Scots-themed Boisedale of Belgravia vaults towards top of my London favourites

It was love at first sight.

Deep red walls cluttered with prints, watercolours, random weaponry and a few heads of noble beasts that had given up their haunches for the dinner table. Tartan carpets and upholstery. Glimmering candlelight, dark wood accents, a long, highly polished bar with green leather stools on barley-twist legs. Good Lord. I had started out just behind Victoria station and ended up in highland country house holiday.

Happily, both the food and the entertainment at Boisdale (pronounced Boys-dale) of Belgravia lived up to my first impressions, vaulting this place immediately into my top 5 restaurants in London. I simply can't wait to go back.

Those of you who haven't been to Scotland much may scoff at the very idea of a Scottish themed restaurant. To this veteran of several idyllic holidays in the highlands, it made perfect sense. The Scots produce fantastic beef and game, have some of the best salmon in the world, take plenty more seafood out of the nation's cold, clean waters, produce specialties like haggis and shortbread and top it all off with single malt whiskys as various on the tongue as are wines. That is a good ingredients list, and the chef at Boisdale puts them together with flair.

I started with scallops and haggis. Not a combination I'd ever considered, but I like both things, so why not give it a try? It was one of the most beautiful presentations I've seen in a long time. A zig-zag trail of light green pea puree underpinned a line of perfectly matched circles of black and white: scallop, haggis, scallop, haggis, scallop. These were each anchored to the plate by a slightly larger circle of fine saffron potato mash. Laying over the top of the circles was a single, long spear of crispy bacon. The whole thing had the look of some exotic musical note; appropriate, as this is also a jazz club. The taste was as good as the look. The scallops were perfectly cooked: sweet yet smoky, firm yet soft. The unctuous, meaty richness of the haggis was a perfect partner, sharpened by the sweetness of the bacon while getting extra smoothness from the mash. So perfect a dish, I can't imagine getting anything else upon my return, although my companion's slices of goose breast on a mixed salad looked good, too.

Moving on to the main course, Boisedale's menu gets very simple. There's the fish, offal or game of the day, two other options and a list of steaks (Aberdeen angus, of course) prepared with your choice of one of three sauce and side combinations. My 7-ounce fillet with black truffle sauce and black truffle polenta was a perfect medium rare, smoky and crisp on the outside, pink and mouth-meltingly tender interior. This is the kind of flavour that reminds me why I could never be a vegetarian. The polenta was a fine side and suitably simple; the steak was so good anything else would have paled in comparison. Across the table sat the offal of the day, a combination of liver and two other suspect parts (wiped from my memory) that were beautifully presented, but still couldn't tempt me for a try. My liver-loving dining partner proclaimed himself well satisfied.

The choice of the small fillet left room for desert of a ginger pudding with sticky toffee sauce. I was worried that I might have made a bad choice, piling rich sweet on top of rich main. But the cake was filled with sharp, tart pieces of fresh ginger that cut right through all that heaviness.

Then, of course, it was time for the single malts. Boisdale has a whisky book of more than 100 choices, all beautifully described with detailed tasting notes, with prices starting from £6 a glass. Average for my favourites seemed to be around £10. This was perhaps the highlight of the whole meal, given the fact that we were on expense account (my lead agency, Fishburn Hedges, was taking me out at the end of the financial year in thanks and celebration) and my host handed me the menu and told me to pick for both of us. We had two rounds, sampling four different single malts between us (Aberlour, Glenfarclas, Mortlach and Glen Grant) and probably would have done more had not the service been a bit slow and my last train time gotten in the way.

It's clearly an expense account and special event kind of place, though there is a range here. While starters top out at £19.50 (wild smoked salmon) and the mains can go up to a heart-stopping £52 (28 oz fillet), you can do a two course set menu for £18.50 and there's a good range of prices on the a la carte menu. There are some great values on the wine list (we started with a South American chardonnay that was a bargain at £18.50) and there are reasonably priced whiskys. If you're careful you could probably bring a three course meal with a couple of drinks in for £50. If you're profligate ...? Well, fortunately I didn't see the bill.

That cost would be defrayed a bit by the entertainment, because it turns out Boisdale is also a renown jazz venue. It was hard to believe the tiny, balcony-sized space that three musicians and a singer wedged themselves into, but from 9pm they created some real magic. This was jazz leaning towards blues, and the last time I've heard guys this good play live I was in Kingston Mines in Chicago. A word of warning: if you want to have any meaningful conversation over dinner you need to either book early so you can talk before the music starts, as we did, or specifically ask for a table in one of the rooms away from the main space.

One Boisdale indulgence we didn't get to sample was the cigar terrace. Smoking is now illegal everywhere indoors in the UK. At Boisdale they've fitted up a rooftop garden full of space heaters to which you can break between courses or retire to in order to sip your scotch. If, like me, you are a non-smoker who spends a lot of time with a nicotine fiend, this is a far more civilised solution than being abandoned at the table while he smokes on the pavement outside. This feature is so popular, however, that it has to be booked in advance. Lesson for next time.

