It's August. Pause. Enjoy. And brace yourself for the busy time...

Late August.  The days get noticeably shorter and the nights cooler.  Hedgerows colour with ripening
berries and swelling rose hips.  After an action-packed summer comes a quiet bank holiday followed by two weekends empty of diary dates.  Meanwhile, the pace at work has picked up considerably as people return from holidays and brace for what's always the busiest few months of the year.

Our response to this brief transitional period has been to bunker in and enjoy some time at home as we pass our first anniversary in the new place.

The garden, which I'd left to get on and grow after the spring's intensive planting out, needed several days of serious attention.  Weeding and pruning.  Early summer annuals ripped out, late summer holes filled with some new perennials.  A few mis-judged plantings re-arranged.

Overall, I'm delighted.  It's hard to believe this was a featureless sward of grass at this time last year.  It's  obvious, at least to a gardener's eye, that all the plants are young, but they're bedding in well.  The hottest, driest summer in more than a decade has been a mixed blessing.  Though the sun's encouraged things along, the unusual heat and dryness (I don't always remember to water) have actually retarded some growth.  My dwarf cherry, white monkshood, ornamental thistle and delphiniums all suffered from heatstroke, dropping all their leaves and appearing dead before starting over.  Meanwhile the centaurea and and one of my penstemons suffered another trauma:  both evidently bear buds delicious to a puppy's taste buds.

Several other penstemons, however, have put on a dramatic show.  My luscious pink rose Geoff Hamilton and its neighbouring vivid blue anchusa Loddon Royalist have been in almost continuous bloom all summer, and my sweet peas provided vases of cut flowers for two months.  My hosta bed, though planted just across the street from a wetland park area filled with slugs, has remained miraculously un-munched.  My espaliered apple with its little hedge of lavender looks to be sinking its roots happily and I'm hoping for fruit next year.

The pond, as designed, is the highlight of it all.  In four months of operation the Cotswold stone has already taken on a golden patina of age and the cascade is growing a carpet of attractive green beneath the water.  The fish are happy, growing, and thus far undiscovered by any birds of prey.  Though the water hyacinths haven't been a success, the water lilies have given me enough blooms for me to note I really must buy more.  A large pot sitting on one of the partially submerged plinths, filled with a variety of purple, pink and white lythrums is a showy centrepiece.  The alpines tucked into niches in the rocks edging the pond have struggled with the weather, however.  It will be interesting to see what comes back in the spring.

As the month grew to a close our social diary, which had been packed throughout the summer, suddenly opened up.  A stretch of quiet weekends, free of formal plans, left us relaxing at home in the mellow fruitfulness of the season.  We've been cooking up a storm.  This is, of course, the best time of the year for the organic veg delivery boxes from Riverford, and I've been able to complement them with parsley, zucchini and poblano peppers from the garden.  My tomatoes and eggplants, however, have been an unfruitful waste of space.  I'll stick to flowers next year.

The social slowdown comes in tandem with a quickening of pace at work.  In fact, more like 0-to-60 in three seconds as a new vice president settles into her post and tries to fix all of our issues immediately.  My hours have spiked along with my excitement.

So there's the summer, gone.  After a brief lull, the madcap gallop to the end of the year begins.  Work hard, play hard, with at least one long weekend a month to keep life in balance.  Coming up in the closing months of the year:  birthday Michelin stars, exploring Iceland with the NU girls, a return to Barcelona and the magic of the Christmas season.  Bring it on.

British Museum's Pompeii and Herculaneum show brings a new take to a familiar story

With its latest blockbuster exhibition, Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum, The British Museum has managed to bring something fresh to one of the most familiar corners of the ancient world.

I was a bit skeptical when I booked the tickets back in April.  Like many Brits, I've wandered Pompeii's streets and consumed the steady diet of Vesuvian documentaries that regularly pop up on TV.  I've wandered though many stately homes with 18th century rooms inspired by the excavations. But being more than a bit of a Roman geek, I've also matched visits to the ruins with long hours in the crumbling but still noble Naples museum, where much of the loot hauled out of the excavations now lives.  And I've spent many happy visits to LA wandering about the Getty Villa in Malibu, where a vast American fortune allowed a vivid re-creation of the Villa of the Papyri stuffed with collections from the digs.

