Tom Aikens delivers a hedonistic outing for an unexpected anniversary

Last week marked not only five years since the start of the Iraq war, but the same anniversary for me with my current employer. I must confess to being far less surprised by the Americans still in Baghdad than I am by me still in this job.

I had assumed this would be my transition role between my foray into agency life and my return to a big IT services company. The first week was a carnival of madness, and it hasn't gotten much saner since. I've had seven bosses, four distinct roles, more than 10 iterations of staffs and few weeks in which I haven't been in search of a brick wall against which to bang my head in frustration. But for a person who rather likes solving problems and fixing things, all that lunacy has been compelling. Constant change repels boredom and brings opportunity. Every year gets more interesting, opens more doors and stretches me in new ways. Ergo, the unexpected anniversary arrived.

But who to celebrate with? I don't have a single colleague in the company today who was with me in those early years. I do, however, have a PR agency who's been with me since Day 1, with a couple of colleagues who've been through every twist and turn of this wild ride. Clearly, there couldn't be better company for a trip down this particular lane of memory.

The reminiscences, recaps and laughter (amazing how much fun the early traumas become in hindsight) took place at Tom Aikens, a magnificently understated yet elegant venue in the heart of uber-sophisticated Chelsea. Aikens is that rarest of things: a culinary wunderkind who hasn't done a TV show. He's famous mostly just for his cooking, being the youngest chef ever to win two Michelin stars, rather than for being a media personality. (The two stars were at a previous restaurant; this one has one.) Though he's certainly not publicity shy, as indicated by the eponymous restaurant.

Aikens opened this place in 2003 and it's been on my list to visit. But not, I admit, with my own money ... as in addition to regularly appearing on Top 10 "best" lists, it's also appeared on rankings for worst value for money, and taken criticism for being more hype than fulfillment. After a hugely enjoyable and very long lunch, I probably cast my vote in the middle. Perhaps not quite as good as other starred establishments, but it certainly deserves its place in London's foodie firmament.

We went for the tasting menu which, regular readers know, is an offer I am always unable to refuse. Even when Weight Watchers weigh in looms the next morning. Fortunately, an otherwise saintly week defrayed the damage of this nine course extravaganza, which I perhaps enjoyed with even more relish than usual after two months of good health and low fat. Foie gras has never tasted so tongue-paralysingly, magnificently "gras".

But once the novelty of abandoning abstinence for a day wore off, the critic returned. I found the dishes oddly uneven. Most were excellent, but a few far too complex for their own good.

Oddly, the magnificent tended to bookend the meal. The amuse bouche of duck mousse, infused throughout with flakes of black truffle, presented exactly the right contrast; light and teasing on the tongue, yet heavy with bold flavour. Three hours later, the petit fours were amongst the most beautiful and extravagant I've ever seen. Six long spoons, each with a small dollop of mousse or some other sweet. A bowl of madelaines, all different flavours. A bowl of chocolates. A toast rack of sweet wafers, almost translucent in their thinness. A shame that after the seven intervening courses, we sent most of that back to the kitchen. Other highlights were the foie gras mentioned above, marinated with beetroot and port, and the pan fried john dory with couscous.

The cheese trolley was pleasingly vast, though almost entirely French. I don't mind this in a French restaurant, but I do raise an eyebrow when an English chef makes that choice. This country is filled with magnificent artisan cheeses that can easily stand up to their Gallic competition. That said, the variety was big enough to allow me to have six different varieties of goat's cheese, which makes any day worth living.

It was the over-complexity that let Aikens down. As in "roast scallops with crushed celeriac, poached chicken wings and celeriac horseradish soup". The first two elements were beautiful; they were diminished by their companions. Or "roast salt marsh lamb with mashed potato, goat's cheese gnocchi, lamb sweetbread and potato crisps". Enough with the sides! The lamb was melt-in-the-mouth magnificent, and that from a person who hates lamb. Yet there was only one tiny piece of it, assembled in a montage with all those other bits. Each of which was tasty, but just too much. And then there was "pistachio meringue with pistachio mousse, praline and pistachio cassonade with pistachio jelly". I love pistachio desserts about as much as I hate lamb, and in other circumstances would have applauded the excess. But are multiple items really necessary in the first of three sweet courses? Scale it back, Tom. Even this hedonist was contemplating austerity by that point.

