Local country house offers charming music in magical garden

What irony. For seven years we've been driving a 170 mile round trip and spending money on B&Bs to see country house opera. Turns out there's a very similar experience less than 10 miles from our house.

West Green House Opera isn't going to replace our allegiance to Longborough. Their season is smaller, their operatic ambitions are more restrained and ... particularly critical for us ... they don't do Wagner. But as an addition to summer musical possibilities, it's a great discovery. It's lovely to find a country house opera option without the hassle and expense of travel; one we could even enjoy on a weeknight. And West Green has one thing Longborough does not: exceptional gardens.

Australian native Marylyn Abbott picked up the lease on the Georgian house near Hartley Witney in 1993. It had been abandoned for three years, since an IRA bomb had destroyed most of its interiors. (It had been the home of Thatcher supporter Lord McAlpine, who laid out the bones of the gardens you see today with architect Quinlan Terry.) Abbott has restored both house and gardens and has been a driving force in setting the opera within them.

The gardens are an exquisite series of outdoor rooms, very much in the style of Sissinghurst or Hidcote. Blazingly-coloured borders backed by tall yew hedges, imaginatively-carved topiary, classical follies, mellow brick walls, ancient vines, venerable orchards and stately avenues ... all the classics are here. Steady rain limited our explorations on the night of the opera, but I saw enough to know I need to return for a more leisurely, and dryer, wander. Not only is this a sophisticated backdrop for an evening out, but you get the rare chance to explore a significant garden at night. Abbott and her team have used lighting in dramatic ways that make the gardens as much of the stars

as the performers on stage.

Most magical of all: we set up our picnic at linen-draped tables in the horseshoe shaped glass houses, surrounded by candles and exotic plants while ripening bunches of grapes hung over our heads. I'm unsure if this is a normal thing, or a consequence of bad weather making the marquees around the lake impractical, but it was an extraordinary setting. (You definitely need to book dining space separate from the tickets.) The experience was so exceptional that the picnic supper alone would have been a memorable highlight of the summer. But there was entertainment, too.

Through a courtyard where box and spikes of red and white flowers formed an oversized chequer board, ducking under a gnarled old wisteria, along the paths of a large walled garden of spectacular borders, through a tunnel arched with vines and bulbous white lights into a purpose-built glass and canvas marquee put up for the season. It's roughly the same size as Longborough, minus the boxes on the sides ... seating about 400.

We were there for Celebrating Gershwin, a one-off performance that was more pop than operatic. Gershwin wrote an opera, of course ... Porgy and Bess is still on my bucket list to see live. But we remember him best for an extraordinary arsenal of romantic firepower that anchors what's come to be known as "The Great American Songbook". Embraceable You, Someone to Watch Over Me, S'wonderful, Summertime and more; almost every song was a familiar and beloved treasure. In fact, the only one I didn't know ... a ditty about Vodka ... was a delightful addition from a forgotten stage show that gave actress and singer Issy van Randwyck a chance to deliver with comic flare.

Van Randwyck was the vocal star of the night, able to belt out show tunes with the rich, resonant power of the best West End stars. Jeff Hooper took the male lead. His voice was pleasing enough in the lounge singer genre, though with rather too much sung-speech rather than proper singing for my taste. My aversion to soprano Celena Bridge may be one of personal taste. Much as I love opera, I can't stand it when opera singers try to take on more popular music. The diction and the phrasing is all wrong, and in the case of Bridge doing Gershwin I thought her range was too high. As I listened to her, all I could do was think about how much better the Ella Fitzgerald on my iTunes versions were.

With this good a repertoire, however, you don't need vocal superstars to deliver delight. The musicians behind them are probably more important, and here the Simon Bates Big Band charmed with its jazzy tapestry of brass, drums and piano. You inevitably lose sound quality in a marquee, of course, even a purpose-built one ... which meant that the strings were sometimes drowned out by their showier fellows. But, overall, it was the musicians who delivered the most notable performances of the evening, particularly with orchestrations of Rhapsody in Blue and An American in Paris.

