Windy Ridge offers English fantasy with a slice of B&B on the side

Sometimes, stereotypes are a good thing. Sometimes, that's exactly what you want from tourism. You're not looking for an accurate social reflection, an ironic twist on local culture or a rebellious stand against the norm. You're on holiday. You want a storybook version of a place, not reality.

For English tourism ... at least to the American mind ... this version is probably best captured in sleepy Cotswold villages, where golden stone parish churches stand sentinel over the patchwork of farm fields, cottage gardens tumble beneath thatched eaves, Miss Marple is waiting just around a corner to catch the local aristocratic murderer and somewhere in a disused long gallery there's a wardrobe that can take you to Narnia. And once you've made it to the Cotswolds, I'd suggest a fine B&B to indulge in the myth: Windy Ridge.

The impression starts from the main road. Take the small lane across from the pub with the bright red George VI postbox in front of the stone estate wall. Turn through the lane and crunch up the gravel, with those wacky stone mushrooms and tall hedges lining the way. There's a glimpse of a corridor between the yew, an old well at its centre now cascading with flowers. You see a thatched roof amongst the cluster of outbuildings before coming on the house itself. Properly substantial hounds (an Italian spinone and a boxer) lope across some lawns, while the house chickens peck across others. An uneven roofline of differing gables, formal gardens behind a wrought iron gate, leaded windows allowing peeps into gracious rooms, and the substantial house itself all built in that warm, golden stone that exudes history.

Ironically, the antiquity is no more "real" than thousands of mock Tudor mansions in American suburbia. Windy Ridge, including its gardens and outbuildings, was built in open fields by the current owner's father in the 1950s. Cotswold stone mellows quickly, however, and English gardens mature fast in this part of the country, making it hard to differentiate Windy Ridge from neighbouring houses with hundreds more years on their foundations.

The relatively new house brings some real advantages for B&B guests, however. While enjoying the illusion of history, you're not ducking under dangerously low beams, avoiding creaking stairs or tripping over uneven spots in the floor. Windy Ridge has comfortable, gracious proportions and was clearly built for entertaining. There are just four bedrooms, yet guests have the run of a substantial part of the house. This includes their own kitchen off the main hall (essential for organising your picnic at the neighbouring Longborough Opera Festival); a classic country house sitting room with overstuffed couches, fireplace, views of a gorgeous garden and an honour bar, the proceeds of which go to charity; and a breakfast/garden room with an indoor fountain, French doors to the same garden and an eccentric collection of Oriental art and decorative items.

Breakfast in that room is taken at a long table with your other guests and is both tasty and remarkably generous. In recent years the "Full English" at many B&Bs has become increasingly posh, majoring on provenance of fancy ingredients while shrinking what arrives on the plate. I wouldn't recommend too many breakfasts at Windy Ridge because of the threat of extreme weight gain. But for a weekend treat the generous bowls of fresh berries, the plates groaning beneath their piles of eggs, sausage, bacon, mushrooms, beans and tomatoes and the basket of fresh-baked croissants ... all washed down with a pot of coffee large enough that you actually can drink your fill without begging for more ... hit the spot.

The guest quarters carry on the balance of old and new with traditional fabrics, furniture and artwork, with rooms sized for the 20th century and big windows overlooking those gorgeous gardens. The flat screen TV is the only hint at the modern world. The beds are comfortable and the nights dark and quiet. One bit of old fashioned architecture, however: There's a giant tub, but only a hand held shower rather than a proper wall mounted unit. If, like me, you like to lounge in hot water with a good book you'll be in heaven. If, like my boyfriend, you like your showers, you might be a bit disgruntled with your morning routine. Forewarned is forearmed.

The icing on this pastoral cake, however, is proprietor Nick Williams and his wife Jenny. You'll feel much more of a friend and house guest than a paying customer. They're both interested in their guests and interesting to talk to (ask about Jenny's job, and Homer the dog's extravagant burial), and don't hesitate to go the extra bit to satisfy your needs. To ensure our perfect day, Nick drove us over to the Longborough Opera grounds early to show us the way and suggest picnic spots, then gave us a tour of the arboretum planted by his father before lending us the golf cart for the rest of the day so we wouldn't have to carry all our picnic gear.

There are plenty of B&Bs I enjoy, but there are very few I leave scheming how I could get enough friends together to book the whole place for a weekend. This is one of them. Stay tuned to see how quickly I return.

Longborough Festival Opera provides a day to remember

Every so often, life brings along a completely magical day, filled with perfection and extraordinary happenings. Days you carefully wrap in the tissue paper of memory, to be taken out, reviewed and burnished for ever after as a reminder of how good things can be.