And there will be a next time. I've been dreaming about that that scallops and haggis every night...

Small, intimate and local ... neighbourhood restaurants add to Amsterdam's sophistication

If I could cast aside considerations like nutrition, calories and balance, it's conceivable that I could live for at least four days in Amsterdam on nothing but siroopwafelen. Two thin, round waffle cookies sandwiching a layer of caramel, firm on the first bite then wonderfully chewy as they melt in your mouth; these omnipresent sweets are the culinary blockbuster of the Netherlands and the first thing my taste buds crave when I arrive.

But woman can not live on siroopwafelen alone. Even my aggressive sweet tooth might eventually develop a craving for meat and the odd vegetable. Fortunately, this recent trip to Amsterdam offered two restaurants that can lure me away from the waffle cookies without regret.

Top honours goes to Seasons, a comfortable yet hip bistro on Herenstraat. This is a small place, with perhaps 14 tables and a view into the kitchen at the back. It's elegantly decorated in warm tones with streamlined, modern fittings and artistic floral arrangements. The genial partners (Dutchman Peter front of house, Texan turned long-term expat Blaine as chef) clearly know the locals and have a regular clientele. The menu is hand written, one assumes to change as seasonally as the restaurant name implies. In short, this is exactly the kind of place any of us would love to have around the corner, but few do.

Would the food live up to the promise? Circumstances found me eating here twice during my visit. The first time delivered a resounding "yes", the second time a more qualified recommendation.

Let's start with the better meal. We went a la carte, following the owners' recommendations on what was best that evening. A wise course. I started with fresh asparagus, wrapped in prosciutto, grilled, and topped with a lightly poached egg. Not a combination I would have ever made, but an absolutely delicious one. My friend had the split pea soup which, it turns out, is a Dutch national specialty. Not a dish I've ever been that keen on, but a taste here had me reconsidering. A large bowl of this could have made a very satisfying dinner.

In fact, the starter menu was so impressive I never did make it to the mains. I had been so drawn to two of their starters that they offered to make the second into a main course for me, thus following the asparagus with risotto topped by scallops wrapped in bacon. The rice was exactly al dente and rich with that creamy texture restaurants often fail to achieve when they hurry this dish; the scallops a fine complement. It was a Texan sized portion and I really should have been a good girl and left some behind. But it was too tasty for that kind of delicacy.

The kitchen really hit its stride on dessert. On my first visit I had their strawberry pavlova and was impressed by an absolutely perfect meringue: crisp and dry on the outside, chewy and marshmallow-like in the centre. On my second I discovered some of the best chocolate mousse I've ever had. Two large quenelles (Texas-sized portions again) of dark chocolate that managed to be airy and light on the spoon, but rich and mouth filling on the tongue.

Sadly the food on visit two didn't live up to my introduction. It was only at the end of the evening that we learned it was the chef's night off, which might also explain the very slow kitchen. I also believe I went for false economy choosing off their set price menu. For 10 euro more I'd had a dramatically better selection the first evening. So a strong recommendation for Seasons with a couple of caveats: make sure Blaine is cooking, and go with Peter or Blaine's recommendations off the a la carte menu.

A satisfying alternative in the same general neighbourhood is 101 Singel. This is another long, narrow, small neighbourhood place. A bit more cave-like due to its lower ceilings, black panelling and sunken kitchen at the rear, the decor here is a more intimate than Seasons' and would probably be the better choice for a romantic evening. Otherwise, the restaurants are very similar in price and quality.

I started with a rabbit terrine served with a bit of chutney on the side. An excellent dish, but the decorative smear of chutney really needed to be a generous dollop, since its tart-and-sweet bite was a necessary balance to the gamey richness of the meat. I was disappointed with my main, which was supposed to be a Moroccan chicken served with cous cous. The latter was excellent, but the chicken was lacking any distinctive spices to earn this its North African tag and was mostly dark meat. It's my fault for not asking; I find anything other than breast of chicken fairly unpalatable. I was looking enviously across the table at my friend's fillet of beef, one of the most beautiful cuts I'd seen in a long while. Unfortunately it came to her plate almost purple with blood and had to be sent back to the kitchen twice before it came to anything approaching medium rare (her original order). But a few bites of her steak, once it had stopped bleeding, and knew I had made a bad ordering mistake; the chicken couldn't compare.

101 redeemed itself on dessert, however. I'd taken a big risk and ordered the tiramisu. Why risky? I make what is possibly the best tiramisu recipe in the world, and find that most restaurant attempts are pale imitations and cheap shortcuts. But this menu said Sicilian tiramisu. Which is a wild contradiction, because tiramisu is a Northern dish; it simply doesn't exist in the Sicilian tradition. So I had to try it. The difference? Candied fruit and pistachio nuts, classic tastes of Sicilian desserts, folded in to the zabaglione layer. And yes, there was a real zabaglione layer (the bit so many restaurants leave out), separate from the whipped cream, binding together cake that had been dipped rather than drowned in the espresso and alcohol. A perfect blend of North and South, and an adaptation I'm keen to try in my own kitchen.

