Somerset weekend introduces me to a kinder, gentler sort of moor

I have always loved the southwest of England. Cornwall offers great beaches and magnificent, cliff-dotted coastline. Devon delivers the wild vastness of Dartmoor (see 25 & 26.3.08) and Somerset the happy conjunction of a somewhat gentler moor with a beautiful coast. All three counties are loaded with picturesque villages, impressive stately homes and enough farmers to provide an impressive local larder of meats, vegetables and some tasty artisan cheeses. And all three battle stubbornly for the title of best maker of clotted cream; a fight I’m delighted to be caught in the middle of on whatever scone top it erupts.

Of the three counties, I must admit I know Somerset the least. I’ve seen many of its top tourist attractions, of course, but they have usually been pit stops en route to one of the other counties. This bank holiday, however, Somerset moved from drive through country to proper destination as we set off to meet Piers’ 98-year-old grandmother. (If they could link their clotted cream to longevity, they might win the argument.)

It was a delightful weekend and the addition of a day and a half (Monday’s bank holiday plus a half day off on Friday for both of us) made a break long enough, and remote enough from the day-to-day world, to provide some proper R&R.

Somerset is, undoubtedly, a good spot to do this. It’s easy on the eye, unhurried and deeply pastoral. I certainly wouldn’t come here seeking excitement or glamour, but for the glory of green country lanes, long views of hill and coast and the remarkable sounds of silence … but for the bleating of sheep … this place is hard to beat.

We spent most of our time, as do the majority of tourists to this region, walking in this varied and pleasing countryside. Our first objective was the mile-long walk up Dunkery Hill to the beacon mound on its top. This is the highest point in Exmoor. The path is a straight and fairly smooth one through unobstructed, heather-draped moor, thus not too onerous if you plod steadily along. The views are magnificent, with wild moorland in one direction, a gentle patchwork of farm fields and forest in another, and to the west a dramatic coastline, the vivid blue gash of the Severn estuary and beyond, the blue-grey hint of Wales. We did this on the first, sunniest and most clement of our days; a fortunate choice because the wind does carve a cutting path across those open hills.

I thought Exmoor’s nicest walks, however, were in its deep, wooded valleys. We had a splendid stroll down East Water, where a sunlit meadow is bordered by a babbling brook, surrounded on all sides by woodland dotted with banks of ferns and foxglove and piles of moss-covered rocks. Our finest hike was down the Doone Valley (properly known as Badgworthy Water), immortalised in the novel Lorna Doone. Another picturesque stream cascading over boulders glinting different colours in the dappled sunshine, bordered sometimes by fairytale forest, sometimes by steep fields grazed by sheep and sometimes by the stony, steep hillsides that characterised the bandit country of the novel.

There’s no lack of historic and cultural sightseeing here, either. The blockbuster sight is probably Dunster Castle, rearing dramatically above the picturesque village at the foot of its walls. Dunster village has a wide market street lined with hotels, restaurants and boutiques, in its centre a venerable, canopied market pavilion. The castle, now National Trust, was the ancestral home of the Luttrell family and is a classic example of the stately home as layer cake, with multiple generations and architectural styles stacking one upon the other. Though the foundations are medieval, most of what you see today was built from the Restoration through Victorian times. Don’t miss the magnificently detailed plasterwork in the dining room, the intricately carved grand staircase and the leather wall hangings gilded and painted with the story of Antony and Cleopatra. Outside, the Victorians and their successors turned the motte of the old castle and the slopes down to the river below into a series of gardens, heavy on woodland walks with foxgloves, ferns, hosta and hydrangea.

On the other corner of Exmoor, just outside Tiverton, you’ll find Knightshayes Court. This is another National Trust property, but a different sort of house all together. An example of Victorian-age new money splashing out on a house that screams “we’ve arrived”, it blends the neo-Gothic architecture that was all the rage with gracious room sizes and all the mod cons of the time. It is, in fact, a house of exactly the same artistic movement being celebrated at the V&A at the moment (see 20.5.11). Top sights include the wonderful main hall, kitted out for an Arthurian fantasy, the grand dining room decorated with wise and witty phrases around its ceiling and the billiards room. This is probably my favourite example of the kind in the country … comfortable, boldly masculine and overlooked by beautifully carved ceiling supports of animals portraying the seven deadly sins. The huggably adorable pig representing gluttony is, unsurprisingly, my favourite. They are all overlooked by an eighth support, the wise old owl who is supposed to tip the balance towards virtue. The gardens here are justifiably famous, with both formal beds and “rooms”, dramatic views and woodland walks through grand collections of rhododendron and azalea.

High marks on sightseeing, then, but I would probably not tip Exmoor as a gourmet destination. Perhaps it’s the hiking and outdoorsy nature of the place, which would incline tourists towards simple and hearty meals. Perhaps it’s the fact that people tend to stay in remote B&Bs down winding lanes and prefer to eat in rather than braving the narrow lanes at night. Or maybe the result of the famous cream teas, which fill the stomach and coat the taste buds of so many tourists in the late afternoon. Our own B&B hostess said there were few local restaurants that attempted much beyond pub grub, and our investigations didn’t turn up anyplace that looked tempting. Which is a shame, as this region produces top local produce and some of the best cheeses in Britain.

We stayed at a B&B that offered a four-course dinner as part of the package. Basic, hearty fare with the advantage of companionable drinks with the other guests in the drawing room before hand, and an easy stumble up the main stairs at the end of the evening. Allowing full enjoyment of a reasonably-priced wine list that was small, but offered good variety.

The B&B itself, Cutthorne Farm, was beautifully situated in an isolated position not too far from Dunkery Beacon. The house, with ancient foundations but now appearing mostly Victorian, nestles into a hillside, providing beautiful views over a valley to the front and a sloping field of sheep out the back windows. This quiet retreat is approached down a steep, fern-lined lane between hedgerows so high it’s like a green tunnel. The grounds offer lovely walks and there doesn’t seem to be another neighbour for miles. Most importantly, they allow dogs (for an extra £15 per night), which is critical for any walking holiday.

Our bedroom was of a decent size, dominated by a striking antique carved bed, though the real highlights of the accommodation were the fantastically long, deep bathtub and the wonderful countryside views out the big sash windows. The proprietors have been here since the ‘80s, know the local area well and are dedicated to providing a homey, individualised experience.

This hospitality, combined with the dramatic landscapes, the simple pleasures and the slow pace, link my Exmoor experience to other breaks in the southwest. It may be only 150 miles from London, but in so many ways it’s a whole planet away.