I was already fairly sure Saturday was turning into one of those days when a crowning moment confirmed it. We'd just emerged from the opera, emotionally drained and moved by the majesty of Wagner's work. Returning to our picnic spot at the top of the hill, with its magnificent views over the Cotswold countryside now dark purple and bronze in the deepening twilight, we opened the flap of the tent protecting our picnic gear and found a watercolour of the two of us dining there earlier in the day, a special moment captured and given to us by local artist Caroline Green. (Do check out her website at www.carolinehgreen.com.)

Frankly, I couldn't have planned for such a wonderful conclusion ... and this was a day that had been planned in great detail. It was my boyfriend's birthday, the first we have spent together, so I wanted to make it special. He loves Wagner, thus it seemed an act of fate when I discovered that the Longborough Festival Opera was putting on Die Walküre on the big day.

Many readers would have heard of Glyndebourne, the country house in East Sussex now world-famous for the summer opera season it hosts in the theatre within its grounds. Longborough is similar; but smaller, newer and lesser known. Thus it actually has tickets available to the general public if you plan far enough in advance (I booked ours in March).

The Longborough Opera Festival started as a shared passion amongst a group of friends who loved Wagner and Mozart enough to try to stage their operas at home. Twenty years later the DIY-show-in-the-barn has evolved into a proper little opera house, hosting some of the most technically demanding shows in the repertoire performed with ... if what we saw is typical ... the same quality and sophistication of major London companies. Inside, the theatre seats just 480, in plush red velvet seats purchased from the Royal Opera House during its last renovation. ("Not the most comfortable; there's a reason they got rid of those", said the birthday boy. Frankly, if you're going to be sitting in one place for five hours, anything can make you a bit stiff.) It's an incredibly intimate setting, with just 18 rows on the main auditorium and one circle of boxes in a balcony above.

Outside, a Palladian facade is painted a classically Italian pink and the two inspiring composers are joined by Verdi as statues on the roof. The theatre sits just a stone's throw across a formal, Italian-style garden from the classic Cotswold gold stone house of Martin and Lizzie Graham, the driving forces behind bringing this madness to life.

But I jump ahead of myself. The magic starts long before the conductor picks up his baton, with the classiest tailgate I've ever seen. In a long, sloping field in front of the house, punters are welcome to pull up, unload their cars and establish their picnic spots from two hours before performance time. There's plenty of room to spread out, thus preserving the pastoral feel despite the 150 or so cars around you. People bring tents, gazebos, tables, lanterns, garden furniture and all manner of accoutrement to settle in for the day. Ladies swan about in cocktail dresses, men wear black tie or the British summer uniform of light chinos, blue blazer and panama hat, while popping champagne corks provide a staccato prelude to the music to come. The view is sublime and classically English: in the foreground the beautiful house, traditional gardens and the opera house as the ultimate garden folly, in the distance a view over a classic Cotswold valley that stretches for miles. It was the fantasy picture of rural England, and for part of the afternoon it was even overhung by a rainbow in another mark of the day's perfection.

We stayed at the neighbouring manor house (review to come tomorrow) and, while we could have walked through the arboretum between the two properties, our B&B host saw the size of my picnic and offered the loan of his golf cart. Thus we arrived in unusual style, breaking cover of the diverse woodland and coming through the hurdle gate in our electric chariot. We were early enough to nab a prime spot at the top of the hill, taking in the best of that marvelous view, and set up our little palatial encampment with a domed tent to cover our picnic (and us, in case of rain) and a carpet spread before it patterned on a 17th century Gobelins tapestry. Time for a bottle of Bollinger and the first course of prawn and crayfish tail salad served on a fan of avocado. At later intervals that was followed by foie gras and fig preserves served with a chilled Sauternes, then cold roast beef with Caesar salad and my renown arancini di riso ... a Southern Italian classic of rice balls stuffed with cheese and deep fried ... with a hearty Sicilian red. We ended up with summer pudding with clotted cream, armagnac for him and port for me. Admittedly, not your typical picnic.

But this wasn't your typical opera. I had to work myself up to my first live Wagnerian experience which, I must admit, filled me with trepidation. Would a magical setting, fine champagne, a luxury menu and great seats be enough to compensate for ... Wagner? Well, my friends, your reporter is always honest. So I have to admit: I liked it. In fact, it was great.

The setting was a modern, sparse one but worked well, giving priority to the singers and a few dramatic lighting effects. Three silent, ghost-like women glided constantly through the background, sometimes observing and sometimes pulling a rope across the stage. They were the three Norns (the fates of Norse mythology) weaving our hero's destiny across the warp and weft of circumstance.

