Winter woes make me one of Heathrow's holiday casualties

It's a small world these days. Most of us who've chosen to live an expat existence aren't particularly bothered. Technology puts us in constant contact with our home cities and hundreds of long haul flights a day can get us home. At the back of every expat's mind, however, lurks the same nightmare. What if something happens and I can't get home when I really, really need to?

Welcome to Christmas 2010.

This was always supposed to be a big one. As our relationship got ever more serious, it was a chance for my boyfriend and I to introduce each other to the towns in which we grew up (St. Louis and Copenhagen) and the friends and family there. A chance for us to meet the remaining special people in our lives. Those people had been planning for months, lining up a whirlwind of parties, dinners and special events.

Then things got more crucial. My mother landed in the hospital after her visit in November and has been there ever since. Things don't look good. Forget the holidays. I need to get to St. Louis for her.

But God, BAA and United Airlines seem to have other ideas. Sure, it's me and hundreds of thousands of others, I know. It's not easy for anyone. And at least I'm waiting in the comfort of my own home rather than the refugee camp that once was Heathrow. But that doesn't lessen the angst, the nerves, the nail biting.

My original Sunday flight was canceled. Because I caught it soon after the cancellation was posted (2:45 am, to be precise) I was able to get on another flight. So, if I'm lucky enough to have ended up on one of the 20% to 30% of flights that has been managing to get out of Heathrow, I'm scheduled to be on my way at 3:30 tomorrow. Piers' flight, however, was canceled this morning. And with the thousands more cancellations between my re-booking on Sunday and his need to do the same today ... there were no options left before the holiday. The trans-Atlantic is, quite simply, closed to new traffic until the New Year.

So tomorrow the weather and the airline industry's coping strategies will hand me a Hobson's choice. If my flight goes, I breathe a sigh of relief as I get to my sick mother's bedside, but leave my love alone for the holiday and abandon the big plans to introduce him to my family. If my flight is canceled, he and I are together, but my mother ... to whom holidays are precious things never to be missed ... is alone on what's likely to be her last Christmas.

It's out of my hands. I'll wait for fate to decide where I'm going tomorrow, and with whom I'm spending the big day.

Imperial China's Dim Sum and the Theatre Royal's "Oliver!" top holiday festivities

With the slow creep out of recession, I was hoping to see some return to the wild old days of Christmas office party merriment. Alas, no.

I fear that media company parties at impressive London locations and alcohol-sodden agency bashes reminiscent of university fraternity raves may be consigned to history. I suspect that the recession gave them a chance to look at those huge expenditures and realise they weren't getting that much business off their largess. Instead, as with last year (see 20.12.09), holiday celebrations were limited to smaller team lunches, dinners and theatre outings. Far better for the liver but, given the quality of the restaurants in the mix, no good for the diet.

Christmas outing No. 1 (team lunch with my lead communications agency) was at The Duke of Wellington in Marylebone. A gastropub of the kind becoming classic in London: Scrubbed wooden tables, bit of modern art on the wall, big bar but clearly much more about dining than standing around drinking. There's a first floor dining room we didn't see, and I suspect that might be more in keeping with the high quality (and prices) of the food. But for a large Christmas celebration, the almost Dickensian feel of the ground floor, with its big Georgian windows overlooking classical terraces, was perfect.

The food was good (and has gotten many rave reviews in London papers) though, to be honest, on par with most other gastropubs of this type. The one wacky bit of innovation on the menu that day was lobster macaroni and cheese. Had to be tried, and was certainly edible, but left me thinking there's a reason Italians have made a rule that you shouldn't mix cheese and fish. It's just does not do either of them justice. Otherwise, hearty, seasonal food, nicely prepared and attractively served. If I needed something in the Marylebone, I'd definitely go back, but I wouldn't go across town for it.

Christmas outing No. 2 (lunch with a broadcast/media company) won the novel cuisine award. Eastern European restaurant Baltic was a perfect choice for a cold, snowy day and gave me an appreciation for how well that cuisine matches bad weather. I wasn't particularly innovative in my ordering, opting for gravlax with potato pancakes followed by beef goulash with lashings of sour cream. Talk about stick-to-your ribs food! No surprise that I was warmed, comforted and full after that (no room for dessert), though I could have used a nap. The goulash was excellent, but the potato pancakes were overdone and unexceptional; not a patch on my boyfriend's Danish version. The novelty of the place might see me coming back, however, as there were many other things worth exploring on the menu. And the range of flavoured vodkas behind the bar did make me think a weekend visit could be in order.

Outing No. 3 (lunch with the MD of one of our copywriting agencies) won the good food award. Imperial China is, by miles, the best dim sum I've ever had. It's in a tiny courtyard off Lisle Street in London's Chinatown, and first came to the notice of my host when he learned this was the place the Chinese embassy recommended for taking the ambassador and other officials when British executives entertained them. Certainly we were amongst the few European faces in the place, which is always a good sign. The procession of dishes was diverse, beautifully cooked and well spiced; I wrote down the order because I'd get the exact same again.

Prawn dumplings. Prawn dumplings with chives. Vietnamese spring rolls. Fried crispy squid with sauce. Baked pork cakes with sesame. Crispy cheung fun (a soft rice noodle roll with some crispy fried noodle in the middle). Cheung fun fried in XO sauce (fried sheets of rice noodle stir fried with bean sprouts in a spicy sauce). A veritable feast, coming in ... quite remarkably ... at less than £30 for the two of us. This place is a gem, worthy of becoming a regular haunt. Worth noting, however, that my host warned against coming here for dinner, when the prices shoot up.

Outing No. 4 (with the customer reference programme team) started at Joe Allen's and moved on to see "Oliver!" at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Allen's is unavoidable for any American expat. An American chop house pulled right out of the New York theatre district (the original sister restaurant is there), it serves American classics in a brick-walled, subterranean place just off The Strand. Its decoration wavers between theatre posters and American sports heroes, and the old guy who fires up the piano bar with sing-along show tunes is legendary. The food is good but unremarkable, with two exceptions: ribs and cheesecake. They have the best versions of both these American classics to be had in London. I wouldn't order anything else here. A rock solid, dependable spot for pre- or post-theatre dining.

The production of "Oliver!" has been getting marvelous reviews since its revival. And they're deserved. This is, of course, one of the great musicals, crowded with memorable tunes and enlivened by an exciting plot with interesting characters and real drama. The actors in this production were excellent, particularly Oliver, the Artful Dodger and the rest of the gang of boys. The sets were as much of a star as the actors, with scenery moving in and out, back and forth to give a tangible, detailed London-scape. It is, in fact, a great improvement on the film, which drags heavily in the second half. This version picks up the pace and condenses the drama, still getting all the plot elements in but not giving you time to be bored. An excellent night out and well worth the ticket price.