Chelsea's 2011 gardens won't be sending inspiration home with me, Bibendum's fish will

I hadn't been to the Chelsea Flower Show in three years. Thanks to a combination of malaise about the gardens at the last one I attended (see 30.5.2008), disgruntlement at the vast crowds and a general preference for the Hampton Court Show later in the summer, I'd let Chelsea fall out of my diary. But this year a friend got tickets and invited me along, with a nice lunch in advance. How could I say no?

Things certainly started well, with probably the best weather of the week. While we all patiently put up with the grey skies, all those show gardens inevitably look their best under a blanket of blue. I was delighted to find that the crowds, though abundant, weren't as bad as they'd seemed in the past. Given that the show was sold out, I have to assume that means the organisers have combined keeping it open for two more days (it now stretches into the weekend) with letting fewer people in at a time.

If you like gardens, of course, it's hard to have a bad time at Chelsea. This year had the usual mix of show gardens, dazzling displays by various nurseries and vast, garden-related shopping opportunities. (While I lusted after a towering bronze and blown-glass agapanthus sculpture and a full outdoor kitchen with wood-fired pizza oven, both of which would have cost me something in the 10s of thousands, the only thing I actually purchased was a round of very large cups of Pimms.) But the main gardens didn't impress me.

Everyone seemed to be doing dry, southern-inspired gardens this year. Too much gravel, too many cacti and succulents, far too much yellow and orange. I'll give the designers points for creating gardens that took us away (another, filled with tropical greenery, reminded me of a the lobby of a Hawaiian hotel), but I missed the classic English touch. Of the major gardens only Bunny Guinness' herb garden, a detailed parterre of raised beds hemmed with willow hurdle, and the Leeds Council garden dominated by a water mill and its pond, did much to celebrate the great British Gardening tradition.

I like a balance at Chelsea of things I could try in my own garden, and crazy things that are just for this display. This year veered wildly in the latter direction. There was the Monaco garden, filled with Provencal plants, an infinity pool and a dining pavilion with a roof of lavender plants all in glorious bloom. Prince Albert was knocking about somewhere. Global warming is going to have to progress a long way before I put that behind my house. Same for the Australian garden, filled with a swathe of orange gravel to evoke thoughts of boomerangs and plants more appropriate for the outback than the Kentish Weald. The best-in-show winning garden was supposed to spark images of a sunken garden in Roman ruins in Libya, but a woman behind me commented that the water feature of a row of pipes sticking out of an orange wall reminded her of the open sewers of Delhi.

Then there was Diarmuid Gavin's "Flying Garden" dominated by an eye-shaped structure of stainless steel girders planted out with greenery, the whole thing hoisted regularly 82 feet off the ground by a construction crane. Yea, sure. Next to that was B&Q's equally improbable greenhouse in a glass stairwell, which was inspirational if you considered the gardening potential of high rise residential towers, but didn't really give me a sense of calm beauty. (Though the garden dining table that doubled as a giant goldfish bowl had potential.)

Each year the smaller gardens seem to get ever more popular, and sure enough this is where we met the biggest crowds. It's also where I felt the most inspiration. Whether it was the simple, moss-covered stone sink used as a water feature in the Korean garden, the use of carved phrases in another, or the special attention to planting combinations in all, it was here that I ... and a few thousand others ... chose to linger.

In the grand marquee (that's a giant tent for you Americans) I pursued my usual pattern of wandering. Stop near sweet pea stand, close eyes, breathe deeply. Move on to delphinium display, marvel at the wonderful range of blues. Visit Jekka's herbs, dream about ideal herb garden. Linger at one of the numerous displays from the Caribbean islands, talking to cheerful native women about past visits. Pause at David Austen roses, breathe deep again and get a bit teary-eyed at the romantic beauty of it all.

The big problem with Chelsea at the moment, of course, is that I am living in rental accommodation. There is no point getting enthusiastic about improving someone else's beds. What this year really did was sharpen my taste for getting that marital home, and making sure it's one with a great garden. Or, at least, potential to build one. I see no crane-hoisted garden rooms in my future, but some hurdle-bounded raised beds for herbs and vegetables ... Perfect.

The lunch before the show was almost as traditional a venue as the show itself. We met at Bibendum, which I have somehow managed to avoid despite it being a consistently dependable offering from the Conran stable, located in one of West London's most architecturally significant buildings, for the entirety of my life in the UK. I am really not sure how I missed it, because this is a lovely lunchtime choice. Elegant and upscale with a sense of occasion, yet with a set price menu (£30 for three courses on weekdays, £32.50 on weekends) that makes the luxury affordable. Pleasingly, the set menu has a wide range of choices, with at least six for each course. I wasn't even tempted to look at the a la carte.

The setting is magnificent, with towering ceilings, giant windows (two filled with cheerful stained glass depictions of the Michelin man and his wife) and plenty of art deco features. Its the kind of stage set restaurant that makes you expect Hercule Poirot to be at the next table. If he were, however, you wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on his latest investigation because tables are far enough apart to offer a sense of privacy. And while there's a pleasant hubbub, its all laid back enough to allow for proper conversation. Service is excellent; attentive when you need them, but happy to stand back and allow business conversation until you cast your eye to invite an invitation.

And the food? Up to expectations, though not perfect. I started with the seasonal, local asparagus with a scoop of some of the finest Hollandaise I've ever tasted. Although it hardly needed it. A serried row of perfectly matched spears, at least 8 inches long and the thickness of a pinkie, with a taste so pure and perfect you have to believe that the greatest chef, ultimately, may be the farmer who creates the raw materials. My main course was equally beautiful, though not so well balanced. A whole, roasted sea bass topped with grilled artichoke hearts and tomatoes was destroyed by too much butter. It was swimming in it. All that delicate, healthy fish and vegetable was destroyed by an imbalance of fat. I'm inspired to try it on my own at home, with a much lighter touch, and olive oil rather than butter, to get those artichokes working properly.

I should have followed my instinct and ordered the pistachio bavarois, which I was promised was light yet pungent, thus would have cut through the richness of the main. Foolishly, I let my inner choco-holic take over and went for the gateau opera. This generously sized layer cake with alternating stripes of vanilla sponge, chocolate mousse and chocolate fudge was delicious, but so heavy on the fudge to be more like a piece of candy than a well balanced pudding. It's rare that I leave any pudding on the plate, but this could easily have been 30 per cent smaller and still a crowd pleaser.

Given the great impression the venue made on me, and the value and variety of the set menu, I'd be happy to get back soon to see if I could order a more balanced set of choices. In this case, fortunately, a long walk through the flower show settled all those flavors.