The voices were powerful and compelling, accompanying fine acting. Something you notice when you're only 15 rows back from the stage. Jason Howard's Wotan was a moving portrait of a man torn between duty and love. He'd sung the role before, but it was Alwyn Mellor's first outing as Brunnhilde, and I delighted in her character development from mischievous daughter to passionate rebel to fearful and repentant sinner. The love story between Andrew Rees' Seigmund and Lee Bissett's Sieglinde was played out in both action and voice, and mostly in the soaring majesty of Wagner's music.

And it's that music, frankly, that elevates this to a masterpiece. It's probably heresy to say it, but I found myself thinking that Wagner must be the grandfather of movie soundtrack composers, because his music is so amazingly evocative of what's going on in the plot. The opening prelude is edgy, tense, filled with nervous energy ... you'd probably envision a chase scene even if you weren't aware that's what was coming. The music behind Seigmund and Sieglinde's love story is tender and passionate while the music that accompanies Wotan and his wife Fricka is the soundtrack of a bickering couple. It's the music that tells the story, and the music that takes you through a long, emotional roller coaster.

My idea of perfection? No. While much, much better than expected, Die Walküre was still incredibly long. I must confess to nodding off in both the first and second acts. The plot moves at a snail's pace and, no matter how wonderful the music is, the lack of action for long stretches left me dragging. The worst part, however, is that those beautiful voices sing atop that magnificent music in ... German. I tried to be open minded, but this experience hasn't changed my belief that it's simply an ugly language. Harsh, unmelodic, with a lack of rhyme that makes even the most tender of sentiments jar against the ear. Taking my heresy even further, I will confess that my dominant thought by Act 3 was that I'd love to see an edited version, with about an hour of dead time left on the cutting room floor, and translated into Italian or French.

The Wagner fans amongst my readers will just have to forgive me, and take comfort in the fact that my conversion to appreciating the Germanic genius has begun. We emerged from the theatre awed and content, in agreement that we needed to become friends of Longborough so we can ensure our places at the performance of Siegfried (the next installment of the story) next year. At which point we returned to the tent and discovered that wonderful watercolour, setting the magical seal on our most remarkable of days.

Festival of History is the next best thing to time travel

I stumbled upon English Heritage's "Festival of History" more than a decade ago, back when it was a much smaller event. Today it has grown into an absolutely massive event, stretching over many acres in the park surrounding Kelmarsh Hall in Northamptonshire. It is pure joy for history geeks, and in England there are plenty of those.
At its heart, the festival is a long weekend during which all the historical re-enactment societies come together, set up camp and invite you to wander through. Romans, Vikings, Anglo-Saxons, so many medievalists they’re sub-divided into appropriate centuries. Sealed Knot (the English civil war), colonial wars, Boer wars and both world wars. You can wander at leisure around these camps, where everything is historically authentic and the re-enactors are happy to strike up any conversation.

They are frighteningly well informed. There was the bowman from Henry V's troop who delighted in telling me how his quilted armour and yew longbow were exactly as they would have been at the siege of Harfleur. The Anglo Saxon who’d spent many, many thousands on armour made by craftsmen in the same way and style as that discovered at Sutton Hoo and now in the British Museum. And of course, the rifleman, French grenadier and naval gunner all diving into a staggering level of detail about the Napoleonic Wars. I was thinking about stopping by the late 18th century encampment to give some Redcoats hell for taxation without representation, but I thought I’d be polite. After all, with two passports and an English partner, in re-enactment terms I'd probably be more likely to be with the “loyal Americans” than the rebels.

But the camps are only the tip of the iceberg. The battle re-enactments are the big audience draws, and the arenas in which these happen have multiplied since I was here last. The biggest and most impressive shows take place in the main arena. Here, we watched a melee between Norman knights, a history of the British infantryman with army groups from 400 years showing off their kit and fighting style, and a Napoleonic skirmish that featured foot soldiers, cavalry, cannons and plenty of smoke and drama. We were treated to an impressive display of tent pegging. It's now a popular sport in India (champion Prince Malik and his team dazzled), but was originally a military tactic in which spear-bearing riders charged into a camp and plucked tent pegs from the ground, sending camps into confusion.

Another field hosted an all-day Medieval tournament with knights in shining armour. Elsewhere, the Agincourt venue staged battles from that campaign all day. And below the noble Georgian prospect of Kelmarsh Hall itself, a smaller field hosted skirmishes like the retreat from Bunker Hill (unsurprisingly, the battles re-enacted from the American War of Independence were the ones the Brits won) and scenes from the Jacobite rebellion.