Though I must admit that given the darker side of the plot, I was rather surprised by all the children in the audience. I wouldn't have recommended this one for an outing with younger children. I don't remember if they spin it this way in the film, but here Nancy was clearly a child prostitute, pimped from an early age by Bill Sykes. It gives a bit more reason for her inability to walk away from him, and adds even more poignancy to the tragedy. "Oliver!" may be the heart warming story of an orphan who discovers his family and comes out right in the end, but ... in true Dickens style ... it's also an exploration of the underbelly of Victorian London and a portrait of an abusive relationship that degenerates into a horrific murder. I wonder if all the parents in the room remembered that before booking?

And thus ends a quiet but enjoyable season of office parties. Now it's time to wrap up work, batten down the household hatches and get out for the big, bi-continental Christmas and New Year extravaganza we've been planning since April. St. Louis, Chicago, Copenhagen ... here we come.

Career choice opened the door to a more spectacular English life

It was in the Banqueting House in Whitehall that my career choice was validated.

The story starts earlier and further away, on a December night in 1985 in Evanston, Illinois. I'd just aced my British history final exam. Realising that I loved the drama and personalities of the island kingdom's story more than anything else, I called my mother and told her I wanted to stay in school to get my master's degree in the subject. Mom blew a gasket. She was a teacher, you see, and immediately saw a career in history as the path to a low-paying, unappreciated career in education. Journalism was already a disappointment from the legal career she'd wanted for me. But teaching history? Horrific. "Make England your hobby, for heaven's sake. Make your career something that will earn you some money."

Now slide forward to 1998. I've followed a career in corporate communications and through stubborn persistence have gotten a post in my company's London office. On this night I'm representing us at a fund raising dinner at the Banqueting House. There's a conservative MP on my right and a government minister on my left. Luscious food is coming out of the kitchen. A chamber orchestra is entertaining us with 18th century favourites. The windows through which Charles I stepped to his execution are open, allowing a gentle breeze to come in with the whir of traffic on Whitehall. The throne of England with its canopy sits behind me, symbolically indicating the presence of the Queen, and above us Rubens' magnificent ceiling stretches. Such dinners for the country's great and good were exactly why James I had Inigo Jones design this room, and we were using it for its original purpose. When normally, it was just an empty shell gawked at by tourists.

And then it hit me. Mom was right. Had I been a historian, I no doubt would have known this room well. But would I have been invited to a glamorous dinner that brought the past to life? Hell no. Taking the corporate track was consistently getting me into places, in ways, that I'd kill for as a teacher, but no doubt be denied.

I think of that validation every time I visit this magnificent room. It is one of the most gorgeous spaces in London, and one few people have made the effort to see. Last week it was perhaps a touch less majestic than usual, as it was filled with trader's stalls for a charity Christmas market for Children in Need. Such craft fairs have become a staple of Christmas here, and offer a way to buy unique gifts from specialty producers. I had gone specifically to visit one of my favourites, Shibumi, a maker of frock coats and waistcoats in marvellously flamboyant floral silks with vivid linings. (See what I'm wearing in the photo of the post just before this one.)

This is the season for markets in a variety of historic locations. At the southeast corner of Hyde Park, just were the Great Exhibition once stood, you'll find "Winter Wonderland", a mix of gift stalls, food and amusement park rides. It looks great, all festive lights and authentic Germanic stalls. But the crowds, at least when we went late on a Saturday afternoon, were claustrophobic. A better bet is the market at Winchester, tucked into the cathedral close. The Gothic walls looming above the traders remind you that such markets have been taking place here for 1000 years or more.

Of the three markets, shopping was probably best at Winchester. Although all had roughly the same stuff. Fashion trends are clearly favouring hand-blown or fused glass jewelry, and silversmiths. Scarves and hats are copious, as are booths selling clever and colourful wooden puzzles for children. Winchester offers the best balance of Christmas decorations, clothing, jewelry, food, toys and random gifts, and this is where I got most of my shopping done. Had I become that academic, I might have visited these markets but I doubt I would have spent much. Like everything in dear old Blighty, unique and hand-crafted gift items are pricey.

Another history-drenched event enlivened the first weekend in December: The British Military Tournament. There's certainly some chance that Ellen the history teacher might have made it here, as it was big on celebrating the past and open to any paying member of the public. It was obvious, however, that the majority attending had some link to the armed forces. This is a revival of a similar event known as the Royal Tournament, last presented in 1999. It's a blaze of pomp, circumstance, marching bands and sparking uniforms. In the old days it was funded by the Ministry of Defence as part of official PR outreach. Despite great popularity, it became too expensive and time consuming to continue. Now it's back as a privately run affair to benefit military charities.

My partner, who has cause to know these things, said it wasn't as impressive as the old show. I, having little to compare it to and easily impressed by gold braid, tall hats and pretty horses, was delighted. The highlight of the show for most people was the gun race. A re-enactment of a part of the Boer War when the Royal Navy had to get guns inland to relieve a siege quickly, participants have to race a gun (as in, a medium-sized cannon on wheels, with a big, wheeled box of ammo behind it) over walls, disassemble it to swing it, and the whole team, over a chasm, reassemble it, fire a few rounds, then go back the way they came. It's impressive.

But for me, not as jaw-dropping as the musical drive of King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery. More cannons, but this time it's heavy rigs carried behind a team of six horses, arranged in pairs and with a rider on each pair, dashing around at high speed. No brakes on those gun carriages and nobody steering them, so it's a feat of extraordinary skill and quite nail biting as the various teams weave patterns and get far too close to each other for comfort. There were other mounted displays, several marching bands and a re-creation of a typical exercise in Afghanistan (complete with a model of a Chinook helicopter dropping from the ceiling to pick up the injured). In general, a big affirmation of the accepted wisdom that the Brits do pomp and circumstance well. One of the factors that made me love their history so much, no doubt.

The final quintessentially British setting of recent weeks took me to the Lansdowne. One of the great London clubs, headquartered in a Palladian townhouse just off Berkley Square designed by Robert Adam, it's unlikely my professorial alter ego would have gotten in here unless she'd followed Simon Schama into TV academe. (Which, frankly, I would have been damn good at.) Fortunately my boyfriend is a member, so I get to enjoy the fruits of his lengthy association. In this case, for a champagne tasting.

Now there's a way to celebrate the holidays. Black tie. Lovely company. The managing director of Laurent-Perrier in the UK talking you through five of their champagnes, chosen carefully to match each course of your meal. (Should I win the lottery, their "Grand Siecle" would become my house brand.) Good food. Like the Banqueting House, the shades of history nearby. In the Adam-designed round room, now the bar, the Americanophile Lord Lansdowne sat down with Ben Franklin and Robert Adam to hammer out the peace treaty that ended the revolution. And just like the Banqueting House, a lovely merger of the historic environment with a social event of the elegance and sophistication to match the building's original purpose. I might have made it to this dinner as a history teacher. But I think my strike rate for such things is a lot better as a corporate hack who made English history my hobby.