Celebrity chef's Yew Tree Inn shows off modern Hampshire, while The Vyne connects to the old

Today, the northern part of Hampshire ... my current home ... is just 45 minutes from central London on a fast train.

For most of history, however, it was deep countryside. Unconnected by main roads and free of big cities, the cosmopolitan cut and thrust of the capital might as well have been another country. Towns were deeply provincial and country estates were the centre of their own universe. It's a world compellingly pictured in the recent, popular TV series "Downton Abbey", filmed half an hour from here, at Highclere Castle.

The village of Highclere still paints a cozy, pastoral, back-of-beyond picture, but the reality is far more cosmopolitan. Rail connections to London, nearby roads that feed quickly to major motorways and the proximity to Newbury, home to Vodafone's world HQ, mean that villages like this one are flush with sophisticated and well-heeled corporate types who flit seamlessly between urban and rural life. Which makes it the perfect location for a London celebrity chef to buy the local and turn it into his vision of the perfect gastropub. Enter Marco Pierre White and the Yew Tree Inn.

An venerable old tile-roofed building on a leafy lane, it's accented with heavy doors, small leaded windows and low beams. The interior is divided into a succession of snug areas with a few tables in each, so there's really no sense of how many people are actually eating here. The decor signals this is more upscale than your standard pub, with tidy white walls hung with pen-and-ink sketches and watercolours, and crisp white linens on the tables. But it's all subtle enough to still evoke a laid-back, countryside mood.

The menu is English classics with a posh twist, as evidenced by the house cocktail: an English kir royale made from Sussex sparkling wine and locally produced blackcurrant liqueur. I started with asparagus ('tis the season) baked with a quail's egg. There was plenty of cheese and butter in that dish, combining for a luxurious treat. Probably not the wisest choice for the diet and, frankly, probably an insult to the asparagus, which was rather lost in the other ingredients. As good as this vegetable is in season, I probably would have enjoyed it just as much lightly steamed and unadorned. Reports from around the table were mixed on the other starters. The beetroot salad was visually stunning with light and sharp flavours but the chicken terrine was a bit dry and underwhelming.

On to the mains, for which all of the girls at the table opted for the hake on a bed of creamed leeks. Like the asparagus, the high-fat preparation neatly destroyed the healthy benefits of the fish. But in this case, it was worth every calorie. The perfectly judged trio of rich cream, mellow vegetable and succulent bacon worked beautifully together, providing a great complement to the elegantly simple fillet on top. The man had lamb, mostly because it's the one meat we rarely have at home. (I can't stand the stuff.) Prepared two ways ... confit leg and loin ... he reported complete satisfaction. Like the rest of the menu, puddings were big on traditional English, with possets, Eton mess and sticky toffee pudding heading the lineup. I went for the latter; not the best I've ever had, but certainly in the top third. Elsewhere the chocolate muffin was done a disservice by its name (it was really a dense chocolate cake) but got rave reviews, as did its accompaniment of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The more restrained at the table went for the plate of English cheeses, an admirable selection from the across the country.

The next day we walked off a few of those calories at a place that exemplifies Hampshire long before Vodafone, high speed trains and celebrity chefs: The Vyne. This National Trust property is only about 15 minutes outside of Basingstoke, but the way it's nestled down winding, wooded country lanes gives you a sense of how isolated it once was. It began as a rambling Tudor pile built by one of Henry VIII's early ministers, and successive owners have layered their own contemporary touches onto it over the years. It's not one of the country's blockbuster stately homes, but it's a lovely place that tells the story of an aristocratic country estate on a manageable scale.

Amongst the highlights are a wonderful neoclassical staircase cutting through the centre of the house, flowing and dividing in unusual ways to cut the core into all sorts of different views, nooks and crannies; a rare print room that captures the DIY decorating trend that was all the rage with proper ladies in the early 19th century; a library whose magnificent wooden bookshelves were re-made from carved pews pinched from the local church, now crowned with a set of marble busts of the world's great writers; and probably the loveliest Tudor-era chapel in any private home. This one has rare original stained glass of tremendous quality, particularly interesting in that it shows Henry VIII and his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. The Vyne also claims a bit of fame thanks to local girl Jane Austen, who used to attend parties here. Evidently she didn't think much of the family, but did end up basing the character of Fanny Price on one of the wives, whose portrait you can see in a bedroom upstairs.

While old, unconnected Hampshire might not have had sophisticated gastropubs, there was plenty of elegance in places like The Vyne, which introduced the first classical portico ever used on a domestic building, and has a classical brick summer house that could have been a Roman senator's tomb. These days, Hampshire offers the best of both worlds. Escape from it all, or stay connected. Go modern, or touch history. No wonder it's such a popular county with people who want to strike a balance between the bright lights and offices of London, and the timeless appeal of the English countryside.

Shock and horror! French cuisine unseats the Italians as Roussillon trumps Locatelli for my favourite restaurant

I never thought I'd see this day, but I have to admit the truth: Locanda Locatelli is past its glory days.

Readers of this blog will know that the Michelin-starred restaurant near Marble Arch has long been my favourite in London, a place where the best of Italian was kicked up another level to sheer perfection. French-inspired Roussillon in Pimlico (also owner of a precious star) has, however, appeared as another frequent favourite. In the past six weeks I've dined at both, and the proximity of experiences leads me to a startling conclusion. Roussillon has maintained its excellence while Locatelli is slipping.

The service at Locatelli's is still excellent, the wine list impressive and the generous basket of Italian breads and pizze left on your table to start things off utterly delicious. The food that followed, however, was less inspiring than usual. I started with the lobster linguini. The hand-made fresh pasta was exquisite, and perfectly al dente, but the tomato sauce was too delicate and the lobster scant. This is supposed to be a hearty dish and, even when done to Michelin star standards of presentation and size, should still pack a punch of flavour. While eating it, all I could think of was how much better I remembered the same dish being at Zilli Fish (see 3.7.08). On to grilled monkfish on a bed of seaweed and rocket with giant capers and walnut sauce. The dish would have been truly great with triple the sauce. As it was, the decorative squiggle made a subtle complement to three mouthfuls of the fish, but was never enough of to deliver on the promise of a sweet and sour contrast those first tastes made.

It was dessert where things really crashed and burned. I can never resist cannoli, either in a bakery or on a menu. This Sicilian staple is the most comforting of all my childhood comfort foods. So I thought I'd see what London's finest Italian restaurant did with them. Out came a dish with two tiny pastries, about the circumference of my pinkie and no more than an inch long. I respect the idea that fine dining means delicate, small portions, but this was verging on the comic. Perhaps excusable had they been the best cannoli ever, but they were deeply average, with unremarkable filling out of proportion with the shell, so the abiding taste was of slightly over-fried pastry. Deeply, deeply disappointing, and a pale shadow of the cannoli bought for a fraction of the price at good old Missouri Baking Company on last month's visit home.

