Fine B&B, wide sightseeing options and diverse shopping make Cheltenham a great weekend away

If I were the benevolent dictator of my own country (a regular fantasy, I confess), I would mandate that the predominant architectural style be late Georgian/Regency. I might allow the odd Gothic church or Jacobean garden folly, perhaps an art deco yacht, but my world would, on the whole, be calming, symmetrical, columned and detailed with classical motifs.

It is no wonder, then, that I loved Cheltenham. It is very much like its near neighbour, Bath, but on a smaller scale and without many of the tourists. It has Regency arcades, Georgian parades, domed public spaces and caryatids stoically supporting its shop fronts. An ideal location for sightseeing, with all the delights of the Cotswolds to the East and the exquisite border country of the Wye Valley to the West. Thus, unsurprisingly, it's also home to some fine B&Bs, interesting shopping and good restaurants. A perfect place, then, to while away a bank holiday weekend ... come rain or shine. (We had both.)

Our B&B (pictured at left) was a destination in itself and a highlight of the trip; I wouldn't think of coming back to this part of the world without a return stop there. Hanover House is a member of Wolsey Lodges, a federation of B&Bs I've patronised often in the past because of their philosophy that you should feel like an honoured guest in someone's country home rather than a paying customer. Hosts Veronica and James Ritchie are an absolute delight, and together create a home that comes pretty close to my own ideal.

Gracious yet comfortable public rooms with towering ceilings and large windows gazing onto trees or gardens. Cozy, large bedrooms with plenty of privacy. A hearty and delicious breakfast served communally around the table in the bright and cheery basement kitchen. A table populated, thanks to the place's reputation and Veronica's judicious guest management, with a fascinating, genial mix. One morning, for example, we started our day with an Australian couple on an extended tour of the UK and France, a Chinese exec managing a major construction project in the town and the artistic director and founder of the Pegasus Opera company. (Frankly, I couldn't have planned anything so calculated to delight my partner as bumping into a Wagnerian tenor at breakfast. Sometimes there's nothing so fine as chance.)

Wolsey Lodges will always be my starting point for B&B shopping in the UK, and Hanover House is an exemplar of the reason why. Do try them out if you're in this part of the country.

We could have easily sunk into the over-stuffed couches in that light-dappled lounge and read a good book all day with the strains of Classic FM in the background. But that would have been a waste of some particularly good sightseeing in the area.

We spent most of Saturday wandering about Cheltenham, which turns out to be a great shopping town. It has all of the usual chain shops, many of them in particularly attractive quarters, as well as some unique independent retailers. Our favourite was a place called "Cooking the Books", a bookshop devoted entirely to cookbooks, new and old, and stuffed to the ceilings with stock. On the cultural front, we wandered over to the Holst Birthplace Museum.

By no means a blockbuster, this friendly little museum is worth a look-in if you're interested in the man's music and want to get a peek at a middle class home in one of those regency terraces. It won't take you long. The ground floor is dedicated to the composer and makes his piano the centrepiece; the first offers a look at a late Regency sitting room and bedroom, the second is a nursery. They've kitted out the basement as a working Victorian kitchen, particularly interesting when considering how much time housekeeping actually took 100 years ago. I thought they really missed the opportunity to have Holst's music playing throughout, as part of the point of the exhibits is to remind people that he had a vast body of work beyond "The Planets". It would have been nice to hear. But I suspect even something as simple as a wireless speaker set up is a bit rich for this tiny place that is probably operating on a similarly small budget.
The weather on Saturday had been a miserable mix of chill air and grim drizzle, so our wander up to the famous Barrow Wake Viewpoint to get an expansive panorama of the area didn't work so well. Beguiled by the potential of the place, however, we decided to start our tour from there on the weather-perfect Sunday. This is one of those scenes that reminds you that Britain (and I use the word on purpose, you're looking at both England and Wales here) is one of the most exquisitely beautiful countries on Earth.

We drove on to Hereford, convertible open, blue skies welcoming us. If Barrow Wake shows off one of the world's most gorgeous countries, then the route between Gloucester and Hereford on the A40 and A49 proves it close up. A sinuous yet well-maintained road winds across valleys and through forests. There's the occasional charming pub or village in the distance, but it's mostly a vista of white sheep dotting green hills and, at this time of year, verges exploding with the pinks, yellows and whites of spring-flowering trees. There was one stretch where all this beauty was accompanied by Beethoven's Fifth on the radio, a fitting soundtrack for such visual perfection. We need not ever have arrived in Hereford, so soul-soothing was the getting there.

But arrive we did, to find one of the country's smallest cathedrals, best known for one particular treasure. Of that, more tomorrow...