Thanks, mom.

Lords' star seems premature, but it was still a worthy Thanksgiving venue

Of all the many things to be grateful for this year, top of the list is the fact that my mother is still alive almost two years after a terminal cancer diagnosis, and managed to make it to England to visit us in our new home for the fortnight around Thanksgiving. That called for some celebration. So as the traditional American holiday approached, the two of us took off to that most English of spots: The Cotswolds.

We stayed for two nights at Windy Ridge, the cozy yet elegant B&B near Moreton-in-Marsh I discovered this summer. (See 27.7.10) On the agenda: A bit of sightseeing, a lot of lounging in front of the fire and one special dinner at The Lords of The Manor, a nearby luxury hotel whose restaurant was just awarded its first Michelin star.

Though an excellent meal for a price below London averages (£58 for three courses), I fear Lords was awarded its star a bit too early, as there were inconsistencies throughout. We start in the car park, where there is no lighting. On a moonless night, it was a blind shuffle to the gap in the garden wall, indicated by the lights from the manor house below. The light in the garden was burned out, so it was a good 50 yards from the car before I could see where I was going. Not a great start.

The amuse-bouche served in the bar while perusing menus was fish and chips. One small goujon of fish, a cone shaped, paper-lined glass holding three french fries and a tiny dish of mushy pea puree topped with half a hard boiled quail's egg. I've seen several TV chefs take this gourmet approach to the English version of McDonalds, and acknowledge it can be a clever way of appreciating the simple. However, if you're going to elevate such basic and familiar ingredients to fine dining, they'd better be good. Unfortunately the fish was overcooked and oversalted, and the chips unexceptional, making the pea puree the star of the little plate. In the dining room, excess salt became a theme, with the bread and next amuse bouche being so laden with it we actually had to send a message back to the kitchen to go easy. To their credit, they did, but it seemed a basic mistake at this level. My mother's main should have been hotter, and the home-made macaroni on it was flabby and leaden, obviously made by someone who has no skill with pasta. Clearly, there were some problems in the kitchen.

And yet, the highs of the meal were lofty. Start with the wine list, the first I've ever seen with an extensive by-the-glass selection that makes recommendations based on food. If having scallops, try this one. Pigeon, try that. A great concept. The dining room is a calm, elegant place of neutral tones and a few colourful pieces of modern art, presided over by an excellent staff who provided copious service, gave us lots of information about our food and chatted enough to liven up the meal, without overstaying their welcome.

A second amuse-bouche once we were at the table was butternut squash puree with candied walnuts and bacon foam; a fantastic blend of flavours and as close as we would get that night to Thanksgiving tradition. The bread tray featured a wide variety of home made delights, with onion brioche with cheese and a focaccia of sun dried tomato and garlic complementing the usual white and wheat.

As with most Michelin star establishments these days, the chef here makes a big deal about locally sourced ingredients. It's an information-rich menu, and you'll know which farm most of the stuff on your plate came from; much of it from "just down the road". I went for a particularly English meal, starting with pigeon before a main of venison. The former was done "three ways", a grilled breast, a tartared quenelle and a bite-sized pastilla. All were excellent and could have easily been expanded into a bigger course. The venison was the star of my show, however, with chocolate and port sauce and beetroot and celeriac mashes. The sauce was succulent, the meat beautifully medium rare. A perfect dish. Mom's choices were more mixed. She declared the scallops on her starter to be the best she'd ever tasted, but the sea bass main with truffle foam was only average. And, as discussed, much let down by the cold, rubbery pasta.

Moving on to dessert, the waiter brought us a lovely little palate-cleanser of vanilla and honey creme fraiche, mandarin jelly and grapefruit ice, served in layers in a shot glass like a tiny parfait. My chocolate delice that followed was exquisitely beautiful and so rich I couldn't finish, which is a rare circumstance for a chocolate lover like me. Clearly, whoever was doing the sweets was as good at his trade as the pasta maker was bad at his. I paid the £9 surcharge for Mom to have the cheese, served from an impressive board featuring 21 English varieties. A fan of really strong flavours (epoisses being her favourite), she was particularly taken with the stinking bishop and the Isle of Avalon, while of the tastes I stole, the milder, goat-based cerney pyramid was my pick.

Finally, this is a place where it's worth paying that extra bit for coffee. You get plenty for your £4.50 extra charge. First the java. Then comes a contraption like a toast rack turned on its side, stuffed with sweet, parchment-thin layers of pastry in a variety of flavours. Next, they wheel out a burled walnut casket which, when opened, reveals colourful ranks of macaroons. But you're not finished yet. One more casket arrives, this one filled with exquisite hand made chocolates. The waiters are generous with their serving tongs, thus sending me home with quite a packet of goodies in my handbag.

A fine experience on balance, with all the little extras delivering great value for money. It was a fitting Thanksgiving dinner. But they were lucky I wasn't a Michelin inspector.

Back at Windy Ridge, happily, everything lived up to expectation. The place is just as magical with frosted lawns and trees surrounding, mostly because the fire in the sitting room dances merrily away and keeps things toasty. As this was mid-week in the lowest of low seasons, we had the place to ourselves, and spent some long afternoons occupying the couches with books in hand and glasses from the honour bar nearby. Theresa's enormous breakfasts are even better when they're stoking you up to go out into the cold.

We did a tiny bit of sightseeing. Christmas shopping in Moreton-in-Marsh, a visit to the Donnington Trout Farm, a drive around Bourton-on-the-Water. But mostly, it was just about relaxing. And giving thanks for being together.

Despite Tahiti, Gauguin leaves me cold

As unfashionable as it is to admit, I've never been a fan of the Impressionists. I understand the point of their work and respect the revolution they sparked. I find some of their work attractive. But with limitless money, would I put their canvasses on my walls? Nope. Give me some conservative old masters any day.

You'll guess, therefore, that I was pre-disposed not to like the Gauguin show now on at Tate Modern. I wouldn't have sought it out on my own. (Especially not with a British Museum exhibit on the Book of the Dead, and Canaletto at the National Gallery to draw my attention. Both need a look in.) We went because it was the hottest ticket in town, my visiting mother wanted to see it and it was a good excuse to meet up with friends.