But the thing that would have had me taking their Michelin star away, had I been the inspector? When we arrived at after dinner drinks, a poor selection of single malts coupled with woeful ignorance on the part of the French waiter. When I asked for Speysides, he gave me a blank look and had to go ask the bar. Who told him they carried nothing from the largest whisky producing region in Scotland. Unable to suggest another option himself, I had to list my own alternatives until I hit on a bottle he had behind the bar. (A nice lowland Dalwhinnie, ideal for cutting all the richness of that meal.) I bet he rued the day he talked me into the after dinner drink.

Of course, I'm being horribly picky here. As you have the right to do when you're eating at one of the best restaurants in London. It deserves its accolades, it would simply be a bit better if Tom streamlined a few dishes and added some of the best of Britain to his francophile establishment. Perhaps, if I survive another five years of corporate madness, I'll check his progress at my next celebration.

The Dartmoor Fringe: Enough culture circles the district to satisfy the keenest tourists

As discussed last time, I think Dartmoor is probably the one of the best examples of dramatic wilderness in England. But if you're like me, landscapes and outdoor pursuits can only sustain you for so long. I need culture, history ... and a bit of shopping. Fortunately, Dartmoor is ringed with enough options to make for a full agenda of sight seeing. And to offer refuge from the bad weather; you'll often find that terrible days on Dartmoor are mild and temperate at lower elevations.

At one corner of the moor you'll find Bovey Tracey (pronounced "buvvy"), a charming little town with a picturesque high street. You can easily while away a couple of hours here. There's an excellent deli & food shop that sells lots of local specialties, including a wide range of Devon cheeses and fresh clotted cream. Just next to the visitor car park you'll find the Devon Guild of Craftsmen's shop in the old town mill. Devon has become a bit of an artists' community, with many craft shops and galleries throughout the county. But this is one of my favourites. Selections change regularly, there's a great variety of art forms (glass, wood turning, calligraphers, sculptors, furniture makers, etc.) and you can find both small, reasonably priced items and pieces that are a proper investment. Sliding down from high culture, The House of Marbles is another must see. Yes, it's stocked with every conceivable marble you could ever want. (Not the stone. The round things you play with.) But it's also a fabulous toy, gift and knick nack shop. Best of all, its decorated with marble runs, ranging in size from a few feet square to one that covers a massive wall. You can stand here for hours to watch the giant marbles drop into the run and proceed through a maze of improbable machines, slides and obstacles before reaching the bottom. Compelling.

Dartmouth is another town worth an afternoon's wander. This deep water harbour at the mouth of the river Dart has been a major port since the middle ages. The nautical tradition continues; it's still the home of the Royal Navy officer's training college. It's a wonderfully picturesque town, climbing up hillsides on both sides of the river and watched over by two castles. There are numerous historic buildings, including a good handful of late medieval and Tudor specimens with atmospheric half -timbering and rich carved details. All the standard high street shops are here, plus a few smaller boutiques, plenty of pubs and restaurants.

Much to my delight, the area has abundant National Trust properties, all of them different enough from each other than you could tour several in one holiday and not get bored. Not to mention getting your NT membership to pay for itself. I suspect I recouped my annual investment this weekend.

Closest to the Cherrybrook Hotel, my usual pied a terre in the area, is Buckland Abbey, home of Sir Francis Drake. There's an interesting museum in the house that gives you the background on Drake, his privateering, his relationship with Elizabeth and his role in the Spanish Armada. The house has a lovely late Tudor hall, a recently restored knot garden and a stable area that's been turned into a series of craft shops. What's almost completely unique, however, is the way this multiple-story home was built into the framework of an abbey church. You can visit many homes made from dissolved abbeys. They're usually built over the old cloisters, or built out from the abbot's house. This is the only example I know where the house was built into the church itself. If anything proves the Spanish claim that Drake was a godless pirate, it's probably the fact that he took over God's house for himself with impunity. You have to admire the man's bravado.