In both places a three course meal before alcohol will run you about 40 euro, marginally less than the equivalent meal in London. Sadly, we have ever fewer of these little neighbourhood treasures, as the London restaurant scene seems to polarise towards high end, fine dining or chains. It was a delight to find top quality local spots thriving in Amsterdam. If you get there, do patronise them so they can continue.

My Amsterdam host, Sheila, with Seasons owners Peter and Blaine

With the right investment, Amsterdam delivers

I find Amsterdam a hard city to love.

Its dominant images seem to be of red light districts and "coffee" shops: haggard prostitutes displaying themselves behind plate glass, racks of semi-pornographic post cards, glassy-eyed smokers, shop windows of hash seeds and drug smoking equipment, the choking stench of marijuana pouring on to the streets as groups of drunken lads on stag weekends elbow you aside. Its town square is a gray monstrosity of modern buildings, a brutalist national memorial, tacky living statues dressed as Star Wars characters and a palace that demonstrates how Baroque architecture becomes stodgy and overbearing without a light touch. Add to this the fact that the weather when I'm here always seems to be overcast, windy and rainy, and you understand my reticence. Amsterdam is just not anywhere I've ever gotten excited about visiting.

Thus is was with deep ambivalence that I accepted Marcus Evans' invitation to speak at a telecoms branding seminar here. It was good to be out of the office at someone else's expense, great to be in a session of fellow professionals exchanging ideas ... but in Amsterdam? I almost turned down the offer.

There's one big difference since the last time I visited, however. I now have a colleague who lives here, and invited me to stay with her and experience the local Amsterdam. The native touch went a long way towards redeeming the city for me. Stay out of the biggest of the tourist areas, arrange your schedule carefully to take in the highlights, take long walks in residential neighbourhoods, eat at local places, dress warm and carry a good umbrella. Take this approach, add in some evenings with cosmopolitan locals, and Amsterdam may start to earn its moniker of the "Venice of the North".

That description comes from the canals, of course, but also from the circumstances that built them. Both towns were at the heart of global commercial empires. Both filled with rich merchants who built magnificent townhouses beside their warehouses along those working waterways. The most beautiful part of Amsterdam is the section where you can see this, and it's mostly still residential. Bounded by the Herengracht canal to the East, the Prinsengracht to the West, the Brouwersgracht to the North and a big street called the Vijzelstraat to the Southeast, this district offers all the charming arched bridges, meandering canal boats and stately homes you could desire. There are a few big tourist sites here, most notably the Anne Frank house, but it's primarily a quiet district with good architecture.

Amsterdam's golden age was the 17th century, when the Dutch East and West India organisations became the world's first stock-owned companies, Dutch merchantmen moved goods around the world and New York was a Dutch colony called New Amsterdam. It's worth remembering that if it weren't for a few accidents of history, it would have been the Dutch rather than the English Empire that shaped the modern Western World. (For a great book on the Golden Age, see Simon Schama's The Embarrassment of Riches.) The houses built by these masters of the universe were tall and narrow due to the limited space in the city, and taxation by width of house frontage, but no less opulent for their constraints. Their most unique features are their gables and cornices, the fanciful and wildly diverse decoration at the top of each. Even the poshest houses needed a winch to haul goods and furniture up from the street, and it's great fun to spot the ways architects built these into their motifs. Another fun element is the use of house signs. Street numbers came late to Amsterdam; most houses are still marked with a plaque denoting the house name or occupation of the people who once lived there.

Though traditional Dutch architecture dominates in this area, there's plenty of variety. French and Italian Renaissance, Gothic, neoclassical, art nouveau and art deco all make appearances on top of the standard canal house bones. This area is also filled with some excellent local restaurants (on which more to come in anther blog) and fashionable little shops. When it comes to clothing and accessories, Amsterdam has a design sensibility fresher, bolder and far more interesting than London's, at more reasonable prices. Women actually seem to wear colours here. I am in recession mode at the moment, but it did occur to me that a clothes and shoe shopping trip to Amsterdam at some future date wouldn't be a bad idea.

Another great way to see the city is by canal boat tour. Indeed, as in Venice I'd suggest that from the water is the only way to get a proper appreciation of the spirit of the place. We went with the Blue Boat Company, departing from Stadhouderskade 30 near the Rijksmuseum and the American Hotel. (See www.blueboat.nl) My host has been on many of these and says this one's the best, thanks to its 75 minute duration and its expansive loop around the city. This includes a sail across the harbour, where you can get a sense of the industrial and shipping heritage. As with so many cities, much of the harbour front is being renovated and it's here that you can find bold modern architecture and trendy new entertainment areas.

Besides random wandering and architectural appreciation, my two personal "must sees" in Amsterdam are the flower market and the Rijksmuseum.