As exhibitions go, they've done a fine job. It tells a cohesive and comprehensive story, taking you through Gauguin's whole career by chunking it into thematic categories. Thus you don't have a chronological experience, but explore ideas like "making the familiar strange" and "the eternal feminine". There are a lot of pictures here, and the curators have certainly worked to get a comprehensive view; even if you think you know the artist, I suspect you'll find a lot you've never seen. They expand beyond paintings to documents, sculpture (Gauguin was quite a woodworker) and quirky objects he incorporated into his paintings. The descriptions are informative without either talking down or being too intellectual. The display space is well lit, allows for plenty of circulation and didn't seem too crowded, despite the show being sold out.

So why didn't the show excite me more? First, I'm simply not a fan of most of the art. We associate Gauguin most with his Tahitian paintings, but I'll wager when you call them to mind you're imposing some of your own cheerful, colourful impressions of the place. Many of his Tahitian paintings are dark, brooding and profoundly disturbing. In fact, you can say that about his paintings overall. There's canvas after canvas heavy with gloomy browns, acid yellows and sickly greens. His is a brooding, unwelcoming world. And too often there's something going on in the painting that sends shivers down your spine. A menacing figure in the background, a naked woman making love to a fox, or the portrait of his dreaming son with menacing black crows flapping above him. I went to the show with the impression that Van Gogh was the troubled one and Gauguin more sane, I came out thinking Gaugin was a complete nutter ... a dangerously warped and troubled soul.

There was a small handful of paintings I liked. One or two of the Tahitian canvases are simply an appreciation of the beauty of the island people. Those are stunning. My favourite canvasses barely get a not in the show's promotional material: they're simple French landscapes and scenes of French peasants bringing in the harvest in a lovely, golden world. But there were too few of these amongst the stuff that made you think.

My thoughts focused not only on the disturbing nature of the scenes, but on what an unpleasant man Gauguin seemed to be. From leaving his wife and children to having paedophilic relationships with those native girls to abusing his paying customers ... the man was a jerk. To me this is made clear by one of the most fascinating scenes in the exhibition: the facade of his studio. He created a Tahitian long house, covered with carved panels with images bordering on the pornographic and incendiary statements, then placed the studio so any visitor had to cross through his much used bedroom. Tracy Emin, eat your heart out. Don't get me wrong, the carving was exquisite and the facade is undeniably a precious work of art. But I couldn't appreciate it without considering a context that was so patently about making people feel uncomfortable. And discomfort, I'm afraid, is just not what I want from my art.

The evening achieved its primary objective, however, which was to give my mother a nice night out with friends. To that end, we wandered upstairs after the exhibition to have dinner in the museum restaurant. This is one of the most attractive spaces in London, seven stories up, glass walled, directly on the river overlooking St. Paul's. It's no value for money ... £11 for a small plate of pasta, for example ... but the food is tasty and the wine list is surprisingly reasonable. The main inspiration is Mediterranean and tapas, which works well at a destination restaurant that's more about socialising and the view than the food.

Despite limited choice, Saint Paul's restaurants measure up to other holiday dinners

Another long weekend with the Northwestern girls. Another procession of great meals, fine wines and restaurant bills that demonstrate a distinct lack of financial prudence. Oh, well. As they say here, c'est la vie. Throw in a Gallic shrug, toss back your head and drink in some winter sun. Prudence isn't half as satisfying as living well.

This being the depths of the low season, the two top restaurants on my wish list were closed for the month. Thus any report on a return to Les Terraillers in Biot, which was my first ever fine dining experience in France many years ago, will have to wait until I am here in a month other than November. La Colombe D'Or, tipped in most guidebooks as the best restaurant in St. Paul, was shuttered tightly, as were many other spots throughout town. The result: Unusually, both of the restaurants described here have been validated by return visits. With so little open, we didn't have much choice!

Interestingly, our top restaurant pick also comes tops on the Trip Advisor site, even though we didn't check that out in advance. What we DID do was ask all the local shop keepers what they thought was the best restaurant in town, and they all steered us towards Le Tilleul. We were skeptical, at first. Though the menu looked great, the place itself has the vibe of a cheap 1970s cafe, with lots of chrome, exposed work surfaces and refrigeration of key supplies carried into the dining room. The diners were very casual and there were lots of kids. Not promising, and not in line with the prices on the menu. Turns out there's an upstairs, decked out with fine linens, good glasses, and black and white photos of stars who've visited town. (Insist on sitting up here, unless it's good weather and you're able to head for their patio on the town's ramparts.) An all-together more quiet and sophisticated setting for a restaurant that can compare to any fine meal in Paris.

There are artists in the kitchen here. It's the kind of restaurant in which you feel compelled to take photos of your food, because it's so damned beautiful. Fortunately it's not just a show, it all tastes fantastic as well. Over our two visits here, memorable dishes included: duck rossini ... a beautifully moist duck breast stuffed with foie gras, served on a spider's web pattern of light and dark sauces; squash soup ... unctuous with cream, served in a monumental wine glass topped with foie gras foam; a foie gras starter served on a plate precisely divided into four quadrants, one for the meat, another for your toasted brioche and two more squares for your artfully placed accompaniments (are you noting a theme here?); a gooey-on-the-inside, cooked outside chocolate fondant served with a glass of passion fruit sorbet beside precise dots of chocolate sauce each dotted with a red currant. We had a delightful time with the wine list, filled with both local options and French classics. The Crozes-Hermitage we had on our last night (Clos des Grives 2008) was some of the best red any of us had quaffed in quite a while.

Best of all, the service was informal and friendly. Despite the multiple-star look and taste of the food, it was delivered by young men from the town who chatted and served to the standard of a beloved local favourite. That, I think, is what gives Le Tilleul it's charm. It might be Trip Advisor's top pick in a town overrun by tourists, but it still feels like a local discovery unsullied by outsiders.

Our second pick is Restaurant de la Fontaine, which benefits from a prize location in the centre of the village. Follow the lane up the hill from the main gate, emerge into a triangular courtyard dominated by a fountain and look up. There you'll see the restaurant's patio dining area looking over the fountain and the quaint village-scape. Food here is just as classically French as at Le Tilleul, but a bit more rustic. Consequently, about 25 per cent cheaper ... although the service seems to reduce with the prices. It appears to be a family run place and the matriarch was a dour and businesslike figure on both visits, finally unloosening late on our second meal once we'd drank much of her wine and were holding lengthy conversations in French. Not rude, but certainly brisk.

If it's a nice day and you're eating outside, you won't notice. The courtyard is a sun trap, with the stone buildings around blocking wind and concentrating heat. Lunch here on a sunny, mid-November day could have been a good July in England. Salads and rose matched the weather, and I was served a nicoise that was hearty, beautiful and tasty. A fine combination, but all too rare these days as chefs try to give this classic dish the gourmet treatment.