About 40 minutes away, just on the outskirts of Plymouth, is Saltram House. Film buffs may instantly recognise this as the grand house from which the Dashwood women were evicted in Emma Thompson's "Sense & Sensibility". There's a good reason they chose it for the film. Lovely interiors, a trim Georgian facade and a park that offers plenty of splendid views, both back at the house and out over farmland and water. (Sadly, the industrial sprawl of Plymouth now taints those sea views, but it's still dramatic.) For architecture buffs, the most notable thing here is that it's a Robert Adam designed house, with plenty of his room furnishings, carpet designs and colourful classical ceilings still intact. There's also a beautiful garden that was particularly good in March with its abundance of daffodils and camellias.

Come down off the moor into Tavistock (another town worth exploring, with a good farmers' market once a fortnight, one of my favourite pet supply shops and a cheerful variety of tat and crafts in the Pannier Market) and you'll see signs for the National Trust property of Cotehele. Follow them along a half hour drive that wanders through forests and you come to an old stone bridge over the river Tamar. Cross it, and you're in Cornwall. Another 20 minutes brings you to one of the best late Medieval/early Tudor houses in England. A classic courtyard-style house, there's an evocative great hall, a family chapel with one of the oldest clocks in the country, lots of atmospheric panelled rooms and a particularly good variety of curtained, four-poster beds with original hangings. The rooms are rich with tapestries and pre-Georgian furniture thanks to the fact that this was a secondary family home; whenever anything went out of fashion at the main place, it was stored here. Lovely gardens sweep down to the Tamar, and there are well-marked walks with excellent views through the woods along the river.

One last National Trust property down here I'll mention is Antony. This one, like Cotehele, is in Cornwall, about an hour in total away from the Cherrybrook Hotel. Stylistically, this house is different again. This time, a wonderful monument to Queen Anne. All venerable panelling, high ceilings, supercilious family portraits and delicate furniture. Very august and respectable, if a bit stuffy. Which makes the gardens and their modern sensibility such a lovely contrast. The current head of the family -- this is one of the properties still occupied by the original owners -- is a past president of the Royal Horticultural Society, and the gardens here are well worth a wander. Innovative topiary (I've never seen a topiary tee pee before) divides the garden into different sections ranging from informal to oriental to traditional herb garden. As with so many great houses in this part of the world, there are lovely views down to the water. Several of the gardens are enlivened with modern sculpture, a sure sign that this landscape is still living and evolving. About half a mile from the main house begins the woodland garden, which at this time of year was a blaze of camellias, primroses and early rhododendrons. A circular path eventually climbs you up to the garden's high point, marked with a modern take on a Neolithic standing stone and possessed of a remarkable view over house, garden and estuary.It was precisely at the point I reached it that the sun came out in a blaze of glory, validating my Easter wanderings. I went through snow, sleet, wind and rain, but that beautiful moment on Easter Monday reminded me that no weekend trip to Dartmoor is ever wasted.

Dartmoor offers majesty, the great outdoors ... and plenty of bad weather refuges

"English" and "wilderness" are two words not often used together. And for good reason. This is a country of mostly gentle landscapes, heavily cultivated, intensively managed, densely populated. It's rare to be anywhere in England that's out of sight of civilisation. Houses, cars, farm borders and communications towers snake through even the richest pastoral landscapes, reminding you that you're never that far from the hand of man.

Dartmoor is the wild and glorious exception to this rule. Occupying the centre of the southwestern county of Devon, Dartmoor's 365 acres are crossed by just two main roads. There are a handful of villages, but at its heart it's classic moorland. Rolling, heather-clad hills, many topped by impressive piles of granite boulders the size of houses ... as if some race of giant children had left their toys behind. Called "tors" locally, these granite-scattered hills are both majestic and a bit ghostly. The other-worldliness of the place is enhanced by generous sprinklings of neolithic monuments. Stone circles, standing stones and the foundations of ancient houses abound, made in a time of milder weather. Now the moors tend to catch the extremes; changeable weather, high winds and cold winters make the landscape more suited to sheep and the wild Dartmoor ponies than to humans. Thus you can add a glorious isolation to the drama of the views.