Elsewhere, a tent hosted a continuous cycle of short plays capturing various times in history. (I would have liked to have caught the one about an Anglo-Roman woman fretting about her future as the legions pulled out, but we ran out of time.) Another venue hosted lectures and book signings, another a trade show demonstrating the work of various historical and archeological organisations, and yet another featuring music from different ages.

We arrived soon after opening at 9:30 and kept up a heady pace ‘til our 4pm departure. Still, we probably only saw half of what we would have ideally consumed. If I have one criticism of English Heritage ... and it's a strong one ... it's that they don't put the event schedule on line so you can do advance planning to make more of your weekend.

One lesson for next year: Bring a picnic lunch. The food providers were limited to a sparse and unimaginative set of the usual, big-event catering vans. Burgers, fish and chips, carved roast sandwiches. Expensive and uninspiring. The only memorable food was a range of fudge sold by a woman in one of the Medieval encampments. I doubt it was historically accurate ... sugar being rare and chocolate not yet discovered at the time of her historically accurate costume, but it was a tasty accompaniment as we watched the English trounce the French on the Road to Waterloo.

A cold front, rain and a diary of outdoor events signals arrival of high summer

The sunny, warm June was an aberration. We all knew it. The cold front swept in with July. And though there were still stunningly unusual bursts of heat (as experienced on the recent Norfolk trip), the blustery fourth of July bbq and packing rain gear along with the picnic stuff seemed more typical. And more English.

From that Norfolk beach, however, I have to admit I was envisioning a gorgeous night for the outdoor opera in Trafalgar Square on the 13th. Regular readers may remember me getting absolutely drenched during The Barber of Seville last year (see 19.7.09), so I thought the law of averages promised a great night. No such luck. While not last summer's downpour, the evening was cold, cloudy and provided enough intermittent drizzle to get the brollies up. Still, we managed quite an elegant picnic on the stairs below the National Gallery in the 90 minutes before the action started.

A pitcher of margaritas, a variety of dips, pates, seafood salad, vegetable and cous cous salads, sausages in a honey mustard and sesame seed sauce, a generous cheeseboard complete with quince paste, rustic loaves of French bread, English strawberries, copious amounts of South African white wine. It should have provided elegant fodder for a long night of watching Placido Domingo anchor a much-publicised production of Simon Boccanegra. The famous tenor can call his own shots these days, thus taking the role of the baritone pirate-turned-Doge of Genoa. The tour ended in London after stops in Berlin, New York and Milan. On the way, most reviewers agreed that it wasn't Domingo's best, and his singing at the low end of his tenor range creates a different opera from that which Verdi intended, but the man's star quality ... and the heft of the supporting cast ... made for a success.

I'd like to comment one way or another but, truth is, I didn't get to pay much attention. At 10 minutes before curtain my stomach started giving odd twitches and by the end of the prologue I was writhing in pain from what later turned out to be food poisoning. (Not, I hasten to add, from my picnic, as everyone else was fine.) I made it through the first act, hanging on to my boyfriend for dear life and trying not to disturb the crowd around me by groaning too loudly. One thing's for sure: when you're not feeling well, you really shouldn't listen to Verdi. The drama of the music elevates pedestrian pain to death's door.

The stomach had recovered and the sun had returned by Saturday morning when we drove into Bedfordshire for my boyfriend's company picnic. The weather was still a factor, however. I'd donned a fetching little summer dress to match his quintessentially English pale trousers, blue blazer and panama hat, only to be trembling with cold whenever the wind blew. Still, we were able to get the top down on the car (with the heat on), we spent most of the day outside and my turn at the archery butts revealed that I can still shoot. (Two bulls eyes out of six arrows.)

Post picnic, Milton Keynes was the natural stopping off point on the way to our Sunday plans at the Festival of History (see the next entry). A “new town” established in the 1950s, often the butt of jokes, Milton Keynes is best known for its roundabouts, concrete canyons and indoor ski slope. It is not, generally, a hot spot for tourism.

Perhaps it should be, at least for the knockout combination of South Lodge B&B and the Wavendon Arms.

South Lodge is highly unusual for England in its bold modernity. Yes, we have plenty of modern design worked into old buildings, but rarely do you get a completely new building, purpose built with all the latest styles and technology. Our room had a Californian feel to it, dominated by a low king-sized bed and flooded with light from the opposing glass wall and the skylights set into the sloping ceiling. An impressive television and sound system with DVD player (there’s a library to borrow discs from), a sleek black fridge/wine cooler, light switches with a variety of mood settings and a loan of the owner’s iPad to research local restaurants on the in house WiFi network scored high on the “boys’ toys” ranking. I, meanwhile, fell in love with the huge bathroom with its large modernist tub, glass-walled shower and brightly coloured, slightly metallic floor tiles.