I was delighted to see wines from the Domaine des Quatre Vents in Cassis, a brand to which I'd grown attached years ago when I worked with Gemplus in Marseilles. (The only clients to ever send ME a Christmas present in my years in consultancy, I'll never forget the kindness of the case of this wine they sent to London to remind me of sunnier days on their turf.) Almost a decade on, Quatre Vents pink stuff is still a delicious embodiment of summer in a glass. We wound up the lunch by sharing a slice of pungent yet sweet tarte au citron, completely banishing the spectre of the oncoming winter.

The atmosphere indoors, where we retreated for dinner the next night, wasn't nearly as charming. It's a small place with a quirky mix of modern art that ranges from stuff inspired by graffitti to a tee shirt hanging on the wall emblazoned with "fuck the recession". It felt more like a college bar than a French bistro in one of the most charming villages on the Med. We never, however, got foie gras ravioli in a cream sauce at Dave's Italian Kitchen (my staple restaurant at Northwestern). That was a dish that left me pondering whether or not the merger of Italian and French could ... if you could handle the fat content ... be the perfection of all things culinary.

Despite the quiet, closed-for-the-holidays nature of November here, we figure we got lucky. Both restaurants stood up to a return visit and had menus that could have even carried us for one or two more meals. In a place that could so easily be a tourist trap, that's a triumph.

Forget Versailles, I'll take the Rothschild version

Several weeks ago I reported the most traumatic tourism experience I'd had in years, fighting crowds in the badly managed and less-impressive-than-expected palace of Versailles. I'm delighted to say that less than a month later my desire for magnificent 17th century furniture, dancing fountains and generally excessive surroundings was fully sated by a Rothschild house and gardens on the French Coast.

Within an hour of entry, the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild had become my favourite attraction amongst all the sightseeing I've tacked on to my years of business travel down to Cannes. Built in the early 20th century, the villa demonstrates what's possible when you combine an enormous amount of money and a strong personality with eclectic good taste. In fact, the builder Baroness Beatrice has jumped onto my fantasy dinner party guest list.

Born into the French Rothschilds, she was a well-educated, adventurous world traveler (her cases and pith helmet are on display here) who then married into a Russian banking family with additional resources. After her husband died she spent a long widowhood continuing her travels, leading society and building her villa. She'd been captivated by the long, narrow Cap Ferrat penninsula and its stunning views along the coast in both directions. Naturally, she bought 40 acres along the spine of the peninsula and set about building a home there, even though she already had a place in neighbouring Monte Carlo. Always fond of traveling, even when at home, she had her gardens designed in the shape of a cruise ship's deck. With the surrounding views of water she could feel that every day was steaming off to a new and exotic destination.

The exotic travel feel continues throughout the gardens, which we toured before going in the villa itself. There's a Spanish garden, modeled on the Alhambra, filled with the sounds of water. A Tuscan garden moves the villa to Italy, while the stone garden might be an overgrown English gothic ruin. The Japanese garden has raked gravel, a koi pond and the requisite tea house, while an exotic garden brims with oddly-shaped cacti and a rose garden evokes classic tradition. From every garden there are magnificent views to the bays on either side of the peninsula, each studded with smaller, but equally lovely, villas. Eventually, winding garden paths bring you to the high point of the garden, where a circular "temple of love" houses a statue of Aphrodite. From here, a fountain cascades down a stone stair into the formal pool of the French garden. Every twenty minutes the water here erupts into a dazzling display of arcs, spurts and spins, coordinated to orchestral favourites.

From the formal gardens you finally enter the house, through what's actually the back door. Look up as you approach to check out a sumptuous loggia on the floor above; I can imagine the baroness giving the perfect dinner party here, inviting guests to retreat into the cool shade on a sweltering summer's evening to nibble gourmet titbits and watch the fountains dance. Once inside, such imaginings multiply, as this is clearly a house built for entertaining on a grand scale.

It's constructed around a large internal courtyard which is pure Tuscany. The entry porch (a room the size of a large drawing room on its own) has a wooden ceiling painted with the kind of renaissance portraits you still see on pottery all over that city. That leads onto a square cloister-style walk which surrounds a generous courtyard floored with delicate mosaic. Though roofed, the ceiling is painted to resemble the sky and it's easy to imagine yourself outside at dusk. The courtyard is surrounded by colonnades of Romanesque arches, broad on the ground floor, narrower and interspersed with intricate stone tracery between the columns above. Beneath the ground floor arcades you'll find an impressive collection of renaissance art, much of it religious, and furniture. To one side, songbirds in a large cage add a sophisticated soundtrack. The name you're thinking here isn't Rothschild, it's Medici.

But just when you have this place figured out, it changes gears. Walk into the main reception room, and you're at Versailles. Marquetry floors, panelled walls, gods ascending to heaven in painted ceilings, gobelin tapestries, Louis XIV furniture. In fact, the rug here is from the great palace's chapel, and Marie Antoinette's games table takes pride of place amongst the furniture.

The remaining rooms on the ground floor stay in the grand French theme. There's a jaw dropping porcelain collection, a tented dressing room the Empress Josephine would have recognised from the craze for exotic looks after her husband's Egyptian campaign, and a completely over-the-top bedroom for the baroness that looks constructed from icing piped out of a pastry bag. My favourite feature here: Louis XIV style dog beds for her spaniels. And from every window, views of stunning gardens with spectacular sea views and dramatic coastline beyond.

I like to think that were I ever to win a really enormous lottery, this is the mix of good taste, high culture and whimsical fun I'd put together. (Though, admittedly, I'd probably go a bit heavier on English Georgian than French royal.) As I am not likely to have such a motherlode at my fingertips any time soon, I'm glad that places like the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild exist. Thanks to Baroness Beatrice for sharing.

Le Hammeau makes ideal base for exploring St. Paul and Grasse

Maybe it's my Sicilian blood.

Put me in a garden with olive and lemon trees, grape vines and a view of the sea, and I'm instantly at home. Then again, I defy anyone wandering the grounds of Hotel Le Hammeau not to drop into fantasies about living in a place like this. This is as close to heaven and many people get.

We're in the Provencal hills, just half a mile from the picture postcard village of St. Paul de Vence. A green valley stretches away before us, sloping down to the glistening blue Mediterranean. The hotel is a complex of old farm buildings, now knit together into a series of rooms, many with their own entrances, opening onto gardens, a courtyard dominated by an infinity pool, or tiled paths beneath pergolas. The whole place is in an immaculate state of repair, with the exteriors sparkling white and interiors floored with terra cotta tiles and furnished with French country furniture and cheery Provencal fabrics. There's a profusion of places to sit and take in the landscape; one of them even features a small court for boules. The feel is more B&B than hotel, with just two public rooms: a breakfast room and a lounge. The lounge comes complete with free wifi, a computer to use if you don't have your own, a big fireplace (sadly, not working when we were there) and a small bar from which the hotel staff will pour you whatever you wish upon request.