Of course, the isolation melts away in the summer, when crowds flock here to enjoy some of the best walking in the country. But even then, a mile's walk can take you past the day trippers to proper wilderness.

I had great plans our four-day Easter weekend. Lots of long, solitary walks through that magnificent landscape. Dog at my heels. Plenty of time and solitude to think. Hearty exercise to balance the four-course, non-weight watchers meals I was planning to consume at my B&B. Sadly, the English weather didn't cooperate. It could have been worse ... there were moments of sunshine ... but it was so changeable, and often turned so nasty, that it wasn't wise to wander too far from cover. I had no desire to become one of the handful of tourists every year who get lost on or rescued from the moors in bad weather. We managed a couple of miles a day, usually just up a tor within clear sight of the car park and back. On three days the wind was harsh and bitterly cold, on the fourth it was calmer but wetter. On all four, the dog doubled his pace when we turned around and headed back to the car. No fool, he was anticipating a sprawl in front of the fire at the local pub.

This was my seventh visit to Dartmoor, and I have to admit that bad weather has outweighed good. And yet I keep going. I find it one of the most magical places in England, and well worth a return visit in any conditions. Here are a few of my top tips.

Cherrybrook Hotel - I've stayed here on all of my visits. A small (just 7 rooms) place in an old farmhouse at the heart of the moor, just above where the two main roads cross, it is surrounded by spectacular views and is a long way from anything else. Most importantly to me, they welcome dogs. What, after all, would a walking holiday be without canine companionship? The rooms are basic but comfortable, meals particularly good and the hosts warm and welcoming. You can take some fantastic walks using this as a base, abandoning your car for the day. Excellent value for money, especially with dinner added. If you've put in a long day of walking, it's a pleasure to settle in for the evening rather than having to venture out for food. Guests gather in a snug, stone-walled lounge before and after dinner; I always seem to meet interesting and cheerful people here. Their web site is www.cherrybrook-hotel.co.uk

The Warren House Inn - Reputedly the third highest pub in England, Warren House sits on the highest part of the moor. Making it either the perfect place from which to set off on long rambles, or a remarkable lonely spot, depending on the weather. Either way, the pub is a classic and provides a warm welcome at all times. Stone floors, rough wooden tables, wood-burning fires at each end of the main room and a few horse brasses tacked up for decoration, this place looks like it hasn't changed much for more than a century. The bar serves up a respectable variety of beers and ciders, and the food is of the hearty, delicious pub variety that's disappearing as they all become gastropubs. You can come here with a large group and hold court for the evening, or settle by yourself in the rocker in front of the fire and be left alone to read the papers. I've done both, and both are equally delightful.

Hound Tor - One of my favourite tors because of its accessibility. The car park is right at its base, and it's a fairly gentle walk over spongy turf and heather before you're up amongst the granite boulders. Lovely views from the top, and if you want to hike down the other side you'll find yourself in the ruins of a medieval village.

Neolithic monuments at Merrivale - Again, nice that these aren't too far from the car parks. In fact, if you look carefully you can see the standing stones that mark the ancient processional way from the road. Not too far beyond that is a small stone circle with its separate standing stone beyond and to the east.

Pixieland - I find it reassuring that it's not just the Americans who have tacky tourist attractions. Pixieland is a small shop crammed with tourist knick-nacks in a forested dell in the middle of the moors. It's defining element is the surrounding garden, populated by pixies (aka garden gnomes) in every conceivable posture. If you've ever dreamed of finding a football-playing gnome in your favourite team's kit, this is the place. In addition to the tat, however, the shop actually has a great range of leather and woolen goods crafted from those hearty Dartmoor sheep.

All the places mentioned here are easily trackable on the internet for more information. Any first time visitors to Dartmoor should stop into one of the visitor information centres (the main one is in Pricetown) to pick up maps and further information. In my next entry I'll list some of my favourite spots to visit around the fringes of the moor.