Perhaps I ordered badly. Perhaps one should stay away from things that are inspired by hearty peasant food when dining at the highest levels. But I don't think so. Locatelli's magic in the past has always been that he took the Italian basics and transformed them into something better than any memory or home attempt, seemingly beyond normal human endeavor. That magic is clearly gone. Is it, perhaps, that Giorgio himself is looking after other ventures, such as his new place in Dubai? Certainly I haven't seen him in any of my past four visits, when he used to regularly have a wander through the dining room.

And, of course, Locatelli's is expensive. Heart-stoppingly, eye-poppingly, I've-just-shot-the-entertainment-budget-for-the-month expensive. Which is OK if you're getting an exquisite meal you're going to remember all year. But three courses, all with flaws, that could be done better elsewhere? I fear Signore Locatelli will not be seeing any more of my hard-earned cash any time soon.

The team at Roussillon, however, is in for a fair chance of getting a cut of this year's bonus, be it for a simple celebratory meal or a push-the-boat-out private dinner for the wedding party after our rehearsal. (The latter depends how generous we're feeling once the rest of the wedding expenses get locked down.) My recent visit was at least my fifth, and every experience has been of equal calibre. Whether it's the go-for-broke, seven course extravaganza of the chef's menu (see 26.3.11) or a more straightforward starter-main-dessert progression, whether having a conservative couple glasses of wine or letting the sommelier roll out an indulgent procession, every experience has been to the same quality. No matter what I've had here, it's been the best I can imagine that particular dish being, served with exquisite presentation and unusual twists.

My most recent visit was no exception. The amuse bouche brought a proper twist on peasant food; essence of ratatouille in a shot glass. Surely some sort of magic is needed to take all those dark, potent flavours ... tomato, aubergine, courgette, garlic ... concentrate and retain them, and turn them into a clear liquid. Witchcraft, without doubt. One to a first course of excellent scallops perfectly grilled to bring out that hint of sweetness as the edges caramelise, accompanied by little breaded and fried parcels of ham hock. My friend's bowl of new season asparagus, picked so young and tender they looked like an alien species, was a vivid, green shout of springtime on a plate.

I moved on to the suckling pig done three ways: loin, belly and crackling. Here we had some of the world's most hearty comfort foods, retaining all their kick-you-in-the-head flavours while being presented like a work of art. The loin lean and succulent, the crackling fatty and indulgent, the belly wonderfully matched with a sweet langoustine tail that proved the argument that these are better than lobster when sourced properly. Across the table, the waitress was grating black truffle on a glistening mound of risotto, the aroma almost as good as sharing the dish.

I ended with a chocolate fondant, properly gooey in the middle and rich with the finest quality cacao. As with Locatelli's dessert, it wasn't big enough. But this time not because it was laughably undersized, but because it was the kind of sweet that tastes so good you want to keep eating long after you're stuffed. Fortunately the chef's restraint saved me from myself, and a well-judged glass of Dalmore helped all those flavours settle into a warm, contented glow of digestion.

Perhaps, as with Locatelli's, I could have ordered badly ... but got lucky. Perhaps after a few more visits I will become jaded. Anything is possible. But for now, I will shock my friends (especially you, Didier ... try not to be too smug) and bow in admiration of French cuisine. At least for now, in my experience, Roussillon is the London restaurant most worthy of your time, attention and hard-earned cash.

Beauty takes centre stage as the V&A shows off a luscious bit of Victoriana

Evening museum openings are a delight.

I first encountered this trend in Italy, where the Capitoline Museums stayed open on one weeknight to an amazing 11pm. The joy of extending the precious hours of a sightseeing day was intense. By the time London museums really caught on, I was working there, and the excitement was less about stretching a day's tourism and more about the ability to tack some culture onto a workday and keep the weekend free for other things.

Much to my irritation, most of the major museums have moved their open nights to Fridays. Clearly, if they're all doing it, their marketing departments must have research to say this is a good thing. For me, it's an irritation. I'm rarely in London on Fridays, and if I'm organising something to kick off the weekend it's probably going to be more social than the quiet contemplation of art.

This Friday, however, the planets came into alignment. I was already in town. Piers had other plans, leaving me on my own. The V&A called. I dropped my briefcase at the cloakroom, moved quickly through the buzzy, jazz- and cocktail-filled main hall to the almost-empty galleries beyond. The Friday strategy has definitely turned some grand spaces into upscale drinking venues, but I'm not sure it's done much to promote culture. So much to my benefit, frankly, as I had the objective of my visit ... "The Cult of Beauty: The Aesthetic Movement 1850-1900" ... almost to myself.

I've always had a soft spot for this time period. There's William Morris with his lush floral patterns and medieval revivalism. Oscar Wilde spinning some of the finest wit to ever hit a page. Lawrence Alma-Tadema re-imagining the Roman world in sensuous paintings. Liberty's department store setting up in London to sell unique pieces of furniture and lush, oriental and Arabic-inspired fabrics. (It's no surprise they're a major sponsor of the show.) The aesthetic movement comes to life in a hotch potch of decorative items that might not immediately seem to fit together. The unifying factor is simple: it's all about beauty.

Grandfather of the movement William Morris is famous for stating: "have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." He and his colleagues were reacting, passionately, to the ugliness of the industrial revolution and the crass consumerism of the age. Thus their fascination with the foreign and the exotic. Whether evoking an idealised Roman or Medieval world, or depicting the charm of China or Arabia, they were always trying to get very far away from modern England. The irony, of course, was that all of their hand crafting (as opposed to the mass production bringing prices down elsewhere) was wildly expensive, meaning that many of the people embracing their style were precisely the robber barons driving the industry they so disliked.

The intellectual roots of the movement mean that the exhibit is, quite simply, beautiful. It seems less a worthy art show and more a wander through a particularly good day at Liberty's department store. There are lush portraits of pre-Raphaelite beauties, collections of blue and white pottery and the English versions, like those by de Morgan, that they inspired. There's lots of hand-painted furniture telling ancient, romantic tales. Greco-Roman inspiration runs throughout, but with a far looser, more opulent feel than the neo-classicism of the previous century. Peacocks and elaborate floral motifs adorn everything from fabric and furniture to jewelry and iron gates; solid colours and simplicity are not part of this trend.