Le Hammeau is within walking distance of St. Paul de Vence (exactly half a mile to the town gate), meaning you can wander to a range of dining options without driving and avoid the hefty parking charges at this top tourist spot. And best of all, by car it is less than 20 minutes to Nice Airport. Meaning that while it feels like you've escaped civilisation, your travel time to get back is minimal. With frequent and not horribly expensive return flights from Heathrow (generally about £150), this is an ideal getaway for a long weekend.

What's there to see and do?

St. Paul is worth a day of gentle wandering. It's a walled medieval hill town (a miniature San Gimignano); gate to gate is no more than half a mile. There's just one main lane cutting along the spine of the hill, with small paths leading up or down from it. Nothing is wide enough for a car, and it appears that no new architecture has hit the town since some baroque altars were dropped into the medieval church, so the whole place is a pedestrian paradise resembling a film set more than a place where real people live. And for better or worse ... you can decide after visiting yourself ... the reality of St. Paul these days is that behind the medieval stage set, it's an upscale shopping mall. There are really only four types of public establishments inside these walls: art galleries, gift shops, upscale clothing boutiques and restaurants.

While paradise for a girls' weekend, I suspect most men would get bored pretty quickly. My friend Lisa, whose trim, petite size makes her an easy fit for European designers, scored big at a small shop carrying gorgeous formal blouses with intricate cuffs and collars. Hillary fulfilled Christmas "Auntie" responsibilities at a children's shop filled with trendy, unusual kids clothes. We all emerged with bags from a shop specialising in locally produced olive oils, olive oil-based cosmetics and gourmet vinegars. (Mango vinegar on cod is a winner.) I was mightily tempted by some gorgeous Provencal linens, drawn back from the brink of spending by remembering the pile of table ware waiting to be sorted at home, Provencal patterns amongst them.

Provence has always been a haven for artists because of its legendary light, with St. Paul's most famous resident being Marc Chagall. It's drawn a regular community of artists ever since his time , thus the profusion of galleries. Offerings range from sculpture and monumental pieces down to small watercolours, in styles from traditional to modern, and all a much nicer quality than the usual tourist tat.

Even if you're in full Christmas-shopping mode, however, it would be hard to spend more than six hours in St. Paul without exhausting its possibilities. (Excluding dining, which will be a different entry.) The most logical thing to do in the immediate area ... especially if you're three women on an indulgent weekend ... is head to Grasse, world centre of perfume making.

Every culture has used perfume, and its roots go back to the beginnings of human history. Quite simply, we like things that smell nice. But it was the French who really turned it into an industry, making the first branded scents and paving the way for the multi-billion dollar industry that exists today. Grasse, perched like St. Paul in the Provencal hills between Cannes and Nice, took advantage of the abundant flowers and long growing season of the area to become a producer of fine scent. Today there's the international museum of perfume (closed, sadly, in November) and countless shops selling everything from essential oils and high end perfumes to humble packages of scented soap.

Fortunately for off season tourists, perfume maker Fragonard has its own museum a stone's throw from the official one and that ... thanks to the fact that this is clearly a way to get people into the shop ... is open all year. It's an interesting series of rooms displaying how the stuff gets made (given the fact that the three of us have also done a whisky tour, we couldn't help noticing how similar the distillation process is) and how it's been used and marketed through history. The collection of perfume bottles is particularly interesting. You emerge, bien sur, into the gift shop, which naturally has a scent for everyone. Far better value for money, however, are the smaller shops scattered throughout town. We bought little perfume, finding our own regular, big brand scents to be unbeaten, but loaded up on soaps, pommanders, scented hangers for closets and the like. And one of the joys of France, of course, is that even the smallest purchase is wrapped with great care and some sort of flourish.

The drive to and from St. Paul is a sightseeing adventure on its own, though not for the faint-hearted driver. These are twisting mountain roads, sometimes cutting through woodland and sometimes snaking around inclines with precipitous drops below and stunning views to the side. Which the driver (aka me), of course, takes in at his or her peril. You can do a great circle drive, starting from St. Paul, heading south and picking up signs for Grasse. This route takes you through Roquefort-des-Pins and, as you might gather from the name, is heavily wooded. Take the alternate route back through the Loup valley for more dramatic views. To do this, follow the signs for Confiserie Florian, one of the most heavily advertised establishments in the area.

This justifiably famous candy shop sits at the bottom of a dramatic gorge at the start of the Loup valley. Water rushes below, white stone cliffs loom above, and inside a complex of humble old buildings the locals produce delicacies like violet liqueur (makes a stunning, and shockingly purple, cocktail when added to champagne), rose syrup, citrus peel dipped in chocolate and candied flower petals. It is the gastronomic flip side of the floral output that gave Grasse its perfume. Prices are shocking, of course, but this is delicate stuff that's tough to find even in most gourmet shops. And great for Christmas gift baskets for your foodie friends.

Further down the road sits the town of Tourrettes-sur-Loup, another beauty clinging to its hillside and radiating Mediterranean charm. Certainly worth a stop if you have time ... which is something we'd run out of at this point. A gorgeous drive, we all assumed this would be fantastic hiking country in the summer. Certainly worth a longer stay for those who have the time.

And for those who can afford to buy a garden with citrus trees overlooking the Med? Seems to me that's worth all the time in the world.

The sign of a great job: I'd do it for free

My CEO is fond of saying that he'd do 70% of his job for free. That's how much he loves it. And he sees no point in doing any job unless you're that excited about it. He figures he gets paid for the other 30%, which is inevitably the unpleasant stuff you have to put up with.

While I'm not sure I've hit the 70/30 ratio, this week certainly reminds me of what a great job I have the privilege of doing.

We're out in Cannes at Gartner IT Expo, the biggest annual gathering of IT industry executives in Europe. And believe me, there are few better places to go on business in November. Even if you spend the majority of your day on the trade show floor in a windowless basement, as we do, the walk along the Mediterranean on the way to work is one hell of a way to start things off. I'm surrounded by colleagues I respect and, even better, really like. We've delivered to a standard of quality that, thanks to 25 years in marketing, I know is absolutely best of breed. That makes you happy. Even better, we've laid the groundwork for a series of great conversations with customers. And despite the geeky industry reputation, a lot of these people are actually seriously entertaining to hang out with ... especially when you're picking up the bar tab.

My most extreme "I can't believe I get paid for this" moment came at our dinner for senior customers, when I got to share my meal with, then interview, Lawrence Dallaglio. (See www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTD2fl5En_Q for an excerpt.) The world cup winning rugby star and former captain of the England team was the lure that got more customers to our dinner than in any previous years. My brief was to keep the man entertained, make sure he talked to lots of customers, then get him up on stage to do a chat show style interview in front of the whole audience after dinner.