The Bloemenmarkt, stretching along the Singel canal, is actually the last of Amsterdam's floating markets. This was once a common sight, as local traders loaded up their boats and sailed into the big city to sell their wares. Now the flower stalls are fixed and when walking along the canal you'd never know the back of the shop was sitting on water, but the awareness of it adds a bit of appreciation. I love it here, however, because Amsterdam isn't a particularly green city. That limited space means that this city, despite anchoring a country famous for flower production, is a relentlessly urban procession of brick and stone with a few trees to soften the view. The bloemenmarkt brings the bulb fields to the city, offering serried ranks of cut flowers and magnificent deals on bulbs for all seasons, including some unique colours and varieties. The quality here is fantastic; I was salivating over the largest peony tubers I've ever seen, but realised I had nowhere to put the resulting plant. The deals are also good. Even with the weak pound, the 40 tulip bulbs I got for 10 euro is well below what I would pay at my own garden centre. (A note for Americans. Sadly, most of this cannot be brought into the States. You have to make special arrangements and buy from people who can package for shipping through customs. So it's possible, but your range is more limited and it is, of course, more expensive.)

Finally, the Rijksmuseum. As anywhere else in the world, art follows money and global empires leave great museums as their legacy. The Rijksmuseum is a blockbuster, crammed full of all the most famous Northern European art with generous side helpings of works from other regions and the detritus of empire. A mostly closed blockbuster, however. In desperate need of major works, the Dutch took the radical decision to shut the main building down for more than five years, promising a state-of-the-art museum within the 19th century shell when it reopens at the turn of 2012-13.

In the mean time, they've collected all the masterpieces from the Golden Age (which is, generally, what tourists want to see) in a handful of galleries at the back of the building. The rest of the collection is either in storage or on loan. This might be disastrous for an art lover on a once-in-a-lifetime visit, but if you're here on a business trip with a stolen hour or two, it's a blessing. Everything you want to see, conveniently grouped together with an informative audio tour for 5 euro.

There's the expected room of Rembrandts (always a bit dark and broody for me) and the happy and prosperous citizens captured by the magic of Frans Hals (the artist I'd resurrect to do my own portrait). There's a whole room of blue and white Delft ware, fascinating objects brought back from the East Indies, a procession of remarkably detailed still lives and flower paintings and atmospheric Dutch landscapes. There are several of those classically Dutch group portraits of the merry cavaliers showing off their prosperity, including Rembrandt's famous Night Watch. And there are a handful of Vermeers, breathtaking in their still, quiet beauty.

This is a great museum. Not just because of its collection, but because of its management. The thought that's gone into this temporary space is fantastic. The galleries are beautiful, complementary to the art and easy to move through. They have three different audio guides, from straight art historical to fun and a bit funky to the children's version. The gift shop is crammed with unusual gift items. They even have a branch at the airport; not just the shop, but a gallery with rotating exhibitions. And the web site is fantastic. If you want to see the exhibition I just saw, simply head to www.rijksmuseum.nl and you can call up a 360 degree video sweep of each gallery. If I don't get back sooner, I know I will plan a major trip to Amsterdam when the Rijksmuseum re-opens. Given how clever they've been with their limited resources, I can't wait to see what they're going to do with the whole collection.

Disney's original park still weaves a unique magic (and offers fine dining in a Blue Bayou)

As with Marmite, liver or White Castles, people tend to have a love-it-or-hate-it relationship with Disney and its theme parks. Most Americans are in the love camp, unsurprising since Walt's mix of optimism, capitalism and can-do fairy tales comes right from the middle American dream. (He was a Missouri boy, after all.) Europeans are more divided. There are those who adore the cheerfulness, customer service and fantasy on demand, while a great many others rattle on about a manipulative brand, forced good times and a foolishly simple world view. They'll take their kids, but grind their teeth through every moment, wishing they were at some adult resort very far away from oversized talking animals, cheerful pirates and flying elephants.

Let me state for the record: I'm a Disney Girl.

I bought, hook, line and sinker, the promise of eternal happiness and Princes Charming offered by Snow White, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. (I do wish my prince would get a bloody MOVE on, however.) I was blessed to have indulgent parents, including a mother who's as much of a Disneyphile as me, who had broken me in to both Disneyland and World before puberty. I memorised the maps of the amusement parks before we went, planning my ride schedule in advance, and used to sob uncontrollably when finally had to go home for another year. I even thought Mary Poppins was high art (go ahead, Brits, shudder now) and am sure its vision of a tidy London filled with dancing chimney sweeps and singing bird ladies planted seeds of desire to live here.

So there should be no surprise that the Ferrara-Rosso family holiday included an evening at Disneyland. The kids ... both grown up and little ... needed their fix.

For those familiar with Disneyworld, Florida, the original park is a revelation. It's similar in design and has many of the same rides, but it's tiny. Where World sprawls across thousands of acres, Land had to wedge itself into a small patch of the bustling town of Annaheim. Most of the rides, therefore, actually run underground. It's a testament to the original designers that so much stuff could be wrapped into such a small space, and the reality of the construction could be so well hidden. Thus it takes two dives down water slides to get you into the world of Pirates of the Caribbean, which is no more than a New Orleans style house up top but encompasses an entire Caribbean village with port below. Cinderella's castle at World is a behemoth of spiralling towers; at Land it's hardly bigger than a modern executive mansion. It takes stamina and a good 20 minutes of brisk walking to get from Frontierland to Tomorrowland at World, but you can do it in five at Land.