Delights of Basingstoke may come as a surprise

If my English readers would stop sniggering at my headline, we'll move on.

Admittedly, the words "delightful" and "Basingstoke" don't get used much together. It's a modern town of tall office buildings, new-built apartment complexes and a sprawling industrial park standing astride the M3. It's the kind of place you drive past on your way to the numerous, pastoral delights of Hampshire. Unless, of course, you decide to spend a lot of time with someone who lives there ... in which case, you can't help but discover that this place has charms beyond its convenient transport links.

My greatest discovery, bar none, is the Berry Bros. and Rudd outlet store.
This name is one of the most august in British retail, wine merchants to royalty and society since 1698. Their shop on St. James street, just up from the palace, is like a time machine back to the 18th century, and their staff are acknowledged as some of England's best experts on French wines. Prices match the brand, of course. I have browsed at Berry's, bought the occasional Christmas gift for the added zing of the branded wrapping, but am more likely to head to the discount wine warehouse than buy much in St. James.

And then I discovered that this posher-than-posh establishment has its administrative offices, and sells all its bin ends for at least 25 per cent off, in a non-descript, light industrial commercial park just .89 miles from my boyfriend's flat. A fine stopping off point on a lunch time walk.

I adore wine shops. They provide vicarious tourism, their diverse labels sweeping you off to memories of France, past holidays in Italy, or aspirational excursions around Chile and Argentina. I am a believer in the concept of Terroir, thus find it magical that those thousands of bottles contain the captured essence of the planet itself. And the contents will taste delicious and complement a good meal. What more do you want?

To make things even better, Berry's staff here is of the same quality as the St. James flagship. Well-bred young men with floppy hair, posh accents and an encyclopedic knowledge of wine. Thus providing me the ability to have a little browse, a little chat, then get advised on which bit of the planet to take home to match that evening's dinner. This is also a great way to experiment with new things. The team steered me toward a piquepoul, redolent of the sharp sun and Southern lifestyle of the Languedoc. The grape's name translates as "lip stinger" and is known for its high acidity; therefore recommended for the pork belly my boyfriend was laying on that night. Not one of my favourite whites, but it did complement the meat and the buying process was half the fun. The Berry warehouse will, no doubt, be seeing a lot of us.

The second delightful discovery is a wonderful Italian restaurant in Basingstoke's Festival Place Shopping centre. We'd just emerged from seeing the new "Robin Hood", so I was already in a fine mood. (sword fights, romance, plucky heroines and Russell Crowe. Of course I loved it.) The mall just outside the cinema is filled with many of the usual chains; we were considering La Tasca when an unknown name beckoned: Ciao Baby Cucina.

A menu filled with authentic Italian favourites, definitely sliding towards the Southern Italian cuisine more familiar in Italian American restaurants. Open, friendly, modern setting. Moderate prices. And a staff so ridiculously friendly and helpful I thought that we had, indeed, been transported to the United States. Every taste was as it should be, including my veal ... a dish rarely done outside of really fine restaurants in the UK, probably due to the Brits' passionate animal rights stance. The manager was also our waiter for the evening, giving us insight into the place (it's actually a chain from South Africa with only two outlets in the UK, this one and one at Westfield Shopping Centre in Shepherd's Bush) and recommending a pinotage so good we had to take the empty bottle home to save the label.

So there, my friends, are at least two reasons to visit Basingstoke. Stay tuned for more.

Pied a Terre reminds me what Michelin stars are all about

I may not have simple tastes, but they are predictable. When I hear a waiter speaking the words "and now, for your first dessert ..." to another diner, I suspect I'm in for a happy day. At the point where I realise I'm going to have foie gras in three courses in a row? That's when I know I'm heading towards the happiness milestone for the week.

(Assuming, of course, good dining companions. Which I had. No gourmet delicacy can compensate for boring people.)

Which brings us to Pied a Terre, my latest star in London's Michelin firmament. Two stars, actually. Chef Shane Osborn is that rarest of things in this town: a star-winning chef without a celebrity profile. Google him, and you'll see the similarly named state treasurer of Nebraska. Yet chef deserves some fame, primarily for being the first Australian ever to win a Michelin star. Also for keeping Pied a Terre going, and winning its second star, after its previous wunderkind walked out to launch his own place. That was Tom Aikens (see 30.3.08) and, at least based on my experiences, Osborn outcooks his old boss.

We started with a beautiful little rectangular amuse bouche platter arranged with three bite-sized delights: foie gras spread between thin seeded wafers, squash mousse in a shot glass, deep fried gnocchi. It seems that this was served even to those ordering the reasonably-priced set menu. (Two courses for £23.50.) We, however, were a little more celebratory, picking three courses off the wide-ranging a la carte list.