I was a bit worried at the start of the evening. I know little about rugby and I worried that the small talk was running out. But I shouldn't have stressed. Dallaglio is of Italian stock, which opened two easy conversational doors: Catholic school and food. By the main course I was thinking that this was one of the most entertaining dinner conversations I'd ever had, and completely forgetting the fact that he was famous. One of the endearing things about Dallaglio, in fact, is that he doesn't live in his rugby past. He does the guest appearance and sports commentary thing where it makes sense (after all, he's got three kids to put through university), but he's moved on to other businesses, does lots of charity work and seems all about looking forward, rather than trading on glory days.

And then it was up on stage, for the ultimate work for free moment. There I am getting to do what I love most ... showing off my interview skills while getting fine stories out of interesting people. And I'm doing it in front of a friendly audience, on a stage in a private dining room in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, one of the most prestigious hotels in the world. A belle epoch glass dome crowns the room, waiters flit elegantly between tables to fill glasses and the glass walls overlook the sea, where the lights of the super yachts glimmer on the horizon. Could I ever have imagined, when slaving away for that journalism degree back at Northwestern, that work could be this good? I certainly had some fantasies about fame and fortune, but they never led me to this delightful interlude of good friends, fine hotels and entertaining rugby stars in the south of France.

And I actually get paid for doing this! Something I must remember when I get back to London and return to a bunch of stuff within the unpleasant percentage. (Which I fear is a bit bigger than my CEO's 30.) But before that happens, I'm off to spend some of that salary. Seems a shame to hurry home when you're on the cote d'azur and the weekend is coming, after all.

If food is culture, then Paris' restaurants are as worthy as her museums

I've just spent three days regaling you with tales of Paris' rich sightseeing opportunities. But I have a confession: My priority in Paris these days isn't the culture. It's the food. Yes, the museums, architecture and history are always going to please me. But the more I've seen and the older I get ... aka the more financially secure I become, thus able to afford the dining ... the more my mind turns to restaurants, menus, and whether it's appropriate to treat cheese with a sacred reverence usually reserved for prayer. (Yes. See photo at right.)

This trip, I planned ahead. Thanks to internet sites like Top Table and Trip Advisor, it's possible to do loads of research and make reservations in advance. Checking out menus and contemplating choices from the thousands of restaurants on offer was half the fun. Of our main meals (three dinners and one lunch), we booked three in advance and left one to chance. All four were delicious and I would happily return to any of them, though they ended up occupying very different niches. And we can't quite agree on a favourite, because we each liked different bits at each place. So let's do the roundup in price order.

Topping the list in the heart-stoppingly expensive category is La Truffiere, deep in the heart of the university district. On line reviews called it a "bistro" and categorised the price as 45-55 per person, much in line with the other places I'd booked. I chose it for our first night, fresh in from the airport and ready to relax. Walking through the door to be greeted by magnificently polite, formally dressed staff was clue No. 1 this might be a touch more upscale than planned. Clue No. 2: the little footstool proffered for my handbag. And then the menus came. Mine with no prices, Piers' triggering a distinct draining of blood from his face. Yup, we'd gotten more than we'd bargained for. Though they don't have a Michelin star, you're at that level and paying those prices. (Plan on £150 per person for 3 courses with wine.)

Was it worth it? Probably. Exquisite food with some innovative twists, presented in beautiful ways by an attentive staff in a cozy, candle-lit stone crypt. La Truffiere ranks high on the list of best restaurants for an intimate, romantic dinner. We just regretted that we hadn't planned for it. We would have dressed up, scheduled it as our last dinner rather than our first, and perhaps gone for cheaper options on other nights to compensate for the price. (As it is, we'll just have to trim the grocery budget for the rest of the month!) So, what did we get for our money?

We started with an amuse bouche of cauliflower soup with a carrot emulsion in the centre, presented to look like like half an egg. Not usually a fan of cauliflower, I could easily have polished off a whole bowl. My first course was classic French with Asian influences: a delicate piece of foie gras sandwiched between two wafer thin seaweed biscuits with a piece of miso bread on the side which served as a surprisingly delightful palate cleanser. But it was the langoustine ravioli across the table, topped with shavings of truffle and a seafood foam, that won the contest for this course. I went on to a stew of confit duck leg with truffles; high end comfort food. He went for suckling pig, exquisitely presented three ways. My chef's menu included a desert of his choice, a chestnut paste parfait with green tea ice cream which was tolerable (that's saying a lot, as green tea is one of the few tastes I really detest) but not a huge success. Piers' wander through the impressive cheese board was more of a triumph, distinguished by an unusual variety mixed with beer and rolled in paprika.

Saturday and Sunday evenings were far more manageable in cost but, this being Paris and the euro being extremely strong, it's still best for a couple to plan on 150 t0 180 for three courses and wine. Keeping in mind that the wine and the preceding aperitifs are likely to account for up to half of that, if you're lingering at the table for three hours and want to drink something nice.

Saturday was back to Roger La Grenouille (see 4.12.09), which didn't fare so well on second exposure. Partially, I'm sure, due to the magnificent levels of the night before, and partly due to rather average main courses. Those were a classic steak frites for him and a venison stew for me. Good, but nothing to write home about. The starters were far better, with me returning to the same trio of foie gras that had impressed me the year before, and the man having his foie gras fresh, pan fried and served up on toasted brioche with caramelised apples. The puddings here were the best of the trip, with Piers' rhum baba coming with a bottle of rum for him to help himself, while my mille feuille with chocolate layers and pistachio cream was the stuff of fantasy.

The next night we switched gears and tried Moroccan, figuring that the French imperial past probably meant this cuisine would be as good here as curry is in London. L'Atlas is a beautifully decorated place (think Arabic palace, awash with fountains, tile work and intricately patterned white plasterwork) on the Rue St. Germain near the Pont de la Tournelle. My sweet tooth makes me fond of the sweet and savoury combinations in North African cooking, and I've never tasted it better than here. I started out with a foie gras bastilla, a wacky but highly successful combination of French and African cuisines. I certainly wouldn't try replicating this at home, as I would never willfully deep fry an ingredient this expensive, but I have to admit the result was exquisite, and my best starter of the trip. I'm afraid the man's spicy crab pastries couldn't compare. My tagine of pigeon and prunes was a bit of a miscalculation; exquisite flavours but it's a bird that's so difficult to eat it's nearly impossible to get off the bone. I really should have just gone for lamb.