Further research reveals that West Green, now in its 17th year of summer performances, typically stages two operas a year with a repertoire favouring Mozart and more modern and light operas. It's a much shorter season than Longborough or any of the better known companies, packing everything into just a week or two, with one or two performances of each title. They sometimes look to touring companies rather than producing their own shows. In addition to the Gershwin night, other non-operatic events this season included a lunchtime concert and a lecture from historian David Starkey.

The gardens are open until 29 October, Wednesday to Sunday (and BH Mondays) from 11 to 16:30. National Trust members get in for free. Upcoming events include a Cinema Supper Club, a classic car show, Christmas illuminations and a holiday gift market.

I might have been shockingly tardy in discovering this local gem, but I predict more visits in the near future.

Asia de Cuba: Still exceptional after all these years

I'd like to say that I had put a lot of thought into the restaurant choice for my husband's birthday celebration. But that would be a lie.

The thinking went into Bat Out of Hell: The Musical. (see review here) The pre-theatre dinner was an afterthought. Asia de Cuba was the only event-worthy restaurant I could remember in close proximity to the London Coliseum. I'd been there for a work do and enjoyed it, though it didn't make the blog. Whether that was because I was having a really busy month, the food wasn't worth writing about or we enjoyed too much of the prodigious cocktail menu because the boss picked up the bill, I can't recall.

I won't forget this visit. The convenient afterthought delivered one of the best meals we've had this year.

A sunny fusion of tastes from warmer, more exotic places, the only thing wrong with the meal was our limited time. Those exquisite plates deserved to be lingered over. Instead, we rushed through the seven savoury plates of the chef's menu before we ran out of time. Fortunately, the cheerful and efficient staff let us pay our bill, dash to the theatre and return for post-show puddings. I didn't want to miss a bite.

When Asia de Cuba launched in 1999 it was not only one of the trendiest places in town ... located just off the lobby of the Philippe Starck-designed St. Martin's Hotel ... it introduced London to inter-continental fusion. Inspired by the great food to be had in Havana's Chinatown, the menu skittered off in bizzare directions. The menu is still a hotch potch of tempting possibility, though the influences seem to have expanded through all of Asia, the Caribbean and South and Central America. It can be difficult to find continuity between the dishes to construct a meal that hangs together.

Exactly the kind of place where a chef's menu works best. At £60, it's better value than assembling a meal a la carte and quite a deal when compared to tasting menu prices in similar London venues. Don't relax your guard, however: they recoup their margin on drink prices.

We started with grouper ceviche. The menu described its accompaniments as mojo amarillo, sofrito crudo and radish. My taste buds said a spicy mango sauce. Whatever ... it was exceptional and proved that the best quality fish needs very little to make it shine.

Asia de Cuba was one of London's original sharing restaurants, back when the "tapas" concept first extended beyond Spanish food, so it's no surprise the starters come as an array of small plates. There are two-bite-sized casava pancakes piled with exquisitely moist pulled pork tossed in a guava sauce. Eye-rollingly good tuna tartare comes as a taco (although to keep the fusion idea going, they call it a crispy wonton), elevated to excellence with a subtle balance of Spanish olives, currants, almond, toasted coconut and avocado ceviche. The dish of the night, however, was the crispy calamari salad with banana, chayote (a type of squash), cashews and hearts of palm tossed in an orange-sesame vinaigrette. Again, subtlety was critical to the dish. Without the help of the menu, I couldn't have picked out the individual ingredients beyond the squid and the lettuce, but the combination was exquisite. I would return simply to have this again.

Time for a palate cleanser: mojito sorbet. They really should market this commercially in groceries. Extraordinary stuff.

The main courses brought us more tuna. This time, the loin had been dusted with spices and grilled quickly to get a crust on the outside, leaving the center blissfully as the sea provided it. It came on a bed of white bean purée with chorizo salsa and tatsoi (an Asian green) with a garlic-sesame vinaigrette. A fine accompaniment, though the tuna was once again so exceptional we hardly noticed. The poor seven-spice chicken paled in comparison, though if it had appeared alone at any other time it would have been a star. This came with a Cuban version of rice and beans called congri that was more like a rich, creamy risotto, plus snow peas, shiitake mushrooms and plantains. It was a dish to remind you that a few changes can turn boring old roast chicken into something exotic and magical.