Back in the bedroom, that glass wall … with a tint on one side to assure both our privacy and our view … looked out onto a scene worthy of a Chelsea show garden, with well-maintained drifts of perennials setting off repeating circles of lawn, paving, decking and fountains, with a striking, circular white wall set with blue mosaic and pierced with circular openings. Beautiful modern art complements the design, and if you’re lucky you’ll get to see the family mastiffs gambolling in their own lawn to one side.

The theme of surprising modernity continued at dinner that night when we came through the door of the Wavendon Arms. From the outside it’s your bog-standard late Georgian/early Victorian pub. You expect to enter and find dark wood, crazy-patterned carpeting, a panelled bar, and perhaps one room converted to gastro-pub dining. Instead, we walked into light colours, glass dividing walls, cork wall coverings, low, sleek leather seating and fabulous chandeliers and mirror frames constructed from bone-pale driftwood. We did indeed find a gastropub at the back, but in a purpose-built addition with cathedral ceilings, a magnificent central fireplace with a hanging chimney above it and plenty of windows looking out onto the beer gardens around.

And the food? Worth a special trip, frankly, as this is one of the best gastropubs I’ve experienced. It’s a modern European menu with clear Italian influences in both the food and wine list.

Perhaps it was the chill in the air that led me to my hearty, wintery menu choices, because my seared pigeon breast with bacon and black pudding, followed by a rare ostrich steak wrapped in pancetta, with beet and potato Dauphoise, was admittedly not a light summer meal. But, good lord, it was tasty. The man started with the “scallop of the day”, on this Saturday matched with the traditional black pudding and pea puree. His steak that followed was a good way past his requested “rare to the bloody”, but the friendly staff quickly whisked it away to procure another, giving him a chance to sample some of my ostrich and declare my dish the winner of the evening.

Impressed and feeling indulgent, we steamed ahead with dessert. The final course was not quite up to the quality of what came before. My chocolate fondant was obviously a “cheat”, with a glutinous centre poured into a pre-cooked ring of cake and heated. Sticky and delicious, but the two parts hadn’t melded together to become a proper fondant. His cheese plate was good, but unexceptional. The standout was clearly the half bottle of “Bowen’s Folly” late harvest Riesling from South Africa, an outstanding dessert wine we’ll seek out again.

Warmed and comforted by that substantial meal, we made the 10-minute walk through the brisk evening chill without too much discomfort. At least it wasn’t raining. Much.

Holkham Hall may just be England's best country house

My love affair with the English stately home is what originally brought me to this country. I find them the perfect blend of so many things I love: art, history, architecture, garden design, countryside. They are also perhaps the greatest expression of the talent of the English for collecting and assimilating the foreign into something of their own. Italian architecture, French furniture, Dutch garden design, art by masters from across the Continent ... yet the amalgam is always recognisably and distinctively English.

I have visited an impressive number over the years and would be hard-pressed to name a favourite. But there's no doubt that a strong contender for the top slot is Norfolk's magnificent Holkham Hall.

For a county slightly off the main foreign tourist track, Norfolk is awash with country house stars. There's Robert Walpole's place at Houghton Hall, a gem of the English Baroque. Tudor Blickling was home to the Boleyns and Jacobean Felbrigg is a jewel box you could see yourself moving right in to. But Holkham dwarfs them all.

Thomas Coke, 1st Earl of Leicester (of the fifth creation of that particular title) spent his 20s on a protracted grand tour during which he fell in love with the Palladian style, bought huge amounts of art, antiquities and furniture, and made friends with people like William Kent and Lord Burlington, who were later to popularise the look across British high society. At Holkham you see the perfect expression of Palladianism.

From the outside it has all the dignity and austerity of a Roman Republican senator, who might easily mistake it for a grand bath complex. Walk through the front doors and you're still in ancient Rome, but now it's the lavish and decadent days of empire. To my mind this is the greatest entrance hall in the country, with its colonnade around the upper story, the semi-circular apse at one end with the grand staircase cutting through it and rising to the doors of the grand saloon. Once you've recovered your breath and lifted your dropped jaw, you start making your way through room after room of lavish decor, all consistently reflective of the symmetry, decorative detail and classical obsessions of the early 18th century.