The real winner was the lamb couscous across the table, served with high drama and generous quantity. Out came what I can only describe as a silver punch bowl, filled with a rich chicken soup laden with carrots and celery. A separate plate held a massive slab of barbecued lamb. Beside that, three dishes held spicy harissa paste, plump rehydrated raisins and almonds. And in front of Piers was placed a mound of fluffy couscous. To which the waiter added the vegetables and several ladles of broth, before mixing the last ladle with the harissa to make a rose-coloured wash. Next the meat, then a sprinkling of the raisins and almonds. Gorgeous. All this was complimented by a magnificent Moroccan red wine so good we had a second bottle. Which means I can't tell you too much about the plate of pastries that ended the meal, other than that they added to the general sense of well being and comfort that propelled us homeward that night.

Our only unplanned meal of the trip was the man's favourite, mostly due to a steak tartare that was the best either of us have tasted. (And he's quite the connoisseur of this dish.) The Royal Turenne is a classic Parisian bistro a block west of the Place des Voges in the Marais, heaving with French custom despite its highly touristy location. We were packed in like sardines and service was slow due to the few waiters handling the crowd. But they were genial, the food was good, their wine picks were spot on and the prices were the lowest of the weekend. My wild boar stew was just average compared to many versions I've enjoyed in Tuscany, but was filling enough to be the only meal of the day. Back in Basingstoke that evening I couldn't even contemplate eating. Really, I should be launching myself into a rather serious austerity campaign.

Unfortunately for my diet, but luckily for you, dear readers, I'm back in France next week. And the diary for the rest of the year looks packed with fun ... including a Michelin-starred Thanksgiving dinner. So come back soon to share more culinary and touristic delights.

Notre Dame is not Paris' greatest church; make Sainte-Chapelle your first sightseeing priority

Day three in Paris was supposed to be devoted entirely to the Louvre. Not only is it a blockbuster site, but it has a checked baggage facility and sits a stone's throw from the RER station that takes you to the airport. A perfect occupation for a day ending with a return flight.

We were, however, shy of crowds after the horrors of Versailles the day before. The idea of spending another day standing in queues, packed with the rest of the sightseeing throng, didn't appeal. We wanted a gentle, relaxed time. A day that would leave a soft, warm Parisian glow in our bellies as we stepped on that plane to London. And that's just what we got.

We started at my favourite Gothic building in Paris, the Sainte-Chapelle. The royal palace that once surrounded it has been replaced by government buildings, making it a bit of a hidden jewel; you need to seek it out, as you're unlikely to stumble upon it from this corridor of bureaucracy a stone's throw from Notre Dame. Built in the early 1240s to house an impressive pack of relics King Louis IX (later St. Louis) bought from the Holy Land, it is an exquisite, jewel-encrusted reliquary writ large. It's a riot of colour from its magnificently polychromed statues and columns through its wonderous windows to its lapis-infused blue ceiling mimicking the heavens with golden stars.

It's actually two chapels, with the one for the common people on the ground floor. The lower chapel is spectacular on its own, with gold, enamel and jeweled quatrefoils showing bible scenes and walls painted to copy rich materials. But it's just a visual amuse bouche for what's ahead. You dive into a dark, featureless spiral stair, climb four rotations and come out into the vivid magnificence of the upper chapel, where the windows are so dominant you hardly notice there's a stone framework to hold them in place. A great medieval church strove to create a vision of heaven on earth, elevating people from their mundane lives to a higher plane filled with mystery, awe and beauty. I don't think there's a religious building in France that does this better than Sainte-Chapelle.

Of course, the church everyone heads for immediately in this town is Notre Dame. I could hardly contain my disappointment when I first saw it, caked with urban grime on the outside, dark within and much smaller than expected. By this time I'd taken in the splendors of Westminster Abbey, Salisbury, Lincoln, King's College chapel in Cambridge ... all magnificent buildings that had the advantage of studying from Notre Dame's early innovation (notably pointed arches and flying buttresses) and then improving upon it. But the French have recently finished cleaning up this architectural matriarch, and she's looking grand. With the exterior sparkling white, it's much easier to appreciate the multitude of sculpted saints, the stone tracery and the famous gargoyles.

Inside, we benefited from three things. First, it was still early enough for the crowds to be manageable. Second, it was a sunny day. The windows don't dominate the walls here as they do in later Gothic churches, but those that do cut through the stone are gorgeous. While Sainte-Chapelle is almost exclusively blue in its glass, Notre Dame ads a heart-stopping red to the mix, like liquid rubies when the sun filters through. Third, it was All Saints Day and we were there during high mass, with a full complement of formally robed priests using some of the fine ornaments from the treasury and a choir adding a sacred soundtrack. Notre Dame is a stage set, after all, and on this day they were putting on the show. Any building works better when it's being used for its original purpose.

After that, it was time to introduce Piers to another of my Parisian favourites, the Marais. Versailles set the model for palaces, Notre Dame formed the template for the Gothic, and it's the Place des Voges in this district that set the model for every sophisticated urban square that followed. London architecture as we know it today simply wouldn't exist without this 17th century innovation in town planning. Today it's one of the most beautiful bits of the city, filled with elegant homes and high end shops, usually enlivened by the jazz quartet Borsalino, who seem to have become a regular fixture.

From here it was a wander down the Rue des Francs-Bourgeois, where the street level view is of cool clothing boutiques and funky jewelry shops, while a lift of the eyes reveals a wealth of 17th century aristocratic homes. With our mutual interest in history, the Musee Carnavalet would have been the perfect place for us to spend the afternoon, were it not closed on Mondays. So after getting a feel for the area, the logical next step seemed to be a leisurely lunch. (Check in tomorrow for the restaurant roundup.)

After lunch, the clock was ticking. We had 90 minutes before we needed to be picking up luggage back at the hotel. Time, it seemed, for one more church.

La Madeleine is a neoclassical pile just off the Place de La Concorde. From the exterior, it's distinguished by its exact resemblance to a Roman temple, imposing Corinthian columns atop a solid stone platform holding up a highly decorated pediment. And also by its position opposite its matching building, the Asemblée National, sitting on the other side of the Seine across the Place. The interior is less impressive, mainly because the line of coffered, oculus-pierced domes that run down the nave are dark, dirty and desperately in need of renovation. This brings a touch of gloom to the whole place. Looking past that, however, you see the strict neoclassicism continued in here. The statues in the niches could just as easily be Jupiter, Juno and Mercury as the saints who stand there today. The most unique element of the interior, however, is the distinctly un-Roman organ, which has seen a long line of famous musical directors including Saint-Saëns and Gabriel Fauré. The church regularly hosts concerts and we were lucky enough to be wandering while the organist was in full flow. As with Notre Dame, the music transformed the experience.

And then it was all over. The clock hit 4:30 and it was time to grab luggage and head for the airport. We'd rolled a massive amount of sightseeing into three days, but not so much that we'd exhausted ourselves. Primarily because each night we refreshed ourselves with some truly fine dining. To read about that, you'll have to come back tomorrow.

Crowds make Versailles more chore than a delight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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