Back after the theatre for dessert, we had another triple play of sharing plates: a flan with tropical fruit salad, an exotic millefeuille and Mexican doughnuts with a drizzling of chocolate and caramel sauces. I have no idea what made them Mexican, I can only tell you that they were sinfully good. And that my normally ambivalent-to-puddings husband gobbled up three of the four. He says he was falling on his culinary sword to help my Weight Watchers results, but I think his motives were less altruistic. (Given the predominance of fish, vegetables and light preparations throughout the meal, however, Asia de Cuba is actually a good choice for those trying to keep the gluttony in check.)

All of this was delivered with exceptional service. It's not easy squeezing a multi-course chef's menu into a pre-theatre slot; they adapted admirably. Courses came with careful descriptions, recommendations on drinks were spot-on, wine and water were always topped up and the servers worked as a smooth team. They took careful note of my husband's tomato allergy and when the chicken's marinade had the offensive ingredient they brought out a second, specially-prepared serving just for him. We really appreciated the offer to return for dessert; they didn't have to do that.

All of this means that Asia de Cuba moves from a dim and undistinguished dining memory to a place on the short list of restaurants I'd like to return to soon. The next time English National Opera lures us through their doors, I know where we'll be first.

"Bat Out Of Hell: The Musical": likeable, operatic fun falls short of greatness

I wanted so much to love Bat Out of Hell: The Musical.

Of all the so-called "Jukebox Musicals" that have been cobbled together from a group's existing songs, only this one was born to the genre. Songwriter Jim Steinman's original concept was a rock opera version of Peter Pan; finding Meatloaf to sing and releasing an album came to fruition first, and the opera got shelved for forty years underneath the juggernaut of the album's platinum (x14) success. With that start, it should have been better than its competition.

It also swept me into serious nostalgia territory. I was never a big Abba fan (Mamma Mia). I didn't really discover Queen (We Will Rock You) until moving to England. The Four Seasons (Jersey Boys) sang my mother's music. But Meatloaf had delivered the anthems of my high school years ... the soundtrack of sweltering, sticky nights of romantic yearning, illegally obtained beer and grand dreams of escaping small town America. What's more, it had a big production budget, used the cavernous stage space of English National Opera (at the London Coliseum) and was getting solid reviews. So I should have adored it, right?

I liked it. It was an entertaining night out, filled with impressive spectacle and great music. But it failed to connect with me emotionally. It might have been the over-wrought, preposterous plot, or the painfully awkward and graceless choreography, or the fact that two of lead Andrew Polec's sidekicks (Giovanni Spano and Dom Hartley-Harris) both had voices we thought were much more suited to the main role than his. Maybe it was the sting in the tail of tickets priced closer to grand opera than musical theatre. But our main emotion on leaving was not "wow, we were lucky to see that" or "must tell people to get tickets before this closes on", but rather ... "Damn, that music is incredible. I need to listen to those albums all the way through again."

If you're a Meatloaf fan, the music is the main reason to go. You'll find joy in those familiar tunes backed by a full orchestra, delivered with impressive spectacle and an enormous cast. There's nothing new about the plot ... Peter Pan mashed up with Romeo and Juliet, set in a dystopian future Manhattan ... but there is a logic to the song arrangement that furthers the story.

It's a story that would have worked better for me without the dystopian angle. We're introduced to a grim, industrial wasteland run by a wealthy despot named Falco who lives in a secure high rise. He and glamorous but distant wife Sloane are protective parents our Juliet type, called Raven. In the tunnels beneath the city a group of teenagers have somehow been genetically frozen at 18. They are the rebels against the state, staging daring graffiti raids on Falco properties from the backs of their enormous motorcycles. They're called The Lost, and the youngest of them is an impish mascot called Tink. No points for subtlety here. Amazing their leader isn't called Pete. He is, instead, Strat, and you know exactly where the love story will go as he slips through Raven's windows and entices her to adventure in the outside world.