And yet there's a beguiling magic about Land that World never quite manages completely. The architectural detailing and the nuances of the design are so perfect here, it is quite easy to forget you are in an amusement park. There are corners of New Orleans Square more perfect than any view on Bourbon Street, stretches of Tom Sawyer Island that are exactly of the Mississippi, bits of Fantasyland that out-do Bavaria. It is, quite simply, a beautiful place filled with fun stuff to do.

I've always felt this way, but I'm finally getting to experience it with kids. That adds a whole new level of joy to the experience. My nephews (who are, of course, perfect in every way) are eight and two, perfect ages to drink in the wonder. Last year I had the honour of taking the eight year old on his very first roller coaster, the Matterhorn. He loved it so much we rode it twice more. This year, Alex was tall enough to move up to scarier, faster Space Mountain. He expressed more than a bit of concern, as we stood in the queue for over an hour, that he'd be terrified, and maybe get sick. But he was tough, and brave, and was screaming with pleasure from the first wicked bend in the tracks. Later it was time for two-year-old joy as Tom experienced global diversity through the intermediary of It's a Small World. I could practically see the brain cells sparking as his eyes drank in every detail, mouth hanging open with amazement. If we could only bottle that feeling ... that sheer joy of discovery, that delight of the impossible ... it would be better than alcohol. Better than money. Better than sex. And I've always believed that's what Walt Disney was trying to achieve. Helping us to revisit the unadulterated joy of childhood, where every day offers glorious first times. The only thing better than doing it yourself is having a little hand squeezing yours in glee while you do it together.

Never one to completely abandon the adults, however, Disney provides great boutique shopping, amusing entertainment and fine dining. Fine dining at an amusement park? Yes. Honestly.

I would happily eat at the Blue Bayou if you could re-create it outside of the park. That would be impossible, of course, because at least half of the joy of this place is its remarkable atmosphere. You enter through a New Orleans house front of average width, probably leaving noise, heat and bright sunshine behind you. You cross a hall, step through doors and find yourself in a dark, starlit evening, standing at the rear of an ante-bellum mansion at least three times as wide as the building you entered. Festive paper lanterns are strung across a patio set with wrought iron tables and chairs laid with crisp white linen. Massive trees draped with Spanish moss screen the view of the bayou, where boats drift quietly by and an old man sits in a wooden house in stilts, strumming his banjo. This is all fake, of course. But the illusion is remarkable.

The food is New Orleans inspired, all freshly cooked and beautifully presented. Particular highlights were the fishcakes, the seafood gumbo and the jambalaya. In fact, I suspect there aren't a lot of Cajun places outside of Louisiana that are this good. All that was missing was a nice glass of red wine. But, as our apologetic and fantastically attentive waiter reminded us, there's no alcohol in any park with a castle. (Disney World is able to relax the alcohol ban by serving at all parks other than the Magic Kingdom.)

Even with all the sophistication of fine dining, the kids aren't forgotten. The boats on the bayou are good for a lot of entertainment, of course. The kids get pirate hats, which adults sometimes steal. But nothing compares to the house's special desert: a pirate ship made of a giant, sinfully thick chocolate chip brownie, with decks of ice cream, on a fruit sauce sea powered by a billowing spun sugar sail embossed with skull and crossbones. Tom was a very happy camper, as was I when I stole a bite.

It might be as unsophisticated as admitting I love Disney, but if any posh restaurant in London wants to make my pudding into a pirate ship under full sail ... I might just love them for it. It will certainly fill me with the wonder of a first time.

Weather, sightseeing and food conspire for some fine "California Dreaming"

Most mornings of my recent holiday in Southern California saw me sitting like a cat in the sun in front of the Riviera Village (Redondo Beach) Starbucks, unwinding after my morning beach walk. The natives were all huddled inside, convinced it was far too cold to be out of doors.

This little picture says is evocative of the whole week. Relaxed, gently paced and all about the little pleasures the natives might not notice. The primary objective was to bring the family together for my Mom's 69th birthday and my cousin's 50th. MY main goal was to grab some R&R amidst what could have turned into a stressful, massive production. Fortunately, the two objectives sat comfortably side by side.

We did just enough sightseeing to tick that box. In addition to our day at the Getty Villa, we spent a fine afternoon wandering around the West Hollywood Farmers' Market and the adjoining retail complex called "The Grove". I hadn't been here since I was a kid, and it has gone through a serious transformation. You used to feel quite the urban adventurer, cutting through some edgy neighbourhoods to get there. Once you arrived, it was fun ... but also tumultuous, chaotic and a bit grimy. I remember a working market. Yes, it was a tourist attraction, but it also seemed to be a proper supplier of the everyday to the locals and a wholesale venue for restaurants. Today it's upscale, tidy and fashionable. There's one of everything: a vegetable stand, a butcher, a baker. It seems to exist primarily for tourists, and is priced accordingly. The real point, however, is the eating around the world you can do at all the little stands. There's a New York Deli, a sushi spot, a cajun kitchen, a noodle place, etc. We opted for an odd but satisfying combo of sushi followed by coconut macaroons.