There's a rare and fantastic round dining table that expands and contracts with the clever insertion and removal of pieces. Several remarkable canopied beds. A quiet and dignified sculpture gallery. A comfortable and lush library suite. The art collection includes easily recognisable pieces like Rubens' "Return from Egypt", Vasari's portrait of Leo X and Gainsborough's "Coke of Norfolk". While the masterpieces are great, my favourite bit of this art collection is the portraiture. Most of the Cokes insisted on being painted with their dogs; centuries of canines of all shapes and sizes, sharing the limelight and gazing adoringly at their masters. Any family that likes dogs AND Palladian architecture can do little wrong in my eyes.

Throughout the house, guides are happy to bring the place to life with stories about your surroundings or the family. Both are fascinating. You can learn about the Georgian obsession with decorative pairing ... either similar or opposite things ... then look out throughout the house as you spot pairs like a bust of stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius across from bad boy hedonist Caracalla. You can discover which rooms were used for which films, and what the stars were like when they came to visit. Don't miss the 19th century family scandal when the 60-something "Coke of Norfolk", long widowed, married his teenage ward. Or the fabulous story of the creation of the lake: After 13 years of 30 men digging constantly, the earl decided it just wasn't right and got them back on in to double the size of the original.

The final lake is a wonderful trick of perspective. By starting and ending it around curves beyond sight of the front door, the designers created something that appears to be a broad river stretching to places unknown. All of the earth moved out went to reshape the landscape around, turning an unremarkable, swampy coastal plain into a classic 18th century English Arcadia. If the boat is running, do spend the little bit extra to go out for a ride and hear all the tales the boatman has at his fingertips.

From its austere facade to its magnificently lush interior, to its genial, well-informed staff and its magnificent grounds, Holkham is all that is magical about the English Country House. If you are ever anywhere near this part of the country, make the effort to get there. You won't regret it.

Sunny Norfolk weekend shows English seaside at its best

Norfolk is a curiously undiscovered English jewel. Foreign tourists flock to the Cotswolds, Bath and Salisbury. The Brits decamp in their masses to Cornwall and Devon for beach holidays. While Norfolk is, without doubt, full of visitors there for the beaches and attractions, it doesn't seem to have the top-of-mind awareness and mass traffic of those other spots.

Maybe it's because there are no motorways past Cambridge: the 150 miles from near Heathrow to the North Norfolk coast take about 3.5 hours, without traffic. (It was a deeply unpleasent 5.5 hours on Friday evening.) Maybe it's that the locals are content with their current, more selective tourist trade and don't want to cast their net wider. Whatever the reason, I'm delighted. It makes Norfolk a near-perfect holiday destination, especially under the sunny skies we just had, without the overcrowding, tackiness, over-development and price-gouging you see at other coastal resorts.

We stayed in Wells-next-the-Sea at a B&B that's worth the journey on its own. The Crown is one of four properties in Norfolk owned by TV chef (host of ITV's "Coastal Kitchen",) entrepreneur and New Zealander Chris Coubrough. It's a delightful mix of traditional and modern, manned by a young and energetic staff providing exceptional service levels.

The exterior is 18th century coaching inn, antiquity reinforced by the rounded wear of the stone paving on the ground floor. The pub to your right still has a traditional feel, but has been modernised with comfortable chairs and couches, bright colours and tables full of papers and magazines. A formal restaurant on the right brings out the starched linen, while the breakfast room to the back goes the cheerful conservatory-cum-library route. We loved the decor of our room, which had the pale colours, crisp linens and flat screen TVs of the modern boutique hotel but wasn't afraid to show some personality with rich decorative touches from different eras. A bold, patterned wallpaper on one wall countered the plain, soft green of the others; 1960s-style bulbous glass lamps atop obviously Georgian tables; art deco mirrored side tables next to the beds in the second bedroom. A spacious modern bathroom with stone tiles, a modern shower, a big roll-topped bath, a closet and plenty of toiletries added to the luxurious feel. As did the high-tech fan left to cool us down, the Roberts digital radio with the iPod dock and the coffee and tea tray holding a regularly refreshed thermos of cold milk, packets of Jamaican blue mountain coffee, a cafetiere and butter cookies that looked to have come from a kitchen rather than a package.

The breakfast menu was wider than the usual B&B fare, with a range of home baked pastries and a fried brioche with bananas and maple syrup that was a classy alternative to American pancakes. We had dinner in the formal restaurant on the Saturday. There's plenty of local seafood on the menu, with that local crab making its appearance in both starters and mains.

The kind of inn you could happily spend the whole weekend inside. But there was too much to do, the sun was shining, and we had a convertible. Places to go, things to see.