I was most entranced by the costume display, including a brown velvet suit very close to the one Oscar Wilde wore in one of his most famous portraits. Seeing these clothes, overlooked by the detailed portraits of the people who wore such fashions and the furniture they surrounded themselves with, you got a keen sense of the people who drove this movement. Eccentric lovers of art and history, keen to embrace art, craft and design, wishing for the "good old days" but making lots of money from the modern world. Frankly, I like their style. Whether the people, and the lives they led, were as beautiful as what's portrayed here is doubtful. But it's a lovely, if almost soporific, thing to see. Soothing, gorgeous, rich. A great way to spend a quiet few hours.

Get moving, however, as The Cult of Beauty closes on 17 July.

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Other places to see the Aesthetic Movement
Reminded of past delights by this show, I offer some spectacular places to visit that bring this age to life:

Leighton House Museum - In Holland Park, London, Lord Leighton's studio and home is a temple to the art of this movement. Great collection of paintings, but the real show is the house itself, with its quirky exotic elements and lavish decoration. The two story central Arab Hall is a jaw dropper. No surprise that it's frequently used as a film set.

Standen - A National Trust-managed house in Sussex with amazing views and an interior that perfectly captures the whole movement. Particularly well known for its original William Morris wallpapers.

Whightwick Manor - Another NT property, similar to Standen in inspiration but heavier on the Medieval revival aspect of the time period. A great example of an industrial family (the owners ran a chemical and paint business) embracing the antithesis of their modern age in their personal lives. In Wolverhampton, outside of Birmingham.

An Ideal Husband - The 1999 film of the Oscar Wilde play captures the age perfectly. It's also one of the best Wilde adaptations on film, less known than others, I believe, because there's a dark and serious edge to the comedy.

In celebration of a fine genre, we explore my Top 10 pirate films of all time

I am squirming in juvenile anticipation for tomorrow's release of "Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides."

The tickets are in hand (for Thursday, rather than opening night, due to Piers' work schedule) and I am contemplating a piratical picnic dinner to take to the theatre. Cold jerked chicken, mango and prawn salad and rum punch? Yes, I know the second and third films were verging on the terrible, saved only by great actors, lavish sets and a fine seam of humour running throughout. But the first was, to my mind, the best pirate film ever made. And I, as regular readers know, am a girl who believes there are few things that give as much unadulterated, childish pleasure as a good swashbuckler.

Pirate films are, of course, ridiculously formulaic. There's our hero, a pirate ... but one with a noble soul. Often, he's an aristocrat or naval officer who's gone under cover to right some wrong. There's always a plucky girl, usually a governor's daughter but sometimes another member of the buccaneering community. While our hero pursues and eventually defeats an unremittingly evil bad guy with flamboyant taste in frock coats and hats, he's also sparring with the girl who never wants him at the start, but who always realises he's her dream man by the end. Spice this up with lavish costumes, sailing ships, palm-fringed islands and several fights that will always include people swinging to the rescue on ropes, curtains or chandeliers, and you have yourself a pirate flick.

There's a wide range of quality in that genre, however. There are a lot of pirate movies; more than 300 by some lists. Unless we're talking about one of the originals that created the genre ... Fairbanks' Black Pirate of 1924 or Flynn's Captain Blood of 1935 ... the pirate greats delight because they introduce some twist on the formula, often poking fun at it with wry wit. That's the angle that made Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl so great. For the other nine on my Top 10 list, read on.

2. Against All Flags (1952) - A mature and sexy Errol Flynn plays a naval officer who masquerades as one of the brethren to bust the crime racket in Madagascar. Like most of the best of the genre, this one has its roots in real history; Madagascar was the capital of pirate operations and a scourge on shipping from India until politics and the British navy moved the brotherhood to the Caribbean. A young Anthony Quinn makes a great baddie, but the special element here is Maureen O'Hara as Spitfire Stevens, a pirate's daughter who's meant for better things. O'Hara is the consummate feisty, independent heroine who can wield a sword and capture a heart.

3. The Sea Hawk (1940) - Here's a much younger Flynn, who's not technically a pirate if you're on England's side. We're in Elizabethan times and our hero Geoffrey Thorpe is one of those guys Queen Elizabeth calls a merchant adventurer, but the Spanish call pirates. These days, this film is most memorable for its rip-roaring soundtrack by Erich Wolfgang Korngold, which stands as one of the best scores of the 20th century. But worth watching as it's also one of the formative ancestors of all pirate films that would follow. There are plenty of political manipulations and betrayals for plot interest and Claude Raines for the bad guy, all of which compensates for the uninspiring black-and-white production values.

4. Swashbuckler (1976) - One of my favourites, despite a contemporary reception and review that caused it to sink quickly from general view. The 11-year-old Ellen thought it was one of the best movies she had EVER seen. Part of the run of bawdy historical epics like "The Three Musketeers" that hit the big screens at the time, this was an attempt to revive a genre that had been fairly dead since the late '50s. That it didn't work may have more to do with timing and the decade's cynicism than the quality of the film. James Earl Jones and Robert Shaw save noblewoman Geneviève Bujold from unfair imprisonment, then the trio takes off for Jamaica to save the island from a heartless governor. The quality cast also includes Beau Bridges and a young Anjelica Huston. Without question, the finest sword fighting scenes to hit the screen during my childhood, and a deeply pleasing ending that sees everyone get their just rewards.

5. Princess Bride (1987) - Stretching things a bit, perhaps, to put a film that takes place almost entirely on land in this genre, but as the dread pirate Roberts is the main character, it makes the cut. One of those films that works on two levels, delighting children with its obvious charms and adults with its more subtle wit. Mandy Patinkin steps off Broadway to do a sexy turn as swordsman Inigo Montoya (you killed my father, prepare to die...) but it's Cary Elwes who'll make your heart throb (and your head ponder why he didn't emerge from the '80s as a leading man).

6. The Black Swan (1942) - Terribly derivative of the Errol Flynn classics, even down to Maureen O'Hara as our plucky lead, but it's an enjoyable romp. Tyrone Power plays the rough pirate with the heart of gold, forced to go straight now that his old pirate boss Sir Henry Morgan is named Governor of Jamaica. (Yup, it really happened. Morgan's one of history's finest characters.) O'Hara, as the former governor's daughter, is engaged to a suitable nobleman, but of course is drawn instantly to Power's bad boy. Meanwhile, he has to foil a plot that's undermining Morgan's administration, and prove that the good guys aren't as good as they seem.