Beyond the Farmers' Market, the Grove is one of those highly designed places that gives you the feeling you're in a stage set. The architecture is 1930s/40s, and I honestly couldn't tell whether I was seeing the bones of original buildings that had been refreshed, or a completely new street built to evoke the glamour of early LA. Whatever the case, it's beautiful, sophisticated and extraordinarily tidy, with all of the usual upscale mall shops fronting a winding pedestrianised street that leads into a square with a garden, fountains and shopping kiosks in the middle. My highlights were the biggest Barnes and Noble I think I've ever been in, Nordstrom's shoe department and a hat kiosk on the square where Mom got a jaunty variety to cover the chemotherapy damage.

After that indulgent afternoon we had an equally indulgent evening, driving out to my friend Craig Jackson's house for dinner. Craig and I met on our first day at Northwestern, shared countless adventures in school and have stayed in touch through the years. Spending time with him always brings up reassuring memories and makes me feel that all's right with the world as long as your friends are in it. We also shared, and still share, a passionate love of food and wine. Accordingly, Craig and his partner cooked the finest meal we had on our whole trip (especially the beetroot and goat's cheese salad), matched with a velvety Rioja, mellow candlelight, sparkling conversation and a setting so exquisitely decorated it really does deserve a stint in architectural digest. I fear I will never live up to their example when they come to visit me.

Another highlight, on Mom's birthday, was a concert at the Orange County Music Center. The place reminded me a great deal of Dallas: People with an enormous amount of money, living someplace completely new, investing massively in culture to overcome their lack of heritage. The music center sits at the heart of a complex awash with impressive modern architecture, bold public sculpture, wide roads and gracious plazas. The concert hall is built to a traditional shape, but with clean, modern lines, pale colours and modern materials. I don't know about such things but I'd bet, as with Dallas, the modern technology makes the acoustics here particularly good. The whole place is a testament to the fact that "new money" isn't always synonymous with cheap and tacky.

Musical director Carl St. Clair has developed an orchestra and style as vivid and innovative as his hall. The theme of our evening was "Arabian Nights", anchored by Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade. That's a piece hard to beat, its lush orchestrations ripping your imagination out of the chair and sending you off on flying carpets towards a magical Arabia of Sinbad, Ali Baba and the like. Unusually, the rest of the concert was just as memorable, as St. Clair teamed up with the Syrian National Symphony Orchestra to do a musical cultural exchange. The four pieces in the first half ranged from traditional Western music (Vivaldi's "Winter") with solo parts played on Arabic instruments to completely unknown but lovely pieces of modern Syrian orchestral music. What a shame this is such a dangerous part of the world these days. If Damascus is half as beautiful as this music, it really is a place I must see before I die.

Dining throughout the trip was pleasurable but not extraordinary. The humble El Burrito Junior taco stand yielded one of my best meals of the trip, whether because they really do produce some of the best Mexican food I've had, or because I was revelling in the high fat indulgence of food that breaks through every Weight Watcher limit, I wouldn't want to say. Without further experimentation, that is. We also returned multiple times to Captain Kidd's seafood market and restaurant near the Redondo Beach pier, where you can pick out your fish and have them cook it for you. (Several meals of grilled scallops and steamed vegetables were an attempt to counter the burrito-enchilada-margarita fest.) The sushi place in Farmers' Market was good value for money with both basic and exotic options.

For our best restaurant meal, however, we'd have to drive 90 minutes, pay admission and trek halfway across main street, the wild West and New Orleans Square. Details to come...

Southern California has it all ... including a bit of ancient Rome

It was wonderfully fitting that just a few days after absorbing the Palladio exhibition at the Royal Academy, I was soaking up the sun in the gardens of the Getty Villa. Where the Italian architect reinterpreted classical models to form a new style, the wealthy American John Paul Getty took a step further backwards. He decided to create and exact copy of antiquity, nestled in the hills above Malibu with views over the Pacific.

It's good to be rich.

The Getty Villa is one of my favourite museums in the world and is equaled only by Disneyland (blog entry to come) amongst my Southern California top picks. Let others do movie backlots, Rodeo Drive salons or dinosaurs in tar pits. I'll go for classical art and architecture in an excellent garden every time.

The building and its gardens are an almost exact reproduction, based on architectural best guesses, of the Villa of the Papyri at Herculaneum, one of scores of magnificent mansions of the wealthy that were obliterated when Vesuvius blew. I've visited the ruins of Pompeii, and seen the treasures dug out of the Papyri site in the museum in Naples. These both give you a wonder and appreciation of the past. But the Getty transports you directly to 70ad. If it weren't for people in modern clothes and the odd power outlet, you'd swear you had stepped through a rift in time.