The Magic Kingdom never loses its charm

I spent Sunday in a losing battle with a seven-year-old. My argument: Pirates of the Caribbean is the best ride at Disneyland. By late afternoon I had managed to talk him to my side, displacing Star Tours, his previous favourite. But then I made the mistake of introducing him to the Matterhorn. Can you recall your first roller coaster? The speed, the excitement, the thrill of doing something so grown up? I'm afraid the buccaneers were doomed to fall behind the Alpine bobsled.

If you must be beaten by a child, then there's no better or more enjoyable place to surrender than Disneyland.

I am a Disney girl. Not only were the animated classics the seminal tales of my childhood, but I was privileged enough to have a bunch of holidays at both Disneyland (California) and Disney World (Florida). And while I love the excessive sprawl and variety of the group of parks and resorts in Florida, there is something uniquely magical about Disneyland.

This may be, in part, because it was the first of the Disney parks I visited. But 30 years later (yes, I am old enough to remember when each ride needed a ticket, and "E tickets" were the best) I still find the California incarnation that slight bit more magical than its Eastern sister. This is primarily due to size. Disneyland is like Dr. Who's Tardis: Bigger on the inside than the outside.

Disneyland is surprisingly small in comparison to any modern amusement park. And yet, the designers managed to magically cram in six radically different areas and a bewildering number of rides in each. Part of this is simply artful design. Architecture, trees and hedges are used to screen and separate one area from another. The closest parallel in my experience are the gardens at Hidcote and Sissinghurst, which employ exactly the same tricks to create vastly differing garden rooms. The illusion of each land is perfect, created with an attention to detail and architectural craftsmanship on par with what Disney might have done in his own home. Yes, these might be stage sets, but they're crafted with the detail and quality of the real thing.

Thus, when you're in Adventureland, you ARE in Africa ... something I've appreciated all the more since being to the "dark continent". Disney managed to distill and purify down to the essence of a place. Duck down a narrow passage, and you emerge into the old west. Just as perfectly evocative. And New Orleans Square is a perfected, exquisite representation of the French Quarter. Everyone should travel to see the world for themselves, of course. But I'm quite certain that Disney's distillation of the planet's best was part of what drove me to see more of the real thing.

One of the greatest miracles here is the way the engineers pieced the rides together. Several, like Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted House, have deceptively small footprints in relation to the expansive rides inside. This is because the ride itself has been sunk underground, reached through some clever entry point of waterfalls or hidden elevators. Or there's that argument-winning Matterhorn, the twists and turns of which have been built into a surprisingly tight circle, making it a skyscraper of roller coasters.

So, assuming I've convinced you of the "magic" in "Magic Kingdom", here are a few tips from an old hand.

• If possible, make the most of early and late hours. The first hour upon park opening, and the last before it closes, are always the best time to get on the premium rides.


• Take advantage of the Fast Pass system. This allows you to pre-book riding time on the best rides. The most efficient way to manage the queues is to alternate Fast Passes with waiting, enabling you to walk straight on to every other ride.


• Use the most crowded part of the day to eat, browse through the shops or watch the entertainers. Or explore Tom Sawyer's Island, which is never quite as crowded as the rest of the park.


• If you have time for a fine dining experience, try the Blue Bayou restaurant. This remains one of the better cajun restaurants I've experienced, with the benefit of a spectacular setting. You appear to be in a lantern-lit courtyard at the back of an ante-bellum mansion. Stars twinkle above in an inky night sky, crickets chirp, Spanish moss hangs from the trees and boats (actually part of Pirates of the Carribbean) glide through the bayou beyond. It's a particularly great illusion when it's a hot and sunny day outside.


• Buy yourself a pair of mouse ears with your name stiched across them at the Mad Hatter in Fantasyland. For some inexplicable reason, this is the only place on either coasts that you can get the old-fashioned, personalised mouse ear treatment.


• Finally, take along a seven-year-old. While Disney easily stands on its own for adults, and I've enjoyed numerous holidays in both parks without a kid for company, there is something particularly special about re-discovering the magic with the next generation. Even if he can't yet appreciate the world-beating primacy of the pirates.