First stop, Holt. A charming and rather sophisticated market town about 10 miles inland, Holt is clearly populated by the well-heeled, with the odd celebrity (notably Johnny Depp, who the locals tell us is shopping for a place around here) spotted on the high street and titled ladies regularly popping into the hair salon between mucking out stables and getting ready for the evening's dinner party. (In fact, it was my friend Hillary's hair stylist who triggered this trip, having recently moved from London to open the Jordan Burr salon.) The shopping is great. Plenty of boutiques, arts and crafts and antiques without any of the usual high street chains.

It's a short drive to the coast, lined with broad, sandy beaches. We stopped for lunch in Sherringham, a far more typical British resort in its amusement arcades, chip shops and ice cream stalls. Still, there's an old fashioned gentility to the place, with more pensioners than hen parties. The Two Lifeboats pub sits right on the waterfront, with a patio that was packed with sun worshipers. It's a simple place with a basic menu. We all opted for variations of the crab that's a local specialty, and surprisingly tasty in a jacket potato. Not worth a special trip unless the weather is good. But in that case, grab a table outside and settle in for the afternoon.

The coast road from Cromer back to Wells makes for a beautiful ride, sometimes offering spectacular views of sea, others dipping inland for pastoral vistas. There are tidal estuaries, quaint villages of cobbled stone edged with red brick and the occasional old-style windmill.

Back at Wells, there's a festive quayside lined with both traditional sailing ships and modern cruisers. Wells sits about a mile inland on a river that winds across grassy wetlands; you actually have to walk out a long causeway to get to the spectacular beach. From there, you can walk along the sandy shore up to Holkham, one of the broadest beaches in England. If you've seen "Shakespeare in Love" you may remember it; it was the magnificent stretch of shore Viola was walking across as the credits rolled.

Just inland at Holkham you'll find the Victoria, another upscale pub and restaurant that gave the Crown a run for its money on both food and the look of the rooms. (Where the Crown is all cool modernity mixed with traditional English, the Victoria is old English mixed with bold colours and an imperial Indian vibe.) On summer weekends the Victoria has a bbq in its extensive gardens, but this isn't the average version. Sure, you can have a burger or sausage, but you can also opt for local lobster and crayfish. Which seemed far more in keeping with our elegant surroundings.

The most impressive site along this coast, however, is without doubt Holkham Hall. So impressive, in fact, that it needs its own entry. So come back soon to read all about it...

Colour is back in vogue at Hampton Court Flower Show

Across more than 15 years of attending Royal Horticultural Society flower shows at both Chelsea and Hampton Court, I've slogged through more rain and cold than I care to remember. It's a rare and glorious thing when all those magnificent gardens bask under clement skies, and with the exception of one Chelsea outing, I have never had better weather than that which blessed us today.

The tea and coffee sellers stood unloved while the Pimms salesmen ran briskly through the casks on their backs. Large, floppy straw hats seemed to be the acquisition of choice for hundreds (mine's lime green). The chemist's stand was doing a brisk trade in sun cream and everyone was in a spectacular mood.

Not all creatures, it must be said, were doing as well in the heat. Some of the show gardens were already looking ragged around the edges, the actors entertaining around the Shakespearean gardens were sweltering in their Tudor costumes and we wondered how the denizens of the rose tent were going to make it through the show's close on Sunday. The crowds and lack of air circulation in the arts and crafts tent made it so uncomfortably hot we couldn't make it more than 50 yards in. (Although that was enough to do quite enough damage. Check out the gorgeous jackets at www.shibumiguise.com; the company sells at 20% off at these shows.)

Even if the weather and the shopping hadn't delighted me, the horticultural trends would have done the trick. Last year's subtle tones and worthy themes (see 9.7.09) fell beneath an onslaught of vivid colours, humour and frivolity. A whole section of themed gardens celebrated Shakespeare's comedies, my favourite being the Twelfth Night garden, where paths were actually water, plants grew upside down, vegetables were mixed with flowers and everything was generally topsy turvy. Elsewhere Lego had sponsored a pirate's garden, with a ship and buccaneers crafted from plastic bricks, while "a matter of urgency" brought attention to the serious issue of older womens' bladder issues with a water feature of a giant pink tap seeming to hang in mid-air with no support. There was a quirky, even slightly creepy, Snow White garden with the heroine's plastic doll head and arms coming out of a body made of flowers, watched over by seven giant wooden mushrooms representing the dwarves. Amongst my favourites was an outdoor living room awash with Middle Eastern tiles, decorative stonework and ornate planting. Overall, colour schemes were mixed, bright ... even garish. And definitely about flowers. There were very few austere, modern plots all about foliage this time.