The sub-plot of our heroine's parents is actually the more compelling storyline: the staging for Paradise by the Dashboard Light , where they relive the start of their relationship in flashback, is fantastic fun. "Paradise" is not the end of their relationship, but the set up for an emotionally complex, mature coupling where sparks still fire. There is a thin line between love and hate, which Rob Fowler and Sharon Sexton carry off with a fiery intensity. They add depth to the straightforward story of our young lovers, and make the most of some of Steinman's most soul-shredding lyrics. It's all coming back to me now ... not on either of the Bat Out of Hell albums, but a Steinman song made famous by Celine Dion ... was the emotional high point of the show for me.

The youth plot would have worked better for me if set in the real world, with demanding, university-pushing parents keeping their daughter away from the rebellious drop-out and his gang of idealistic slackers. Admittedly, that would have deprived us of the impressive, multi-level sets where Raven (played by Christina Bennington, who evokes Meatloaf's duet partners far better than Polec's Strat captures the singer himself) pines in her sky scraper bedroom while the Lost caper in the city's drains below. From speeding motorcycles to dank prisons to a car crashing into the orchestra pit, the show is high on visual spectacle.

None of this really matters by the time You Took The Words Right Out of My Mouth fires up for the grand finale. Perfectly calculated to get people on their feet and clapping along, it essentially ensured a standing ovation.

There were some raised eyebrows when Bat Out of Hell started its limited run in the home of English National Opera. In retrospect, it was totally appropriate. Vast, impressive sets. Showy effects. Bombastic, crowd-pleasing anchor tunes. Completely non-sensical plot. There's even a showy death or two. I think Verdi would have liked it.

It will take more than liking, however, to encourage the producers to find a new home for a longer run in London. Looking around last night's half-empty balcony, I'm sceptical there's demand for more. So if you're a Meatloaf fan, you'd better move fast. Bat Out of Hell is only on here until 5 August. After that, it crosses the Atlantic for a run in Toronto.

Longborough's magical new Flute adds laughter and derring-do to the expected musical joy

With the Longborough Festival Opera's latest production of The Magic Flute, Mozart's masonic-flavoured tale of love, enlightenment and noble quests becomes the opera I've seen more often on stage than any other.

I've written here about grand pageantry at the Royal Opera House, the poignancy of a dying art at the Salzburg Marionette Theatre, and the budget-defying quality of Longborough's last production of Flute five years ago. In all of those experiences, this is the first time my instinctive impression was: fun. Followed by comic, joyous and magical.

This is a production of Flute that deserves to run and run in revivals. If I wanted to introduce children to opera, I'd want them to see this one. It was a rollicking, lighthearted frolic of an evening thanks to director Thomas Guthrie's introduction of fairy tale imagery, witty banter in the spoken bits and a lively pacing to counter the sometimes ponderous dramas in Sarastro's temple.

As director Anthony Negus fired up the orchestra to work his usual magic ... leaving our spines tingling and in no doubt this is one of the most beautiful operatic overtures ever written ... we saw a young boy in his sickbed reading a book. As the overture ends and the action begins, the child remains on stage as our hero Tamino enters chased by the giant serpent. Both are large puppets dynamically moved by cast members in black.

Opinions on this opening split our group, with at least one person just not getting the point. I loved it. Granted, it was a bit derivative: the kid in bed immediately reminded me of Fred Savage and the set up in The Princess Bride, and if you saw any of the National Theatre's attempts to bring His Dark Materials to life in 2004 you'd seen the puppets. It was perhaps because both of those references were so familiar to me that I instantly got it: we were entering the realm of fairy tale, and the puppets were our transition into the fantasy. (Luckily, just as they risked getting irritating Julian Hubbard threw off his cloak, lost the puppet and sprang to life as a Tamino that had not only a blockbuster voice, but the broad, handsome bearing of an action hero.)