LA is at its most palatable in March

It is ironic that, so soon after my last column complaining about the unfair dominance of the American coasts, I write today from Los Angeles. Even more so as, while taking a walk along the beach this morning, admiring the pounding surf to one side, cascading banks of spring flowers to the other, the green abundance of the Palos Verdes peninsula before me, sunshine and blue skies above, I had to admit ... This is fabulous.

So I suppose I have to go on record agreeing with most of the planet that Southern California is a nice place. To visit. But I still wouldn't want to live here.

I am here at perhaps the best time of year to visit. In March, the land is still flush with winter moisture and cool temperatures, bringing every bit of greenery to its vivid best. Everything is in bloom; particularly dominant now are azaleas, birds of paradise and a wide variety of spring wildflowers.I am also staying, in my opinion, in one of the very nicest bits of the Los Angeles area. The air is wonderfully clear, with sharp views across the valley and none of the hanging smog that disfigures much of the rest of the year.

Redondo Beach nestles at the southern corner of the broad bay of Los Angeles, tucked beneath the looming, leafy hills and seaside cliffs of Palos Verdes. One of my biggest issues with LA in general is cement. Head to the centre of the valley and you are surrounded by mile after mile of strip mall, boulevard and building. Nature has been banished to pots, and green spaces are limited to strips of grass and palm trees along the roads. Not so in Redondo where, thanks to that thickly-planted hill, you can look up from anywhere to appreciate the hanging gardens that are Palos Verdes. As always since I visited South Africa, I am struck by how much this area resembles the magnificent landscapes south of Cape Town.And, let's face it, this place is nice because it's outrageously affluent. Entry level for even a tiny house is $1 million, an average rent is $2,400 a month. It's one of the few places in America that makes London house prices look sane. The streets are crowded with new, high-end vehicles (mostly 4 wheel drives), and everyone, including the dogs, is phenomenally well dressed. As is true the world over, the home turf of the wealthy is always easy on the eye.

So, a few quick tips.

We are staying at the Best Western on Pacific Coast Highway in Redondo Beach. Great value for money. Simple, and admittedly on the lower end of the American hotel chain world, but it provides all you need. The rooms are big, well decorated, in good repair, and come with a galley kitchen. It's nice to be able to stretch your dollars by eating breakfast or lunch in. There's a small pool, gym and hot tub. Free computer access in the lobby, a poolside cafe open for breakfast and lunch and a bar with a wide screen TV, mostly populated by the airline crews who seem to make up half the residency. There's ample free parking. Best of all, it's a short 10-minute walk to the beach and you're within strolling distance of scores of boutiques, cafes and restaurants. For Europeans who are always irritated by the inability to get anywhere in America without a car, this place is a lovely break from the norm.

About 3 miles north, where Redondo Beach changes to Hermosa Beach, you'll find a big complex of restaurants, shops and fishing piers. Lots of recommended restaurants here. My top pick this trip is Captain Kidd's, a fish market with some tables out back. The market has one of the finest and largest selections of fresh fish I've seen anywhere. If you want to eat in, you simply choose from anything in the case, decide on fried, sauteed or char grilled, pick your side dishes and wait. A few minutes later you'll be ensconced at a long wooden table in the glass-walled lean to out back, tucking into a styrofoam plate piled with the wonderfully fresh, perfectly cooked bounty of the seas.Just north along this coastal strip of restaurants are two other places of note.

For similar food in a finer setting, there's the Bluewater Grill. They offer a large variety of seafood; some of it prepared more elaborately, but most on the same "best quality, simply prepared" ethos of Captain Kidd's. Except here, for 25% more money, you get proper china, cheerful table service great views and a cathedral-ceilinged hall decorated with historic photos of fishermen and their catches.

One more step up the dining scale is the Chart House. A bit more formal, with a darker atmosphere, lower ceilings and even better harbor views. The menu here is a bit fussier; your fish is more likely to be doused with sophisticated sauces or rolled in macadamia nuts. There's a good salad bar and a tempting chocolate lava cake on the menu. My one complaint about the Chart House is the noise level. The low ceilings really make the sound reverberate, a circumstance at odds with the elegance of the restaurant.

