Two weeks sampling St. Louis area delights

It has been at least a decade since I spent two full weeks in St. Louis. And although my career and life has moved me beyond ever living in a mid-sized American town again, I was reminded that the place (and its environs) offers a lot of fun times and some very fine dining.

I had planned to write a wealth of blog entries but I was, frankly, swamped. I was working remotely, so was generally at my computer from 5:30am. I'd run errands and spend time with my mother from 2pm, then generally be out to eat with Mom or friends in the early evening ... dropping with exhaustion by 9:30. The prevailing heat for the first 10 days of my visit didn't help my energy levels; I'm not used to high 80s and humidity any more.

And so, rather than loads of detail, here's an overview of my St. Louis highlights.

Busch Stadium: Thanks to generous friends with excellent connections, my second trip out to the ballpark this year. I miss baseball more than any other aspect of American life, so watching my team play live is the highlight of any trip. Of course, they were well into their spectacular late-season slide by the time I got home, my dreams of watching a tight pennant race downgraded to the simple appreciation of a night out drinking in the atmosphere of the game. The new stadium is a marvel. Whilst I shed a tear or two when the old Busch (cradle of my formative baseball years) came down, the new version is better in every way. They've somehow managed to make it feel smaller and more intimate, whilst building in better facilities and giving an amazing outfield view towards the arch and the city skyline. They've payed huge attention to architectural detail. I particularly appreciated the bronze cardinals sitting atop all the signposts and the wrought iron redbirds worked into the end of each row of seats. And Mom really appreciated the escalators that now speed you to your seats. Only one thing is missing: the old scoreboard on which a neon cardinal would flutter back and forth whenever our boys hit a home run. I suppose he was far too low tech for the digital delights of the new board.

Lake of the Ozarks: Another trip down memory lane, though this a more distant byway. I bet I haven't been to the lake since I was 10 years old, and I'd certainly never been to the upscale Lodge of the Four Seasons. I followed long-standing St. Louis tradition and made the four-hour drive southwest for the weekend. It's a lovely place for a break; and that's coming from someone who's used to a wide and elegant variety of weekend options. The Lodge sits on a beautiful hillside, and the expansive views of forests and winding inlets are impressive. Service is excellent and the late '60s architecture, once probably in danger of a tear down, is now looking quite classic and historic. The main pool, set amidst a lovely Japanese garden, was nearly empty but still open thanks to the late-September heat wave.

Food at the lake was particularly good. Li'l Rizzo's is one of those places that sends Europeans reeling on the value for money scale: the size of the portions versus the low price was amazing. And the food was good, too. On the high end, we dined at the Potted Steer, supposedly one of the two best restaurants on the Lake. Its homespun, almost New England Seafood Shack decor belies the elegance of its menu. This is a place that could stand up against most fine restaurants in big cities, and the wine list was bloody impressive. I had a perfectly cooked rainbow trout, Mom went for their specialty deep fried lobster tail and I have to confess to not remembering what Dad ate. But all were very satisfied. Back on the down home, unsophisticated side of the scale we finished our night at Andy's frozen custard stand which, though it is probably heresy for any St. Louisan to say this, was actually better than establishment favourite Ted Drewes.

Annie Gunn's: I would happily send any sceptical European foodie to Annie Gunn's to prove that Americans can do much more than burgers, BBQ, corn on the cob and junk food. (I'd sendthem to the Potted Steer as well, but the idea of a European getting to the Lake is a bit much. The St. Louis suburbs would be enough of a stretch.) I remember when this place was just the dive bar next the the local butcher and smokehouse in Chesterfield's bottom lands near the Missouri river. Now it's probably one of the finest restaurants in St. Louis, obsessed with local ingredients, quality sourcing and variety of flavours. The wine list is surprisingly broad, with interesting choices from America, the New World and Europe ... and a staff knowledgeable enough to comment on my choice of a vigonier and discuss the merits of the grape. The old smoke house next door has become a luxury market with gourmet foodstuffs from around the world. The only thing "countrified about it these days is the sculpture of the happy sow in front. A far cry from the old place where we used to buy beef jerky after Sunday mass. And a great improvement, as long as you're in the mood to spend a bit of money. American restaurants are not the deal they used to be, even with the strong pound.

