparkles. Before you, the 19^th century glass-domed fantasies of the Grands and Petite Palais loom. The Eiffel Tower stands to your left, while the Seine sweeps towards the Musée d'Orsay on your right. For my money, if you can only take one 360 degree view of Paris, this is it.

From here you can descend onto the embankment on the north side of the Seine and head toward the sprawling, modern dock of the Bateaux Mouches. These huge touring barges with a capacity of up to 900 are one of the sightseeing “musts” for any introductory visit to the French capital. (Piers hadn’t been here since school, so we were operating as if first time visitors.) The boats cruise upriver past the Louvre and Notre Dame, circle the Isle St. Louis, come back downriver past the Eiffel Tower and return to base an hour later. At least half of the city’s iconic sights can be seen from this tour, which at 10 euro per adult really isn’t bad value for money. See the video below for highlights.

After the hour’s rest, we realised we were at this point a short hop from the Champs-Élysées and had enough energy to hobble there. From the boats, it’s up the stairs to the Pont d’Alma and then along the achingly fashionable Rue George V, past the eponymous hotel, some of the world’s most famous designers and the enticing headquarters of Hediard. The most epicurean of food shops in this most gourmet of cities, Hediard is a treasure trove of exquisite sweets, imported coffees and teas, foie gras, caviar, champagne and anything else that comes to mind when you pair the words “food” and “luxury”. I sprang for a jar of the new season fig jam, at 8 euro amongst the cheapest things in the store.

We rambled down the Champs-Élysées which, as ever, left me unimpressed. The monument at its summit looks like Wellington Arch, but framed by traffic rather than greenery. The crowds are worse than Oxford Street at Christmas and the shops mostly of the huge global brand variety. It’s not a place you want to linger when you’re tired. So, ticking that off our list, we hopped the Metro to Hotel de Ville and wandered back towards St. Germain through the restoring charm of the Isle St. Louis. It was here I needed to do my main shopping of the trip, stocking up on foie gras at the more reasonable prices of the regional producers showcasing their wares here. (Check out La Petite Scierie at www.lapetitescierie.fr; I never visit Paris without picking up provisions here.)

After that mammoth day we felt we deserved a profligate dinner. In which we did indeed indulge. But for that, you’ll have to wait for the special dining round-up. Two more days of sightseeing coverage to come first.

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.