I'm always happy to potter around galleries of ancient Roman decor, but I wasn't expecting anything new.  Happily, I was wrong.

The show is aptly named.  Life and death in Pompeii, focusing heavily on the first part.  Its familiar premise is that much of what we know about the realities of day-to-day life in the Ancient Roman world is thanks to the snapshot-in-time created by Vesuvius' eruption.  It then goes on, through its collection of objects, clever videos and clear explanations, to lay out just what that daily life was all about.  The floorplan of the show is loosely based on that of the House of the Tragic Poet; outside its gates we learn about life in the broader city, and once within each room we dig into what actually happened there.

The common-sense logic of this set up gives context to the objects and brings the people who used them to vivid life.  This is exactly the approach that's missing in Pompeii itself.  It would add relevance and context to what you see there, and I can only hope the site managers take some inspiration from this show.

In the bedroom, we see a richly-ornamented bedpost and a luxurious trunk for storing clothing alongside cosmetics and toiletries, decorative geegaws and erotic wall paintings.  In the atrium, the lares (household gods) next to the small house altar.  In the garden, garden statuary, including an amazing, life-sized marble figure of a pudgy toddler with enough remaining paint to show how realistic he would have been when new.  There's a bird bath, pipes demonstrating how the water feature worked and three large, frescoed walls showing how the Romans used interior design to carry the garden from the outside, in.

In the fascinating kitchen section we see ovens and cookware.  Make the pots and pans out of stainless steel and they would be recognisable in our own kitchens today.  They're next to a larder of carbonised food.  Plates of figs, loaves of bread, bowls of nuts.  Here, an example of the interesting little titbits that made this show fresh.  We see chamber pots along with food prep.  Why?  The Romans put two functions that produced waste next to each other.  It seemed logical.  Despite their sophisticated take on medicine and their obsession with baths, they never realised this was a bad idea, and thus disease remained much higher than you would have expected from an otherwise well-sanitised society.

Next door, the dining room's collection drove home how the Romans loved to entertain, and decorated to impress.  Lavish sections of frescoed walls stand beside beautiful mosaics.  In one, a skeleton holding wine jugs encourages diners to carpe diem, because life is short.  In another, a lifelike aquarium of clearly-recognisable fish swims across the floor, hinting at what's soon to be on the plate.  It was probably waiting in the cylindrical, ornamental food warmer on one side, next to the lavish lamp.

Of course, death is in the exhibition title as well, and it doesn't take much to paint a poignant story.

There's the familiar plaster cast of the guard dog writing in pain, and an equally familiar cave canem mosaic.  I hadn't realised until this show that he'd been found atop the mosaic where, of course, he probably lived.  In the bedroom section there's a carbonised cradle.  A beautifully simple little rocker that could come from any house from the ancient world to today.  The label tells us that the carbonised infant was found inside.  The baby's not there for the show, but she doesn't need to be. Your imagination does the work for you.

Most haunting, however, is the family group at the end.  More plaster casts, made from the voids left by the disintigration of heat-blasted bodies inside hardening lava.  There's the father, caught in the action of falling backwards.  A boy, perhaps three, collapsed on the floor, creases of his clothing preserved in the cast.  You can imagine his cries. Between them, the mother, on her back, trying to console another child, who's reaching up.  Screaming.  Scratching the walls of the cubicle they were hiding in.  Trying to get out.  Not statues, but people just like us.

All those rooms of familiar household items brought it home.  People just like us.  Snuffed out, yet immortalised, in a crazy burst of tragedy.  The curators did just one thing wrong.  I would have ended by putting that wine-bearing skeleton next to the family.  Seize the day, for you know not what tomorrow brings.