7. The Buccaneer (1958) - Most reviewers criticise its slow plot and bad direction (Anthony Quinn, believe it or not, under the guidance of Cecil B DeMille), but it wins my vote for being the only film I know of to explore one of the most fascinating stories in American history. The pirate and smuggler Jean Lafitte and his men came to the aid of the American Army in the War of 1812 and were the deciding factor in the U.S. victory over the Brits at the Battle of New Orleans. Yul Brynner plays Lafitte straight, serious and noble. He's far too worthy to bring any fun to the plot (ditto Charlton Heston as Andrew Jackson) and the script's a bit weak to carry the serious historical drama they were going for. But if you're interested in this rarely explored war and Lafitte's role in it, it's a must see.

8. Blackbeard's Ghost (1968) - I stumbled upon this film on television last year, having not seen it since I was a very small child, and was amazed by how funny it is. This is primarily thanks to Peter Ustinov, who was born to play the role of the meddlesome, flamboyant yet oddly sensitive ghost. It's classic old-style Disney, all innocence and silliness with a foolish plot (ghost helps reluctant athletics coach to win championship so evil property developers won't turn residents out of old ladies' home filled with piratical descendants), but it will make you laugh. Dean Jones, as the coach, will bring happy memories to any American who grew up in the '60s and '70s, and Suzanne Pleshette brings a touch of class. Pirates of the Caribbean fans will be interested in the sets. Released just a year after the ride opened at Disneyland, the film's clearly linked in look and feel to all that would eventually inspire the modern revival.

9. Treasure Island (1990) - No list of the greatest pirate films would be complete without Treasure Island. But which version? Most people would go for Disney's 1950 film, where Robert Newton arguably created the definitive Long John Silver. But for a complete piece of drama I choose this more modern effort, made for TV. Charlton Heston plays Long John Silver, seeming to have more fun here than he did with Andrew Jackson in The Buccaneer. A young Christian Bale is Jim Hawkins, and Oliver Reed makes a brief appearance as the pirate whose death in Hawkins' inn sets off the whole plot. Its on-location filming and great soundtrack by The Chieftains are both worthy of the big screen; one suspects that in an era where nobody had seen a commercial pirate success in more than 20 years, no producer would risk it.

10. Hook (1991) - It would have benefitted hugely from a tight edit that sped up the plot, but even with its flaws it has to be in my Top 10. The concept of Peter Pan (Robin Williams) growing up, forgetting his roots and having to rediscover them to save his children is inventive. Julia Roberts does a clever turn as Tinkerbell and the soundtrack is a classic. The main reason to see this, however, is Dustin Hoffman as Captain Hook. He steals the show with his swagger, his one-liners and his flamboyant self pity, foiled beautifully by Bob Hoskins' Smee. A magnificent piece of casting that's stood the test of time.

Hook, The Princess Bride and, of course, the whole Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy are fairly easy to get on DVD. Surprisingly, despite the resurgent love of all things piratical, things get challenging pretty quickly after that, with many of these not available commercially at all. In researching this article I have seen that some of the older ones are available for download on file sharing sites, which may be worth exploration. If you're a pirate film fan and you haven't seen everything on this list ... get to work!
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Post Script 20 May '11 - The verdict? On Stranger Tides is a fun return to form for the franchise, much closer to the original than the muddled second and third attempts. Penelope Cruz makes a fine pirate wench, most of the old cast returns, Ian McShane is solid as Blackbeard and there are some delightful cameos. It's probably not good enough to rise above the pirate sub-genre to be considered a really good swashbuckler, but fans of buccaneers on film should enjoy. Whether or not it will unseat any of the above in my Top 10 will be left to time and additional viewings.

Farewell to a beloved dog

It's taken me a week to write it. Mr. Darcy is dead.

My beloved cavalier King Charles spaniel. The first dog I'd ever purchased and raised on my own, my dog rather than a family pet. Companion of so many trips, living hot water bottle on countless nights, the adoring eyes that followed me for hours. Gone.

Admittedly, this wasn't a surprise. Darcy had just turned 13; that's 91 to you and me. He was blind, deaf and diabetic, kept going by twice-daily insulin injections, glucosamine tablets and what must me the world's most expensive dog food. (Anybody want to buy a case of Hills Science Diet, diabetic formula?) This adventurous little spaniel, whose head had hung eagerly out the car window through so many trips, had scaled back to a life of sleeping on the couch, with occasional forays to the back garden and the food bowl. The decline had been slow, so I hadn't noticed just how much he'd plummeted until my mother's 3-year-old Datchet arrived in the house and presented a stark comparison.

Last Monday morning, at 3:30, it was the younger dog who woke me with a sharp bark. Downstairs I found Darcy trembling with violent seizures, which went on for half an hour before he finally slipped into what we now know was a diabetic coma. I held the little guy to my chest and tried to make it better while Piers tracked down the 24-hour vet. By the time we arrived at their offices in Winchester, I knew ... and was ready for ... what was coming. Thus my work week started with heartbreak in an examining room, and ended with me picking up a lovingly-wrapped little packet of ashes from a crematorium in the Hampshire countryside.

It's not a story I could have imagined in June of 1999, when my mother and I went to visit a new litter of cavaliers. Much as I wanted one, I wasn't at home enough to take proper care of a dog. Nonsense, my mother briskly decided. You work close enough to your house to get home for lunch, and you make enough money to get a dog walker. You've lived by yourself long enough. You need a dog. I went into that meeting with my resolution strong. Despite the adorable appeal of cavalier puppies, I thought I'd make it through. The breeder put two puppies in my lap, and one in my mother's. That one looked over at me, got up, walked across laps, pushed his brother and sister onto the floor, curled up and looked up at me with a heart-melting gave. My only response at that point was "is there a cash machine nearby?". Mr. Darcy was coming home with me.

He was a stalwart road tripper from the beginning. We'd already booked a holiday to Ireland that month and the breeder couldn't keep him. So he came in a French market basket, hiding (and mostly sleeping) through pre-booked hotels and tourist attractions that didn't allow dogs. Over the years he wandered the moors of Devon and Somerset, the beaches of Norfolk, the highlands of Scotland, the hills of the Lake District, nearly every corner of the Cotswolds and the vineyard towns of the Mosel. (He almost made it to Italy, but he couldn't stand hot weather, so we spared him that one.)

Even as a youngster, however, Mr. Darcy was never the most energetic of canines. Though our destinations were often famous for their long walks, he usually trotted along grudgingly. His favourite bits were lounging by b&b fires and using his floppy ears and huge brown eyes to beg scraps from anyone susceptible to his charm. His record: the farmer's market in Stratford-on-Avon, where he managed to get free sausage from all five gourmet vendors hawking their wares that day. He appears to have been fondest of the venison, though duck scored high tail wagging as well. For me, the best parts of those trips were often just his quiet companionship. He used to sprawl across the front seat, head propped on the arm rest, staring at me adoringly for hours at a time. It is very hard to have bad day when something that beautiful and good loves you so completely.