The amuse bouche came after we'd ordered, thus surprising me with my triple crown of foie gras. My starter was pan fried foie gras with a very thin lasagna sheet folded beneath it, topped with a rich consume and some crunchy fried onions to add texture. Had I been forced to leave at that point, I would have been well satisfied. Instead I ratcheted up the pleasure with Anjou pigeon, perfectly cooked so that it was moist and full of flavour, presented with the confit pigeon leg stuffed with foie gras. One of my colleagues is vegetarian and had one of the prettiest plates of greenery I've ever seen. But I was reveling in carnivorous delights and didn't feel the need for the healthy stuff. The rest of the week is for Weight Watchers no-point vegetable soup.

I will admit, however, that my taste buds were well drowned with rich flavours when that first dessert came. It was some sort of citrussy mousse (perhaps passion fruit), with just the right balance of lightness and tartness to cleanse the palate.

Good thing, too. Because chocolate was coming. A dense, flourless slice clearly made with some excellent quality dark chocolate. A dollop of vanilla cream and another of stout-flavoured (yes, as in Guinness) ice cream accompanied the main event. The stout ice cream was a revelation. Not a surprise, mind you, to anyone who's drunk the real stuff in Dublin and realised that there's a creamy, almost chocolatey undertone to a pint. Made into ice cream and paired with proper chocolate? Ben and Jerry, you're missing something here. And as if things weren't good enough, the plate was decorated with caramelised macadamia nuts. Heaven. In fact, one of the best desserts I've had anywhere in a very long time.

But that was only the second round of sweets. On came the petit fours, an artistic arrangement of tiny candies and biscuits arranged on a multi-tiered piece of modern art. No, we couldn't eat them all. Yes, I wish I could have swept them into my handbag for later.

In food, Pied a Terre was everything a Michelin starred place should be. Great ingredients, perfectly prepared and imaginatively conceived. Add to that great service and a cozy atmosphere. The place only has 40 covers in two small dining rooms. It's practically a dinner party.

Thank you, Mr. Osborn. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised that, given the competitive nature of Australians, the man has conquered the foodie heights. I'll never take a young restaurant worker from Oz for granted again. He could have a meal like this up his sleeve.

Luxembourg lays out more foodie delights

Luxembourg has the highest GDP in the world, so it is perhaps not surprising that it also has the highest percentage of Michelin restaurant stars per inhabitant of any country. I have written often about the restaurants of this gastronomic paradise. One of our greatest foodie delights lay in doing it ourselves.

Chef Bertrand has gone the restaurant route, and now operates a kitchen, classroom and shop in a storefront a few miles west of Luxembourg city centre. The formula is a simple one: custom-designed cooking classes for small groups, ending in the eating of what you've made, complete with generous quantities of matching wines. A great way to get to know people, and a pleasant alternative to yet another night out in a restaurant.

Bertrand's place consists of a kitchen on one side, dominated by a large work island that comfortably fit the six of us that evening. All the necessary ingredients for the evening are artfully laid out, and the menu is written on a nearby chalkboard. The other side of the room is dominated by two large tables, at which you get to eat once you've put in a bit of hard graft.

Unlike most cooking schools, Bertrand doesn't demonstrate and then have each team repeat what he's shown. Instead, he sets each person to individual tasks, popping from one to another with instruction and weaving it all together with general descriptions for everyone. Thus the lesson part moves much faster than the usual cooking school, though you have to pay sharp attention if you're actually going to get the recipes written down. (I got the impression Bertrand wasn't keen to expose too many of his actual recipes.)

Our evening started with a simple appetiser of smoked salmon, laid over a mixture of ricotta and olive oil spooned atop a slice of baguette, then topped with sesame seeds. I'd never contemplated the combination. It was fantastic. We moved on to a Thai style dish of prawns in spicy coconut broth, then roast duck with oriental vegetables, ending with a sinfully rich, flourless chocolate tart.

Our other highlight was a return to La Distillerie, which was just as marvelous the third time as the first. Having already written about its delights in detail (see 5.2.10 and 19.7.08), I'll just say that chef René Mathieu continues to dazzle and innovate. Yet another splurge on the 11 course tasting menu, yet another delivery of seasonal treats without any revisiting of past dishes. Similar styles, of course, but a significantly different meal than the two I've had here before. It is so easy for top chefs to rest on their laurels and serve their signature dishes for years at a time. All credit to Mathieu for continuing to innovate when, arguably, he doesn't need to.