As with Longborough's last version of Flute, the singing remained in the original German while the dialogue came out in English. This time, however, the comedy was memorable. This had much to do with Grant Doyle's Papageno, played as a laddish but sweet Australian chancer. His double act with Hubbard's Tamino was reminiscent of the wise-cracking bromances that provide the comic relief in so many American crime dramas.

The most memorable voice of the night emerged from Jihoon Kim as Sarastro ... a powerful, rich sound almost incomprehensible coming out of the slight, young Korean. As a group, our jaws dropped and we gazed at each other in amazement within seconds of his first notes. (Our only complaint: some hair-and-make-up magic would have helped. He looked too young for the role.)

These memorable performances somewhat upstaged the women, who all delivered to top opera house-quality. The characterisation amongst them was better in this production than any seen: Beate Mordal's Pamina gave us heartbreak with vivid angst, while when Hanna Dahlenburg delivered the Queen of the Night's most famous aria with a crazed intensity and a bit of physical abuse towards her daughter that helped us to instantly understand why she's actually the villain.

We probably also benefitted from attending on the last night of the run, when any kinks had been worked out of the production and everyone had fully hit their stride. As faithful supporters of the LFO we ended up at the cast wrap party, where an exultant team clearly realised ... and celebrated ... just how good they had been.

Outside, the Flute seemed to be working a different kind of magic. A dark and stormy one. It was our second time seeing it at Longborough, and the second time we've had truly dreadful weather there. Fortunately, picnicking in all weathers ... even in formal wear ... is part of the English summer tradition. We managed to get the tent up in a lull in the rain, establishing a cozy bolt-hole for a four-course supper consumed before, during and after the main event.

There's no such thing as bad weather; only inappropriate picnic kit. We Bencards know the Magic Flute. And we also know how to do elegant dining in a field in a downpour. We'd happily endure that trial to see Flute once again at some future Longborough. But no new productions, please. Revive this one again and again.

Boutique's more than an adjective: Dublin's Dawson falls short

"Boutique" is the most aspirational adjective in the modern hotel industry. These days, it seems that anyone in the accommodation business who's not a large chain and pays some serious attention to interior design appropriates the term.

Our recent stay at Dublin's Dawson Hotel is a reminder that running a boutique hotel is a lot harder than it seems. True, the description brings with it a desirable customer base willing to pay a premium for their experience. But they also have high expectations, and are probably benchmarking you against some formidable competition. While the Dawson had a fantastic location and looked great, its beauty was only skin deep. It has a long way to go to get near boutique hotels I've reviewed here like South Africa's Birkenhead House Savannah's Brice.

Things started well. It would be hard to better the Dawson's location, on a gracious street full of upscale shops and restaurants that links Trinity College to St. Stephen's Green. Directly across the street is the gracious Georgian facade of the Lord Mayor's residence, Mansion House. After passing under a glass and wrought-iron canopy most likely added by the Victorians, you enter a classic Georgian entry hall and proceed up broad, elegant stairs to the lobby on the first floor. They certainly have the boutique look down, with oversized gold-gilt Georgian and Baroque furniture and luxe fabrics mixed with modern accessories and lighting, and all of the calming neutral wall colours currently in vogue.

We'd upgraded to a junior suite, primarily because we'd booked at short notice and rooms in the city were limited. It was also clear that people in search of peace and quiet should avoid the cheaper rooms facing onto the main street; the Dawson described them as "vibrant", especially on weekends. (Translation: the hotel's bar is just one in a line of trendy establishments that pour loud groups of merry-makers onto the pavements at night. During the day, construction noise and a bus stop for several of the city's hop-on-hop-off tours keep things lively.) Thus the anticipation of almost £200 a night hitting our debit card raised expectations, as well.

The Ares Suite was indeed beautiful, with an enormous bed under a canopy, a fanciful footstool and sofa, a capsule-style coffee maker and a bathroom the size of a double bedroom with a striking free-standing tub. The bed and pillows were comfortable, the linens of top quality, and the room was blessedly quiet. But little things niggled. There was no shaver point in the bathroom, leaving us without the ability to charge our toothbrush. There was an unprepared hole in the wall (perhaps power was on the way?) More frustrating, the bathroom only had dusky mood lighting. Great for a romantic soak, but frustrating for more prosaic business. Surely a luxury boutique could offer two-stage lighting? I appreciated the fridge in the room, but was puzzled to find it hadn't been plugged in (hope nobody arrives with stuff they need to keep cold) and surprised to find it completely empty. A true boutique usually stocks your rooms with a few goodies.