The RHS has made some major changes, swapping around the traditional layout. There are now show gardens on both sides of the long water. The main plant marquees have moved across the water and into a single, new marquee that seems to stretch forever. In their old place in the centre of the show is now a more mixed use area, with the arts and crafts tent, a cooking theatre, a model farm and plenty of shopping. It's not that there are fewer plants and gardens, but that the show keeps growing and is increasingly a lifestyle show with horticulture at its heart.

The only problem with this is that it's now impossible to see the majority of the show on one visit. We arrived around 11 and had to leave at 4; when we did, we knew we'd missed large sections and certainly hadn't lingered over too many gardens. We agreed we need a better plan of attack for next year. But there's no doubt we'll be back. The show is definitely getting better with age.

Idomeneo gets us thinking, enhanced by opera house dinner

It's always interesting to see the very early works of great masters. Inevitably, you marvel at the sophistication produced at such a tender age. Sometimes, you also get a window into the progression of a career from beginnings to full maturity.

Such was my primary impression of Idomeneo, King of Crete, at the English National Opera last night. A good story, beautiful singing, fine music, interesting sets, but the real revelation was experiencing something that seemed half way between the Mozart most of us know and the older operatic tradition of Handel and Purcell. Admittedly, I might not have noticed this had we not just finished a special opera season on the BBC, during which I watched both an informative history of Italian-language opera and a delightful production of The Marriage of Figaro. (Which, to my mind, has to be the greatest opera ever written.)

Idomeneo has some classic Mozart moments. A stirring overture, a wonderfully romantic duet, poignant soprano arias, a masterful quartet of interweaving voices, even some musical combinations that you'd swear he reused years later in Figaro. But there are other bits that hardly seem to be Mozart. Heavy use of harpsichord. Ponderous transitions between arias. A creeping pace to both the music and the plot. I felt like I was on a bridge between the 17th and 18th century. And quite happy to be heading for the latter, frankly.

This was Mozart's first opera seria (noble and serious instead of comic), written when he was 24. It's one of the numerous tales of the fall out from the Trojan war, in this case involving the returning King of Crete, a hostage princess who's fallen for the victorious prince, her rival the bad girl Electra, and the usual ancient Greek mix of prophecy, hubris and capricious gods. Fortunately, Mozart bucked the Greek trend and gave us a mostly happy ending (bar Electra's madness and suicide), which does perk up the evening.

English National Opera sings everything in English, always irritating me with an Italian language opera. Why change out of one of the world's most melodic languages when the vocal contortions of the art form make it necessary to read the captions most of the time anyway? It's one of the ENO's founding principals, however, so you have to go with it. They're also much more likely to go with modern, edgy interpretations than the Royal Opera House.

In Idomeneo's case, this meant that the whole thing was set in a sparse, white marbled world that looked like one of those very expensive, very streamlined modern hotels. I suppose it's not that much of a stretch for a Cretan setting, and the sea ... a character in itself in this opera ... was cleverly incorporated; most impressively beyond a picture window that stretched the length of the main palace set. At times, this worked. It could also be distracting, as palace staff criss-crossed the stage often enough to be really irritating; and disappointing when the sea monster ... usually the big production number for this show ... appeared simply as a bad storm. Another recession-era move, one assumes.

The performances were excellent, especially soprano Emma Bell who carried off an Electra you loved to hate, yet really felt for at the end. I immediately wanted to get to iTunes upon returning home and download the best bits, which is always a vote of confidence for any show.

Augmenting the whole evening was our choice to book dinner at the theatre. The American Bar is a cozy, wood-paneled enclave at basement level that's been given over to private dining. You book and order in advance, allowing them to have everything ready and serve at top speed. Arrive at 6 and have two courses and wine before the 7pm curtain. We both started with crayfish dressed with a tangy Marie Rose sauce before moving on to sea bass for me and chicken for my partner. Nicely presented, well prepared traditional options, served with tremendous good humour by the waiter who was looking after all six tables. At the 20-minute first interval we returned to chocolate tart, a hearty cheese plate and the end of our wine. Coffee wrapped up the meal at the second interval. The shuttling between the basement restaurant and our first balcony seats was a bit of a hassle, but on balance it was a much more relaxing option than the usual rush of trying to pack in a pre-theatre dinner at a restaurant and dashing for the curtain, then standing around aimlessly consuming average wine at the intervals.

A successful evening all around and one I suspect we'll repeat soon, as Don Giovanni is on the calendar this winter.