Later in the week we enjoyed an exceptional meal at the St. Martin winery in Remich, back on the Mosel but now on the Luxembourg shore. Another return visit for me, and one that didn't disappoint. The restaurant's massive salad platters, majoring on either meat or fish, make you feel healthy while also laying out a wealth of little luxuries. On the more substantive side, my partner's steak was some of the best beef I've had in a while.

With all that fine eating behind us, we spent the last day of our trip at the spa in Mondorf-Les-Bains, hoping that the pummeling of the water jets and sweating in the sauna would extract a bit of the fat and alcohol I'd consumed during the past week. Fat chance. But lying back in the hot bubble pool, watching the leaves dance on the trees in the open air above me, I didn't really care. Yet again, Luxembourg delivered a holiday big on gourmet delights and relaxation.

Mosel is a delight of wine, food and wandering, but we chose our castles badly

Poor Germany. It may have the strongest economy in Europe, but it's the poor man of the continent when it comes to holiday appeal. People wax lyrical over the French countryside, Tuscan villas, Spanish beaches, English country houses. When was the last time someone captivated you with tales of his Teutonic holiday?

The Germans have a PR problem. As with their white wines, the sightseeing reality is far, far better than its reputation. I had a chance to put both wine and tourism to the test this week, with several meanders into the Mosel Valley from our base in Luxembourg. I can assure you that this was a very fine holiday indeed.

Of the delights of Trier I've already written (see 2.12.07, 27.7.08). We spent an enjoyable day there this trip, but new treats were to be found further up the Mosel Valley. We spent one long, lazy stretch wandering from Piesport to Cochem. The river's deep bends and wandering curves meant that a distance covered in less than one hour on the motorway took nearly six on the river road. But we didn't mind the pace. It was a sunny day, we had the top down on the convertible and the views were exceptional. One picturesque, half-timbered Hansel-and-Gretel village followed another, interspersed with limestone bluffs or steep slopes of vines, often crowned with quaint, open-sided chapels. And always beside us the placid river, flowing gently between its tree-lined banks.

The lovely, quiet village of Brauneberg is typical of the area, its main street lined with small wineries inviting your custom. Gut instinct steered us to Reuter-Dusemund, where we spent an enjoyable hour sampling their wide range. (Fortunately, my partner speaks German ... a must for real enjoyment of these family-run operations, which don't do mass marketing and don't do much English.) The rieslings were as fine as expected, but our real discovery was rivaner (also known as Müller-Thurgau). The second most-widely planted grape in Germany, though I'd never heard of it. Almost clear in colour, delicate, lightly floral, meant to be drunk now ... and cheap (about £2 a bottle). We happily filled the car with our discoveries.

On to Bernkastle for lunch, another half-timbered stage-set of a town clustered beneath castle ruins. We ate at the Ratskeller on the main square, a cozy, picturesque warren of groin vaults, painted ceilings and leaded glass windows. I'd had a comfort food heaven of schnitzel, spaetzle and weissbier here in February and was keen to give it another try. The menu was slightly less stodgy this visit as we were in the middle of white asparagus season. The Germans are mad about the stuff, and the whole menu had been rewritten around spargel. The fat, pale shafts doused in hollandaise were a delicious accompaniment to the veal, though as a rule I'll still cast my vote for the green English variety.

It took most of the afternoon to get from Bernkastle to Cochem, so there was no time to explore the latter town's fairy tale castle. It is, as with so many German examples, a medieval shell that was restored and kitted out to Wagnerian fantasy in the 19th century. Having seen a few examples of these, I decided to direct our attentions later in the week to Burg Eltz, a castle famous for its authenticity. The same family has lived here for more than 800 years and it's never been captured or conquered. I can tell you why. Because nobody else would be able to find the bloody place.

Eltz gives "off the beaten track" a new meaning. Despite maps, roadsigns, two people with good senses of direction and frequent stops to ask for guidance, we drove up hills, through forests and across valleys for more than an hour from spotting the first directional sign. Finally, we made it to the castle car park. By this point my anticipation was keen. Sadly, I was disappointed.

Burg Eltz is charming in its authenticity, striking from the outside, but hardly one of the finest castles in Europe (as travel writer Rick Steves opined) and certainly not worth the hours it took us to get there. Pleasant, yes, but not worthy of superlatives.

It is, without doubt, the view from the exterior that is the place's best feature, and on a sunny day a hike through the woods around it, to end as you clear the tree line and see the castle on a pinnacle in the valley below, would have been stunning. Our cold and rainy weather saw us arriving through the drizzle on the castle shuttle bus and pushed our attentions indoors, where the scenes were less exceptional.