The main building, in classic Roman style, is built around an open courtyard. Smaller roofed courtyards lead off of this, all decorated with the marbles, statues, frescoes and fountains that would have been appropriate at the time. Behind these rooms, galleries circle the courtyard on two stories, filled with the kind of choice art collection from the Greco-Roman world you can assemble when you're one of the richest men in the world. This includes probably the finest life-sized Greek bronze nude I've ever seen outside of the museum in Athens. These are very rare; most Roman statues were copies of the Greek bronze originals and most of those originals have been lost. As a group, they get my vote for the most beautiful depiction of the male body ever achieved in art, and the youth standing proudly at the Getty is suitably god-like.

Stretching forward from the villa to the sea is a classical garden more than 100 yards long, enclosed by covered colonnades. Each of these is vividly frescoed and ornately paved with coloured marbles. A magnificent pool with laughing fountains and reclining statues stretches down the centre of the garden, flanked by paths, plinths with portrait busts, marble benches and a colourful mix of plants all chosen for their authenticity. Outside the formal garden there's a working agricultural area that shows you how vines, olives and vegetables would have been grown, and another side garden with parterres of boxwood and one of the most beautiful mosaic fountains I've ever seen.

When I was a little girl I used to come here and wander by myself for hours while my family looked at the art. I would pretend that I was the daughter of a Roman senator, chatting with my imaginary Greek slaves and waiting to see whether I would be claimed by a victorious general or the vestal virgins. (I never claimed to be a normal kid.) Point being, there are few places on the planet where history is brought more thoroughly to life.

One of the great joys of returning to a place that you've visited many times, of course, is that you're not compelled to walk the tourist route. Aside from a quick stroll through the galleries (and a visit to my beautiful Greek man), I spent my day sitting in the sunshine on a curving bench lifted straight out of an Alma Tadema painting, reading a great book, appreciating the view between page turnings and soaking up the sun. Mom, parked on the other end of the long pool, was watercolouring the scene. A blissful and calming start to a week's holiday.

Another great aspect of the Villa is a super gift shop with a wonderful range of reproduction jewelry, classically inspired arts and crafts, educational toys for kids and a great range of books. Best of all? It's free. You have to reserve your spot online, and you must pay $10 for parking, but that's it. It's a crime that so few people visiting LA know about this place. Or maybe not. My quiet, classical retreat would be shot to hell if hoards of tourists decided to make it a hot spot. They can look for Brad and Angelina in Hollywood, leaving me to commune with the spirit of the rich and famous of the first century AD.

Alma Tadema's vision of ancient Rome, and me at the Getty Villa. Compare and contrast.

Palladio is another near miss at the Royal Academy, but not as bad as the dinner that followed

I hate stress.

Which is rather unfortunate, as I lead a stressful life. Thus I value things that evoke calm: long, quiet dinners at good restaurants; baroque music; Palladian architecture. Therefore it was with great joy and mellow, deep breathing that I greeted the Royal Academy's latest exhibition on Andrea Palladio, probably my favourite architect of all time.

Palladio lived in the north of Italy in the mid 16th century and he is the man most responsible for re-discovering the architecture of Greece and Rome, then re-interpreting it as a modern style. He is the father of Renaissance and neoclassical architecture and the grandfather of lofty designs through the ensuing ages. From English country houses to Jefferson's Monticello to 19th century governmental buildings to Washington's White House, we live in a Palladian world. Want something that's august and dignified, grand yet restrained, livable yet sophisticated? Get out the Palladian pattern book and go crazy.

As long as I can remember ... probably long before I was aware of who Palladio was ... I have found his buildings soothing. The gentle arches, stately columns, open spaces, smooth flow of rooms and ruthless symmetry convey a magnificent sense of calm. You don't get surprised much with Palladio, you get a reassuring architectural massage to the intellect. Which isn't to take away from the man's brilliance. There's a vast variety in his work, from farming villas to churches to government buildings and theatres. He displayed endless genius adapting old buildings to his new styles and fitting grand designs on oddly-shaped plots.

The Royal Academy takes a logical approach, presenting an exhibition that is dominated by architectural models. These are all borrowed from the Museo Palladio in Vicenza which, one assumes, must be temporarily shut down with this much of its treasure on show in London. Almost all of his most famous buildings are here, and it's great fun to peak into the corners and windows of these magnificent doll's houses. The models are admirably backed up by paintings, prints and drawings of the buildings and floor plans.

I was delighted, not only because I was surrounded by a style I love, but because so many of the models were of buildings I had seen on past holidays, and it was fun to revisit them. Even I, however, was getting a bit bored by the third room. The uniformity that makes this style so comforting also makes it quite predictable. There weren't many surprises or revelations here beyond Palladio's designs for the Rialto Bridge, which turn out to be vastly inferior to the quirky version you see today.