Bacana's: Also in Chesterfield, I spent my last evening with Mom and our friend BJ at the latest sensation: Bacana Brazilian grill. After my last blog entry about St. Louis and tradition, you might think that nothing ever changes. But this place is proof that a few things do edge in and transform the establishment. A restaurant with South American cuisine, staffed by a multi-ethnic team of waiters some of whom barely spoke English? Impossible 10 years ago. The concept is an interesting one, ideal for meat lovers or people trying to avoid carbs. Vegetarians stay away. Everyone pays a flat $29.99. That gets you access to a massive buffet of salads and unusual vegetable dishes. Then the meat comes to your table throughout the meal. 20+ different options of beef, chicken, fish and pork, all grilled or barbecued in different ways, sliced off long skewers onto your plate by guys dressed as Brazilian cowboys. (The costumes were a bit over the top at first, but you get used to them.) It reminded me a bit of a tapas bar, because you're taking nibble-sized portions of each thing and could thus sit there all night. Throw in some Brazilian cocktails and salsa played by a band in the bar, and it was a fine evening.

Shopping: God bless America and her weak dollar. I doubt I've ever shopped so much in one trip, and my bulging suitcases provided evidence. It was hard to pass anything up, given the lovely combination of stores more lavish and comfortable than anything in Europe, magnificently friendly sales people and a currency exchange that made everything half price. My autumn and winter wardrobe has been rejuvenated, and I've made a dent in my Christmas shopping. Why any European with enough money to get to America buys clothes here, I shall never know. And why Americans want to shop in Europe is an even greater mystery. Do culture on this side of the pond; do consumerism beneath the Stars + Stripes.

Meet me in St. Louis for a good, old fashioned time

To be born a St. Louisan is to be swaddled in tradition from cradle to grave. Sometimes a comforting security blanket, sometimes oppressive and suffocating, but never escapable. St. Louis is the most hide bound, past-worshipping, establishment place I know. I now live in a city with more than 2000 years of history, and work in an office on a road originally laid down by the Romans ... but London is young, vibrant and utterly dismissive of its past compared to this 300-year-old upstart on the Mississippi.

It will be no surprise that I'm reflecting on this do to a slight venue change of life for a bit. My mother hasn't been well, so I'm working from St. Louis for a couple of weeks to keep an eye on her.

I doubt I have been in St. Louis for two full weeks since I first moved away in the mid '90s. It is ... unsurprisingly ... pretty much the same. There's been some urban regeneration in the city, there are some major building works going on and the suburbs in which I grew up are looking ever more established. But it's pretty much the same old place. My mother tells the same old stories about the same old families as we drive by the same old landmarks, we eat at the same old places and respect the same old friends.
The greatest pleasure of a lengthy visit will no doubt be time with those old friends. When I left St. Louis I was fleeing, in part, from a repressive society that bound everyone to their high school social groups and interlinked the same families into shared traditions for multiple generations. As I reach the mid point of my life, I acknowledge that there's also something extremely comforting in the company of people you've known that long, and with whom you share so much. Of the 62 women with whom I graduated, I've probably known at least a third of them since I was three years old, and half since I was 12. And in the best traditions of St. Louis, I'm coming to accept that despite the years since school, many of these are people I can depend on, enjoy being with, and with whom I'll always have a bond.

Which brings me to my induction, on Saturday night, to "the birthday club", in which high school classmates use the excuse of one person's birthday to meet up for drinks, go out to a lovely restaurant and have a good gossip. And shower the birthday girl ... yes, me ... with gifts. (That traditional St. Louis attitude also seems to yield particularly fine, classic taste in presents. Or maybe it's just my own taste, shared by my childhood friends.)

We went to a small, neighbourhood bistro called "Cravings" in Webster Groves, a southwestern suburb of the city. It's known for its deserts, which were indeed excellent and various, if rather .... inevitably ... traditional. I was delighted to be celebrating my birthday with a turtle cheesecake brownie slice with vanilla ice cream, whilst others indulged in apple pie, chocolate mousse and cheesecake. Of course, we are grown ups, and we did order and finish dinner before moving on to the sweets. My blue fin tuna was beautifully cooked and well complemented by a topping of wasabi mayonnaise. The wasabi was certainly proof that some things in this town do evolve and change. You certainly wouldn't have seen that on the menu when I was a kid.

Everyone else professed equal satisfaction with their food. And I, still re-adjusting to America, was particularly impressed with the great service and reasonable prices.

There's plenty of home town activity stretching ahead before I return to London. And while I'll be happy to get back to my house, dog and friends, and while I know it's unlikely I'll ever live in St. Louis again, returning to my birthplace reminds me that I'll live and die a St. Louisan.