Eltz is noteworthy for a series of interiors basically unaltered since the late middle ages. There are some interesting wall paintings and a few fine pieces of German renaissance furniture. The family treasury has some interesting bits, particularly gold and silver table ornaments. But, on the whole, there's a lot less here to explore than you'd expect. One of the things that differentiates Eltz is that three branches of the same family have lived here, each in a different wing to which they've added. You only get to explore rooms within one wing, however, so expectations of a vast stage on which to ramble are quickly dashed.

I left the Mosel with two regrets. I wished I'd gone to Cochem rather than Eltz. And we should have packed more rivaner into the car. Oh, well. There's always next trip.

Napoleon seems to be the hero of Waterloo, though we know better

Battlefields are tough places to appreciate. You know something significant took place there, but without a guide capable of spinning a descriptive story, the fields of Bosworth or the beaches at Normandy are just attractive and protected natural landscapes with a sprinkling of monuments. Fortunately for me, I surveyed the fields of Waterloo with a man so well-versed in the dramatic events of this place that I sometimes swear he fought there in a former life. (Saving the day as part of the Prussian forces, I'd guess.)

Waterloo was hugely significant in European history; its outcome determined much of the direction of our modern world. Sadly, these days, many modern Brits are more likely to identify it as a train station or an Abba song than the place just south of Brussels at which Wellington and his allied forces brought Napoleon to his final defeat. It is exactly half way between the port of Calais and our destination in Luxembourg, thus made an excellent interlude on our first day of holiday.

I have four enduring impressions of Waterloo. First, the Butte de Lion. Second, my surprise at how small the combat zone was. Third, an adventure over atrocious roads. And fourth, the long-term victory of Napoleon.

The largest monument at Waterloo is the grass-covered, conical hill called the Butte de Lion. Its 141 feet tower over everything else in this gently sloping landscape, and indeed the Butte is so dominant that we could follow it, rather than signposts, once spotted from the nearby village of Waterloo. It's topped by a mammoth statue of an aristocratic lion who, I'd always assumed, was the beast of British symbolism. Wrong. Turns out it's a Dutch Lion, and the spot marks a relatively unimportant (except to his family) moment in the battle when Prince William II of the Netherlands was knocked from his horse after taking a musket ball in the shoulder.

Still, Daddy ruled the territory where the battle was fought, so he organised the movement of tonnes of earth to set up his son's monument. My tour guide (and, history reports, the Duke of Wellington himself) considers the mound's construction to be a desecration, as it required the removal of so much earth than it leveled out the ridge that was instrumental in the Anglo-Allied victory. (Wellington's hiding masses of troops behind it was a critical factor in the battle.) It is, however, a brilliant vantage point. After climbing its 226 steps, you're treated to a sweeping view that encompasses all the major points of action. Which led to my second lasting impression.

This is a small place. A pleasant walk on a fine day. A few minutes to cross over on horseback. It is almost inconceivable that more than 200,000 men with their horses, cannon and weapons could have fit here, much less maneuvered and fought. The horror of it ... the blood, the bodies, the smoke, the mud ... must have been beyond belief. Indeed, Wellington wrote a letter from the field in which he said "nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won". For me, the compact size of the place amplified that dramatically.

After our climb on the Butte, atop which my guide talked me through the whole day with a detail-spiked drama that had many of our fellow tourists eavesdropping, we set off to check out some of the lesser known elements on the east side of the battlefield. Should you be tempted, don't do this. The roads are deplorable. I swear some of those cobblestones haven't been replaced since the battle itself. We were scraping through potholes, reversing for long distances down blocked, one-way lanes and narrowly avoiding perils that had me convinced we'd leave half my car's undercarriage on the battlefield along with the honour of the French Imperial guard. It was a nerve-wracking bit of the day, though it did make it feel like a bit of an adventure.

And finally, just who won the battle? In fact, the combined forces of the English and their allies under Wellington's command. Napoleon left the battlefield, soon to be taken into English custody and sent to his final, ignominious incarceration on St. Helena. But to anyone landing on this site with no knowledge of history, you'd swear the Frenchman took the day. His image is everywhere. His statue dominates the car park. The retail and restaurant complex is called the Bivouac de l'Empereur. Staff re-enacting elements of the battle wear French uniforms. The gift shop is a memorial to the world's most famous Corsican, where you can pick up tee shirts with his image, books about him, models of his hat and weapons or his bust for your desk in a variety of sizes. It was Napoleon, after all, who said "history is a set of lies agreed upon". Those who designed the experience at Waterloo seem to agree that Napoleon's is the history worth remembering.

Poor Wellington. At least he got boots and a nice beef dish. Such are the ironies of history.