Both the Chart House and the Bluewater Grill have excellent wine lists with a good array of Californian wines by the glass. Average dinner prices at the three restaurants range from $30 at Captain Kidd's to $60 at the Chart House, with Bluewater somewhere in between.

America's heartland remains a mystery to most Europeans

National stereotypes are inevitably misguided, often emerging from an obvious minority to inaccurately represent the whole. Thus we get the posh, eccentric English and the rude, foreigner-hating French ... both at odds with the majority of their countries. And for America? Time and time again, we get the coasts. Travel shows, documentaries or the experience of most European visitors are all the same. New York, perhaps a few other stops on the East Coast, then on to California. It's as if anything further than 150 miles from an ocean doesn't matter. And the opinions of those coastal people come to represent the supposed opinion of America.

As a Missourian, this has never ceased to enrage me. Categorising America on the basis of New York and LA is about as relevant as judging a person based on his hands and eyes. You might get lucky, but you're more likely to be drastically wrong.

The Missouri Botanical Gardens in St. Louis

My latest irritation on this front comes from Monty Don. An esteemed garden writer and television presenter, I'm usually a happy student of all he says. But his most recent episode of "Around the World in 80 Gardens" had me practically screaming at the television. Don visited ... surprise, surprise ... gardens in New York, Virginia and LA. We did get a two-minute stop in the grasslands of Kansas, but this was merely to illustrate the source of the natural effect that the New York designer was trying to pull off in his garden.

I'm used to benign ignorance of the Midwest, so that wasn't what really wound me up. Rather, it was Don's interview with the New York garden designer, who asserted that Americans really don't garden. It's too much trouble, it's too hot, they're afraid of nature, all they want is lawns, etc. Don seemed to take this bait hook, line and sinker, using it as the thesis for his whole episode. The designer's description might have been accurate for New Yorkers (I went to University with a resident of that city who thought the cows in the model farm at the Lincoln Park Zoo looked quite dangerous), but it doesn't bear much resemblance to the world I know.

I come from a land of rolling green suburbia, where almost everyone practices some sort of gardening. Some efforts are modest, some elaborate, many deeply respectful of native plants. The delicate Missouri primrose and the majestic purple coneflower share my home state. Every American city I've inhabited has had several amazing nurseries (aka Garden Centres) specialising in native plants, English perennials, garden design, etc. Magazines such as Southern Living, Martha Stewart Living and House and Garden are awash with garden features, and never seen to have trouble finding new gardens to feature. August always brought a glut of friends and neighbours sharing the excess from their vegetable patches.

The middle of the country is laden with impressive botanical gardens, most of which offer advisory services and classes to the home gardener. St. Louis' Missouri Botanical Garden is one of the finest of its type in the world, modelled on Kew Gardens and established by an Englishman, Henry Shaw, who'd made his fortune selling pots and pans to immigrants heading West. The Dixon in Memphis is a gracious and varied southern garden wrapping around a grand house now turned into an art museum. In Dallas, the gardens surrounding the historic DeGoyler house show how people strive to create gardens even in hostile and uninspiring landscapes, and succeed admirably. No doubt there are similar examples in every town from Cincinnati to Denver, Houston to Minneapolis.

Another critical difference of the Midwestern suburb: It's just a short ride to rolling farmland. I grew up buying corn from roadside stands, picking my pumpkins from the patch and being able to choose from a variety of farmers' markets. I didn't live in the country, but I was deeply aware of it. As, I believe, most Midwesterners are. Don's assertion that Americans are scared of nature or unaware of its links to their personal gardens was laughable in the context of my experience.

Ironically, the one exception to this "flyover country" ignorance seems to be election coverage. This primary season we've seen copious coverage of towns and denizens of Middle America. The political reporters have, in advance of their other BBC colleagues, finally figured out that there's more to America than its urbanised coasts. I live in hope that others will follow their lead.