Roll on September, my favourite month

Autumn has arrived.

I know this not thanks to any astronomical milestone, or due to a specific calendar date, but because last night was the the last night of the Proms. And just as the Chelsea Flower Show marks the start of summer, so this particularly manic concert ends it.

The last night of the Proms (a concert series at the Royal Albert Hall stretching through the late summer) is formulaic, predictable ... and an utter joy. The beginning of the concert may vary, but the end is always the same: Pomp and Circumstance, Fantasia on British Sea Songs, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem. The Brits, who cynically look down upon patriotism and flag waving for the rest of the year, are transformed into jolly, union jack draped revellers belting out this national canon at the top of their lungs. I love it. And so, to, does the rest of the country, since it's televised for all of us to enjoy from the comfort of our sitting rooms.

But I loved September long before moving to England and embracing its rituals. It's the month of returning to school. I still have a pavlovian response at this time of year, buying myself some fresh notebooks and new pens. There are few things quite so emotionally and intellectually stimulating as a new, empty notebook. September, far more than January, has always seemed the right time to me for new starts and the excitement of fresh hopes. Of course, it's also the month of my birthday, the month when the terrible heat of my home town finally broke, and the month in which the baseball pennant races got really interesting.

In England, Autumn is quite literally in the air by September. I am reminded of just how much further north than the land of my birth we are. The length of days is plummeting dramatically. Two weeks ago, twilight enveloped the garden at 8. Now, it's already pushing towards 7. Though we see some fine, clear days, there's a chill in the air. Unlike the damp chill of the summer rains, this promises proper cold. Rather than feeling glum, I'm looking forward to pulling out the sweaters and kicking through the fallen leaves.

The countryside is putting on a magnificent display. Every hanging basket and flower box in my village is tumbling over with the final, riotous blooms of September. The brambles along many of the paths on which I walk the dog now reveal themselves to be blackberries, groaning with a load of fruit available to anyone who's thought to bring something in which to collect it. The leaves haven't started changing yet, but the birds are on the move. The honking of Canada Geese regularly fills the air, and I see scores of them gleaning the new-mown, golden hay fields beneath the castle every morning. If spring is a pregnant girl, giddy with potential, September is a woman in the full, final flush of maturity, wrapped in the breathtaking beauty of her experience.

The brambles are groaning with blackberries while the Canada Geese glean the Queen's new-mown hay fields.

Sadly, these days September brings us some darker milestones. It's time once again for the round of 9/11 memorials, the release of the latest Osama Bin Laden video and countless newscasts debating just how much worse off we are now than were were before that day of "lost innocence".

While I'll never forget those sad events, I can't let them take over the magic of my favourite month. So bring on the fresh notebooks, the cool evenings and the uplifting sense of the potential that always came with going back to school. The rest of you can celebrate on 1 January. I'll celebrate my New Year now.

Magical Peak District captivates in every season

Despite the fact that Britain is an island, with no place more than 100 miles from a coast and all of it swamped in maritime history, some of the most popular bits of the country are completely landlocked. This includes one of my favourite places for a long weekend: the Peak District. A friend is heading there soon and wanted some sightseeing advice, so this round-up is for her.

A bit like the Lake District, the Peak is another range of low mountains, incredibly popular with walkers. It is, however, closer to London, nestled in the centre of the country below Manchester and Sheffield. The area is bigger over all, and the valleys much wider, than the Lake district, so rather than the repeating pattern of lake-filled valleys you find massive stretches of woodland (magnificent in October and early November) and sparkling rivers. The Peak District also has some major cultural highlights, so you're able to balance the beauty of the great outdoors with an exploration of Britain's heritage. The "peaks" that loom out of these valleys, especially in the North, are high and rugged. These are wild moors that will remind you of Wuthering Heights. And you've probably seen them in many films; most recently in Pride and Prejudice, where we saw Kiera Knightly standing on a particularly dramatic rock escarpment with the moors spreading around her. That's a typical landscape for any walker to find with a bit of a ramble.

My top sight in the region, despite all the natural beauty, is a house. Chatsworth is known as "the palace of the Peak", and if you can only see one English country house, this is the one to visit. It encapsulates all the elements of the great estates of the nobility, in great style. The Dukes of Devonshire have been building and remodelling here since Tudor times. The bulk of the main house is 17th century, but parts have been added in every era. The state rooms are amongst the most impressive in the country, equal to most of the royal palaces. The artwork, furniture and architecture combine to dazzle, and the size of the place leaves you exhausted by the time you get to the fabulous shop in the orangery. But you're only half through.