With every joy of dog ownership, however, goes the pain of saying goodbye. It is one life's great tragedies that they live so much less time than we do. Who knows. Maybe it's all part of a master plan to teach us the lessons of love and loss before we graduate to humans. I once heard of a man who refused to own a dog, because he couldn't face the idea of losing it. No matter how much pain I felt last week, I'll never be able to understand that attitude. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I've cried a lot over the past seven days. But for 13 years I've had a faithful, constant companion who gave me nothing but love, and made my life better every time I paused to stroke his head. That's what dogs do. It justifies any pain that comes at the end.

Mr. Darcy, you were worth it all.

America and the burger: Part 2

Guest blogger Piers Bencard returns

Are you back again? Surely not for more on America and it’s love of the burger? Oh, very well, if you insist. But please allow me one small digression (I’ll get to it later).

So having discussed two fast food joints, let me discuss two restaurant burgers and the digression of roast beef sandwiches.

The first burger under discussion is from O’Connells, an Irish pub beside the Italian ‘Hill’ district. We both had cheeseburgers which featured a two-inch high patty covered in cheese. Given the option of American or Swiss and being a true European (?) I made the wrong choice – Swiss is not the cheese for a burger, it doesn’t melt as well as American. We were asked how we wanted the burgers cooked ... my usual answer being medium rare ... and I was disappointed. The thickness of the burger would never have allowed a uniform medium rare. A word from our server could have pre-warned me, but no!

The toppings and sides with this burger were simple, unfortunately, a single slice of onion on a fairly standard sesame bun, some soggy and cooling crinkle cut fries and most weirdly a large pickle cut into quarters length-wise. All in all, a disappointment, but at least O'Connell's had a wide variety of beers on offer and a price tag to match the White Castle meal we had had the day before.

Much better, in my humble opinion, is their Roast Beef Sandwich: slices of thin cut roast beef served ‘Au Jus’, with a side dish of beef roasting juices which makes the sandwich even more unctuous, moist and lip smackingly tasty (Sorry, dear reader, normal language will hopefully resume after a short period back in Blighty). The bready element of the sandwich was made up of a roll that passes for what the Americans would call ‘French bread’ – longer than a sub, indeed as long as a baguette, but with the same texture and taste as a submarine roll.

As a direct comparison to the O’Connells burger, I offer Baxters, a restaurant with great views over the Lake of the Ozarks (photo above). It's about three to four hours' drive from St Louis and where we spent the middle of the week at a resort while I was introduced to Jefferson City, Missouri’s State Capital, and some of its residents.

We started with onion strings: very thin cuts of breaded onion, although the bread coating was almost tempura thin. The only bad thing that I could possibly say about these is that while they started out being crispy, the lower down that we got in pile of strings, the soggier they got. They were served with Ranch dressing: a light (liquid), slightly tart, seasoned, milky white condiment often made from packet mixes.

The server again asked how I wanted my burger cooked and this time it came out to order. The patty was thinner than the O’Connells burger, but we will forgive them that as the burger was moist and flavourful. This time I did not make the mistake of having Swiss and the other topping was more onion strings. Almost the best part of the burger was, however, the bun – it was brioche like. The bun maintained its shape, soaked up the juices from the burger and added a delicious buttery flavour.

Unable to leave this at just burgers, I'll offer a comparison O’Connell's roast beef sandwich. On my previous visit to St Louis, I was introduced to the Sportsman’s Park, a bar in Frontenac, a well-to-do suburb in St Louis County. There, after what I will admit were several beers, I had my first roast beef sandwich with ‘Au Jus’. This beef was served paper thin, thinner than O’Connells, and in small rolls, which fit into the hand superbly and probably more importantly into the bowl of the beef jus better as well.

Just to confirm that my tasting notes were not a drunken illusion (it’s my article and my excuse, so I’m sticking to it) , we returned this time as well. Indeed the sandwiches were as good as I recalled, even better as the buns has the same brioche-like consistency as the Baxter’s burger bun and this time I added the onion strings which were as good as Baxter’s if not better, having the same style of coating and being less oily further down the bowl we went – the lady had to have some as well, which we will forgive her, as it is her blog.

Overall in the burger stakes, the winner has to be Baxter’s, but I would certainly go for the Sportsman’s Park sandwiches over any of the burgers.

America and the Burger, Part 1

by guest blogger Piers Bencard

So after providing notes, commenting, making recommendations (nagging) and editing a few blog entries I have finally been rewarded (?) with my own entry. The reason: being in St Louis and being introduced to a local classic, added to a desire to write an entry on something that readers, certainly in Missouri and the midwest, would be more likely to comment on. If only as they are far more likely to have tasted it (and therefore have a better understanding on the way that our taste buds work). Of course, I thought that the lady, your usual blogger, would do the hard work and I would just proof and point as usual: “No!” she said, “your idea, you write it.” So here it is:

The starting premise: Not all of the readers of this blog will have been to the expensive restaurants often discussed here, and even if they had, they would as likely have been to more humble establishments as well. From there, and being in Missouri, the ‘obvious’ starting point is the classic where the notion originated: White Castle.

For those readers not in the know: White Castle is a burger joint which started in Kansas and is a bit of a love-it-or-hate-it experience, like Marmite in Britain. The company has only 420 restaurants in their chain but reportedly has the second highest revenue for a fast food chain behind McDonalds (which has 32,000). A burger in White Castle is called a slider, as to eat them you slide them out of a small box. They come in multiple varieties: I tried the bacon double cheese slider and the lady had the Jalapeno Cheese doubles. We added onion rings and fries to the order and a diet Coke (apparently to cancel out the fat in cheese). Naturally we were told that we got the order wrong by various people, who all had variations on what we should have ordered.

My sliders were indeed heavily flavoured by the bacon and cheese, the onions and bun would have flavoured them anyway – that is a significant part of the slider taste. The burger itself is hardly the point of going, although some say that the secret recipe has some liver – I hardly tasted it, indeed hardly tasted the beef. This is in part due to the thinness of the patty and also due to the holes in it (it looks like the ‘5’ side on a die).

When asked, the lady told me that hers were: “Unctuous, high in fat, filled with cheese, onions and a slight hint of beef.” The overall experience was somewhat similar to a kebab, but without the salad accompanying it; I was told that after a night out, White Castle would be mobbed.

As to the rest of the meal: the onion rings were the best part, crispy and a touch bready in the coating, the fries were a disappointment and the Diet Coke was interminable – you have to love a country that comes up with the idea that two people can share a drink and continue refilling it until they are completely refreshed.