Life and Death in Pompeii and Herculaneum is at the British Museum until 29 September.  Advance tickets are now sold out for the run of the show, but they release 500 a day for walk-ups.  Get there when the museum opens.

Donostia brings Basque elegance to W1. Treat it with respect.

Tapas is a fine concept in the land of its birth.

You're in Madrid.  You stop off in an elegant little bar for a glass of sherry before dinner, and the barman puts a few exquisite little plates in front of you to slake your hunger.  Then, you wander off for a proper meal.

In England, tapas becomes a full meal, and the concept gets dangerous.  Because the English aren't moderate drinkers, and those little plates may not add up the cushion you need to balance those bottles of Ribera del Duero you're knocking back.

"Never let the skinniest woman at the table order the tapas," came the hung-over groan of one of those not in control of last night's menu.

This sums up the problem with Donostia, one of London's newer ... and certainly trendiest ... tapas spots.  (10 Seymour Place, W1H)  The food is absolutely exquisite.  Delicate.  Packed with flavour.  Authentic.  As it should be.  Donostia is another name for the foodie mecca of San Sebastian, from where the chefs at the London spot draw inspiration.  In fact, the head chef was away for a long research weekend there when we arrived.  And that authenticity means the plates are also tiny.  Each just a few mouthfuls.

It's the kind of place you should go for an elegant ladies' lunch, limiting yourself to one or maybe two glasses of light wine.  Or have someone big and burly order triple what you think you need.  We did neither, foolishly overpowering some amazing food with generous quantities of a bold, robust vino tinto.  Despite the next day's fuzzy head, I remember the flavours.

A plate of very special Iberian ham called Jabugo, aged for 3 years, generously marbled with succulent fat, shaved so thinly you could read through it.  Pluma, a slow cooked pork shoulder so tender it  fell apart on your tongue, served with a Romanesco sauce (roasted red peppers, almonds, tomato and garlic) I wanted to eat by the tablespoon.  Together, tastes that makes you weep in pity for all the jews and muslims of the world prevented from tasting the meat of this magical animal.  Cod cheeks called pil-pil.  The north Atlantic in a bite, with cream sauce.  (Pictured here.) The season's new, fresh padron peppers, grilled in olive oil and dusted with sea salt.  A stunning potato and egg tortilla with caramelised onion spilling out of the middle when cut.  Triple-cooked chips, piled artfully like a small Jenga tower.

This is a very different experience from the carb and tomato-sauce heavy tapas bars common across London.  It's worth a special trip.  Just go easy on the wine.

Highclere proms bring out the best of English patriotism

Until very recently, public displays of patriotism were rare amongst the English.  Something seemed to
change last year, when the Jubilee and the Olympics combined to make flag waving cool.   The mood has continued this summer with the new royal baby, surprising sporting victories and remarkably sunny weather.

But, as I was explaining to my visiting American friend Christine, this is new and rare.  Not long ago there was only one reliable place to see English people in patriotic celebration:  a proms concert.

We were having this conversation walking along a line of flag-decked gazebos ringing the edge of the packed field at the Highclere Battle Proms.  More flags fluttered above the thousands on picnic blankets stretching away to the stage, as they happily donned red, white and blue and lifted Union Jack print paper products out of their hampers.  Proms concerts have always been a festival of national joy, but these days they're edging a bit over the top.

Just what is a proms concert?  For the benefit of my American readers ... the BBC has been running a series of classical concerts at the Royal Albert Hall every summer for 119 years.  The last night of this series, about which I've written before, ends with a stirring round of flag-waving tunes.  At some point in the slightly more recent past, owners of stately homes seeking cash-generating ideas hit on the realisation that they could create the "last night"fervour on their own lawns and charge entry fees that would more than cover their costs.

The grandest of these at the moment is the Battle Proms series; the same concert run at six stately homes across the country over the course of the summer.  Our local is Highclere Castle, a neo-Gothic Georgian pile now best known as the setting for Downton Abbey.  Admission is a not inconsiderable £31.50 each, but you do get a lot for your money.  The focal concert is preceded by 90 minutes of additional musical acts and attractions.