The gardens at Chatsworth are amongst the best in the country, on par with many a civic botanical garden. There are formal allees, luscious vistas over the rolling countryside, walled gardens, wilderness gardens, a dramatic stepped water feature than rolls down a hill to the house and a woodland walk up to the Tudor hunting tower that offers magnificent views. There's also a petting zoo for kids, and the restaurant and shopping on offer in the stable complex is excellent. In fact, all the shops at Chatsworth are particularly good; a range of boutiques for house and garden offering the distinctive and beautiful.

About a mile from the main house you'll find the Chatsworth Farm Shop. These days, every major estate has one (I live half a mile from the Queen's version) but when the Duchess launched it, this was the first of its kind. No rustic attempts here. The shop is a miniature version of the food halls you find in the great London stores, but filled with local produce, artisan baked goods and all manner of gourmet delights. The selection of ales and ciders from small breweries is one of the biggest I've seen.

Stop by the Chatsworth Farm shop to assemble a luxury picnic

Whilst the gardens are at their best in the late spring, and the walks around the house are perfect for summer rambles, Chatsworth is a particular delight just before Christmas. Most country houses aren't open in the winter. Chatsworth embraces the season, allowing you to tour a festively decorated house. The shops are stuffed with great gifts and local groups sing carols. The farm shop erects a large tent to hold all its Christmas specialty products.

For truly spectacular walking country, head a bit deeper into the Peaks to the village of Castleton. It sits at the bottom of big, deep bowl of a valley, encircled by a line of high, mostly continuous hills. Once you've made your initial ascent (somewhat strenuous, but even the unfit can make it at a gentle pace) you can walk for several miles on the ridge of the hills, with magnificent views in every direction. There's a six-mile walk that starts and ends in the village, taking in the neolithic fort on one of the highest points in the area, Mam Tor. The visitors' centre in Castleton has maps and guides to the region, and a big car park from which you can start your rambles.

The hills around Castleton are also filled with caves, many open to the public. I haven't made it in one yet, but it's on my to do list. They're particularly famous for the mineral bluejohn, a blueish-purple stone that, when polished, resembles coloured alabaster. This is the only place in the world it's found. It became the rage in the 18th century; most Georgian country houses have a couple of impressive bluejohn vases in their collection. (Chatsworth, as you can imagine, is filled with the stuff.) Unfortunately, all the seams that yielded big pieces were mined out 100 years ago. They are still mining small pieces that are used in jewelry, however, and Castleton in filled with charming little shops selling bluejohn.

My favourite place to stay in the Peak District is an unusual B&B called Stoney Ridge. Unusual because it's a modern house, and because it has an indoor pool. The latter is something you rarely see outside the homes of the very rich. The house sits on a hilltop in almost three acres of gardens with lovely views. Coming home from a day of hiking and having a relaxing swim before a hearty pub dinner is a perfect way to end the day. There is in excellent pub (the name of which escapes me) just down the hill from the house, so you can leave the car behind and have a few drinks to wash down that hearty meal. Proprietors Helen and Richard Plant are well travelled, especially in America, and fond of American visitors. They also allow dogs, making my life much easier. www.cressbrook.co.uk/hopev/stoneyridge

Those are my Peak District "must sees". There's enough to keep you busy in the district for a week, however. To me, the best way to explore it is to simply get in a car and drive around, stopping when a site inspires you. A few other picks:

• Head further north into the district for bigger hills and wilder landscapes.
• Haddon Hall, near Bakewell, is another gem of a house. This one is entirely late medieval, as much castle as home, fortunately left alone for hundreds of years as the family lived in other properties. Another one you'll probably recognise when you see it, as it's been used in many films. The rose gardens are particularly impressive in June.
• Bakewell itself is a pleasant town in which to ramble. While there, it's compulsory to treat yourself to a bakewell pudding. This concoction of puff pastry with jam base and a topping of eggs, sugar, butter and almonds is the ancestor to the millions of mass produced Bakewell Tarts on British grocery shelves. The Old Original Bakewell Pudding Shop supposedly makes the best, although they all taste good to me.

For a detailed guide to the area, try www.peakdistrictonline.co.uk/content.php?categoryId=1103