So what can I compare White Castle sliders to? Well, having already juxtaposed the corporate track record with McDonalds, why not compare a slider with a Big Mac (O Reader, what I do for you!).

And why not? They are both fast food burgers and with the construction of the Big Mac similar to the White Castle double slider (2 patties sandwiched by 3 pieces of bun), they are an easy direct comparison. Not only that, while White Castle has thin patties, the Big Mac’s patties are not really that much thicker, but at least you can taste them – which may or may not be a blessing as they are uniformly well done; regular readers may have noted that I prefer my meat to have a bit more life or at least moisture in it. The dry meat was definitely saved by the special sauce, the other difference being the lettuce – so Mickie D’s certainly wins in the toppings stakes.

We didn’t have onion rings at the Golden Arches, they weren’t on offer, but we did have some of MacDonald’s excellent fries. We also had another never-ending Diet Coke (the lady actually had a never-ending Diet Dr Pepper), and I have to ask why is it that we in the UK are not allowed to have such a wonder? Surely if the never-ending soda (or ‘Pop’ to the British reader) is normal and natural for the American MacDonald’s diner they should be available to the European diner as well?

So in my direct comparison of White Castle’s and the Big Mac, the Big Mac wins on toppings, patty and price (the White Castle were individually cheaper than the Big Mac, but you generally you eat at least 4-6 in one sitting so actually the White Castle’s meal was as expensive as O’Connells – more of which later). Overall, and this hurts and will hurt more as I continue to live with a St Louisan, McDonalds has it.

It's a time for sharing roots as the fiancé gets the full Missouri experience

There may be exceptions, but I believe that for most people, where you grew up and what makes you tick are closely related. They don't call them the formative years for nothing.

This year, two events are converging to make that inter-dependency important to me. First, I'm marrying an Englishman who, until meeting me, had no exposure whatsoever to the American Midwest or to St. Louis. Second, I'm about to sell the family home there, truly cutting ties for the first time since I left 18 years ago. It was, therefore, particularly important to me that Piers get at least one total immersion holiday in St. Louis, filled with fun, traditional food, all the requisite tourist sites and a heavy dose of childhood friends and extended family.

This trip, we devoted sightseeing time to the top options. We went up in The Arch, squeezing into one of the tiny capsules to be carried up the south leg to the small observation deck, then explored the museum at its base. That looks at the broad story of westward expansion, while our visit to the History Museum in Forest Park looked more specifically at St. Louis and its immediate area. The fur trappers who founded the place, the divisions of the Civil War, the magnificence of the 1904 World's Fair, the glory days of aviation ... Piers can now cover off the civic highlights like a native. We drove around the grand old neighbourhoods around Forest Park, giving an appreciation for how good American architecture could be early in the 20th century.

Swinging south of the city, we had a lovely stroll around the Botanical Gardens. One of the best in the United States and in glorious bloom this wet April, the dogwoods, azaleas and tulips provided a lush background for our engagement photo shoot. The Budweiser brewery tour was a must, and I'm delighted to say that the ownership of InBev has made little difference to this institution since I went on the tour just before the completion of the takeover (See 23 August 2008).

In the middle of the week we headed south and west to the Lake of the Ozarks, traditional summer playground for St. Louisans. Our scenic drive along highway 94 followed the path of the Lewis and Clark expedition and showed off some gorgeous landscape. Once there, we stayed at the Lodge of the Four Seasons where we took in two of the three usual activities, shopping at the Osage Beach Outlet Mall and relaxing at the wonderful Spa Shiki. (Getting out in a boat would have been the third, but the only decent weather came at the same time as our spa appointments.) In nearby Jefferson City, where my father lives, we toured the capitol building. Almost laughably ornate and grand for our humble state, it impresses with its architecture, its bold position on a hill over the Missouri River and its Hall of Missourians, where you can wander amongst statues of Mark Twain, Josephine Baker, Walt Disney, Harry S. Truman (twice), Stan Musial and many more.

Most critically, we got to a baseball game. It wasn't the best example of the genre, with gloomy weather, a rain delay in the 7th and the Cards sloppily giving up a lead in the 8th to lose to the Reds. But Piers got to drink in the atmosphere, interact with the fans, understand more about the game and indulge in pre- and post-game beverages at local watering holes. As we all explained to him, you can't really understand St. Louis without understanding Cardinals baseball.

Tacked on to all of this sightseeing was, of course, food. For Piers' first visit to St. Louis, I made sure we went to some of the better restaurants in town, so he could see that the Midwest could do dining experiences as sophisticated as those we get in London. This visit was more about local stalwarts. We tried a few places new to me (high marks to Yagu in Chesterfield Valley for top quality sushi with innovative twists and gorgeous presentation), but the concentration was on childhood comfort food. Thus on a surfeit of burgers, fries and onion rings, on which my guest blogger Piers will comment in coming entries. In addition to those delights at White Castle, O'Connell's and Sportsman's Park, we went for soft, fresh-from-the-oven pretzels at Gus', sandwiches from Amighetti's, classic rib sticking Italian fare at Rigazzi's (good food, genial but horrific service), cannoli from Missouri Baking, the classical American abundance of dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, numerous plates of toasted ravioli and hot dogs at the ball park ... all the savoury items washed down with copious amounts of beer.

These are the tastes of childhood. (Yes, even the beer is a formative flavour. You don't grow up in Anheuser Busch's home city without believing it's your patriotic duty to drink their products.) It is no wonder that I was a tubby child, nor that my Weight Watchers weigh in upon returning was enough to send me into shock, depression and a vow to give up wine and bread for the rest of the month.

Throughout the trip we got to spend lots of quality time with the people who mattered. We saw my father both in St. Louis and on his home turf in Jefferson City, where dad gave an engagement party for us at his apartment. I suspect Piers was the most exotic thing to hit that crowd in a very long time. His accent and his commentary on why we hadn't hung around for the royal wedding seemed to provide constant fascination. Back in St. Louis, we did more quality bonding time with my matron of honour Anne and her husband Mike (who almost died for us in their attempt to pick us up at the airport). Anne and I have been delighted to see how quickly the boys have bonded and are looking forward to a future of shared holidays in slightly more exotic locations.

On royal wedding day, Anne gave an engagement party for us that was dominated by the Villa (high school) crowd. We even had our own commemorative plate, designed and created by our classmate Madolyn, who made a special trip in from Boston for the party. Far more comforting than any food or tour was watching Piers embraced by, and comfortable with, the family and friends who will continue to be my roots after the house and its contents are sold. As long as the people you love are there, you can always go home again.