In order to make this show more than a procession of pleasing, regular facades, it needed better commentary. Not only about Palladio's inspiration, but about his clients. Architecture, after all, is brought to life by the people who built it and the lives lived within it. The RA's commentary, sadly, was bone dry and loftily academic. I have to believe that anyone who doesn't start with a love of the man and his work would be bored to tears very quickly.

Two other misfires. First, of all the buildings profiled his greatest in my opinion ... the Teatro Olympico ... was given short shrift. As the first modern indoor theatre, it is one of the most influential buildings in the world and is breath-takingly beautiful. But you didn't get much of a sense of that here. Second, and more surprising, is the lack of exploration of Palladio's legacy on the English country house. English architects were mad for the guy. Some would say slavish imitators. The treasure houses of empire that tourists flock through each year are inspired directly by Palladio. There could have been a whole second half of the exhibition that explored this rich legacy and linked the visiting show to the soul of the country in which it was displayed. But aside from a few photos, nothing.

I may return to do the show again with the audio tour, which I suspect will give me more of the context and the tales that I want. But I can't help feeling that most people, unless they are as big an architecture fan as me, will be a bit disappointed by this show.

Not nearly as disappointed, I suspect, as I was with dinner following at the Texas Embassy Cantina. This place has, for years, been the only dependable spot in London for proper Tex Mex and great margaritas. It was actually founded by a guy from Dallas who was horrified at how little Mexican food he could find here. He built a place that looked exactly like a big Texas restaurant and important some of the basic food, like gloopy yellow cheese, so the food would taste authentic. When I worked at resolutely Texan EDS, executives used to drive all the way into town on Friday night to get a taste of home. It's always been reliable, tasty, moderately priced and, with its location just to the west of Trafalgar Square behind the Canadian embassy, hugely convenient.

Sadly, the old magic is gone. The service was absolutely atrocious. We had to beg for every item, from drinks to food orders to more drinks to the bill. Requests frequently had to be made twice as we were forgotten. The majority of the servers were eastern European. Not a problem normally (they populate most London restaurants) but it really bothered me here, where waiters always used to be American or Canadian and you could count on chipper, cheerful and fast service. It was all part of the atmosphere.

The margaritas have shrunk drastically and, given that this is one of the few places in London that uses a lot of ice, don't actually have much drink in them. The food, when it arrived, wasn't as piping hot as it should have been. Though tasty, it lacked the range of spices and the smoky flavours that used to make what was on the plates "proper" Tex Mex. I'd bet several rounds of their overpriced 'ritas that they no longer go to the extra expense of importing that Monterrey Jack cheese.

I left the Embassy making three resolutions. One. I will not be coming back here again. Two. I must find another Mexican option in this town. Three. I will be heading for the El Burrito Junior taco stand very soon after arriving in LA to remind my tastebuds of what they should have been appreciating.

It's good to be home, as spring comes early to England

With impeccable timing, I managed to miss London's crippling snows while enjoying mild, sunny February thaw in St. Louis. Then, just as the Midwestern weather turned bad, I came home to glorious sunshine.

Brits complain incessantly about the weather. Unfairly, I believe. The south of England is a gentle, temperate place. No tornadoes, no earthquakes, no blistering heat, no freezes so deep it's dangerous to go outside. Just a continuity of temperatures usually between 40F and 80F, and enough gentle rain to keep everything consistently green.

It's the green you notice first when you arrive in winter from the States. In St. Louis, everything is brown. No matter how sunny and blue the skies above, what's below is dead, lifeless and drained of colour. Much of England stays green year round. Lawns and fields still stretch away in verdant colour, pines and evergreen bushes enliven most forests and even the dormant deciduous trees wear colourful accents of vines or mistletoe. Realistically, the depth of winter here only extends through December and January, when days are pitifully short, dark and gloomy.

By February, nature is beginning to stir. Snowdrops and early crocuses are already out in profusion around my village. Early daffodils are starting to bloom, and thousands of buds are appearing to herald the golden blaze to come next month. My first Saturday back was sunny and mild. So much so that I put the top down on the convertible, went for a drive to the garden centre, loaded up on spring plants and worked the rest of the weekend in the garden. Bliss.

There is one traditional sign of spring, however, that will not come this year. The BBC's coverage of CRUFTS, the world's biggest and most famous dog show, has always heralded the start of spring. I've always found it amongst the most endearing qualities of this canine-obsessed country that a dog show could capture more than 12 hours of prime time coverage over four days on the nation's leading television channel. But not this year. In a spectacular row, the BBC has refused to cover CRUFTS until the Kennel Club changes its rules to discourage unhealthy inbreeding.

I am torn over this. I suppose I should be proud that the BBC is being a champion for good. Of course it is a travesty when breeding makes dogs unhealthy. But isn't it up to the Kennel Club itself to monitor and champion this? Shouldn't the BBC stay objective, cover the news and give millions of viewers what they want to see? This year, at least, the answer will be "no". Rather than curling up on my sofa for four continuous nights of doggie voyeurism, I will be encouraged to watch snippets on YouTube. Just not the same thing.

It's like spring without daffodils...