We kicked off with the Rockabellas, a modern version of the Andrews Sisters doing swing era hits.  Then an impressive show from the Blades Aerobatic Display, doing rolls, stalls, daring near misses and precision formations right over the crowd.  Then over to the field's edge, where re-enactors of English and French cavalries from the Napoleonic era had set up camp and were now showing off their equestrian skills.  (In the hours before had come the incongruous sight of them mixing and mingling in their 19th century finery, swords jangling and gold braid glinting, amongst the modern crowd.)  Finally, as the sun started to sink towards the tree line and the shadows lengthened, an evening gun salute.

All this time the crowds had been building.  The venue was the broad field in front of the house, sloping gently down to the beginning of the estate's woodlands.  The gothic towers sat to the left, a temporary bandshell straight ahead, and perhaps three football pitches of clear space before it for people to spread out their picnics.  Organised in an arc to set the margins of the al fresco auditorium was the gazebo area, three or four deep with open-sided tents.

Long experience teaches the English to expect rain at outdoor events, no matter the season.  Thus, even though the weather was glorious, we'd opted for our own pavilion.  This also allows for a more elegant and comfortable time, and proper seating.  So whilst the pre-show was going on, the six of us settled around our table quaffing nice wines and working our way through marinated cold prawns, slices of cold roast beef, a variety of salads and a box of wicked cakes brought to the Hampshire hills by Christine from one of London's trendy bakeries.

The main concert began at 7:30 with a bit of Elgar and a flyover by that most patriotic of planes, a spitfire.  Then on to a collection of light classical favourites like Suppe's Light Cavalry Overture and excerpts from The Marriage of Figaro.  Part One ended with the 1812 Overture.  And since there were cannon already on site, of course, they joined the orchestra on that one.

As twilight deepened, it was time to get serious.  A few more tunes off the symphonic hit parade before hitting the hard core patriotic stuff.  Every proms concert ends with the same music.  The traditional sailor's hornpipe.  Jerusalem.  Rule Britannia.  Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1.  All finished up with a rousing God Save The Queen before seeing the evening out with Auld Lang Syne.  There are native rituals to all of this, from a traditional pattern of clapping in the hornpipe to knee bends in the right places for the Elgar and a precise way of joining hands and swaying for Auld Lang Syne.  And, of course, Jerusalem, Rule Britannia and God Save the Queen are all bellowed with the same fervour Americans use when punching out the Star Spangled Banner before a big ball game.  Throughout this whole section, fireworks blaze and the crowd waves flags of all sizes, transforming the audience to a churning sea of red, white and blue.  (Watch the video below for a sense of it.)

In some countries you can go to a folklore show where costumed locals sing traditional songs and perform accompanying dances.  In England, you go to a concert like this.  The ghost of imperial pride, sent to his grave by so much political correctness and hand-wringing in the decades after the war, returns to kindle those last embers of remaining national pride.

A welcome addition to this particular concert was Beethoven's Battle Symphony, written to commemorate Wellington's victory at the battle of Vittoria.  Thus the logic of the Napoleonic re-enactors.  And especially appropriate at this particular venue, a neighbouring estate to Wellington lands.  In addition to a stirring performance of a beautiful piece of music, the producers threw in 193 cannons, musketfire and fireworks choreographed to fit the music.  I must admit, this was far better than anything we'd seen over the July 4th holiday in the States.

Overall, probably the best country house concert I've been to and one that I suspect will return to the social diary next year.  We have learned our lesson, however.  "Gates Open at 4:30" means entry to the concert ground, not to the car park.  Though we arrived at the estate at 4:30, by the time we parked up and got our stuff to the venue we were one of the last gazebos to pitch up; third row back from the front line.  Next year, we're on for an earlier start.  And perhaps some sherpas to carry all the kit we're accumulating for these al fresco events.