Service was adequate, but lacked the personal interest and the sense of going above and beyond I associate with boutiques. This might have been, in part, because the lobby is off to the side of the main stair. Once you check in, you have no reason to pass through. This means there's little contact with staff. When we did interact, it was efficient but perfunctory. We didn't encounter anyone with a local accent; though it may be an unfair assumption, the whole staff seemed to be from somewhere else, adding to a more corporate, impersonal feel.

Our biggest issue, however, was breakfast. I hadn't confirmed that it was included in the rate, making an assumption that at that price ... and in a country that makes a big deal of its breakfast ... the meal would be part of the experience. And I sense that, under normal circumstances, it is. But we arrived to a notice that the kitchen had been closed due to "unavoidable circumstances". Probably just unfortunate wording, but I immediately imagined a health inspection shut down. The offered a continental breakfast instead. This was a disaster.

Breakfast took place in a bar to the side of the main entrance, primarily free of staff and curiously cluttered with boxes, as if throwing people into the room for breakfast was an afterthought. The breakfast spread ... inelegantly scattered on a side table ... comprised boxed cereal, some fruit, yogurt containers and a stack of sale scones. There was a vat of boiling water and tea bags, but NO COFFEE. And no staff to handle any requests. Climbing upstairs to the lobby, we discovered they would bring us cups from the Nespresso machine there.

I understand kitchen issues. But if you're going to put yourself out there as a luxury boutique hotel, you can do a better job on the continental breakfast. Have a staff member in the room to take care of people. Decant your cereals into glass jars. Lay on some platters of sliced meats and cheeses. Offer a varieties of pastries. Fresh ones. And, for heavens' sake, coffee. Ideally cafetieres or pots for each table so people can linger over their breakfast without having to request the next cup. Lacking all of these things, we sought breakfast elsewhere two of our three mornings.

I wouldn't completely dismiss the Dawson. Its location is extraordinary and the bed was wonderfully comfortable. But all those little issues frustrate when you're presented with a sizeable bill on checkout. Its a hotel that could be great but, right now, it's not fully earning its "boutique" appellation.

Surprise! Dublin's now a credible foodie destination

My culinary expectations of Dublin were low. Unlike Barcelona or San Sebastian, where food research and pre-booking restaurants is part of the holiday planning, It never occurred to me for the Irish capital. I just counted on turning up and tucking into some comforting, traditional pub grub. A famous Irish fry-up to start the day. A burger, or a steak and Guinness pie, to end it. Nothing fancy or expensive.

How wrong I was!

We never did get that fry-up. Our hotel kitchen was out of commission. My favourite breakfast spot of memory, the historic and lavishly decorated Bewley's Oriental Cafe, is closed for a major renovation. The cafe we found on our Sunday morning wander delivered something deeply average. Thankfully, everything else we encountered was a delight ... though a good deal fancier and more expensive than I'd anticipated.

Basing ourselves between St. Stephen's Green and Trinity College turned out to be an inspired choice on the food and drink front. Tempting menus beckoned from a score of establishments within a 5-minute walk. We ended up drawn repeatedly to a small stretch on Merrion Row, where fine options cluster cheek-by-jowl.

O'Donoghues pub is the perfect place to start ... or finish ... any evening thanks to their robust tradition of Irish music. A stone's throw away is Bang, an elegant, modern restaurant with three floors of dining space each open to each other, rising like treads on a spiralling stair. It's earned "plate" accreditation in the Michelin Guide (just below a star) and the accents of the diners on a Saturday night suggest it's a clear favourite with the locals. (We probably should have booked; somehow, we got lucky.)

This is a typical modern, fine-dining establishment, stressing seasonal, local produce and presenting dishes with artistic flair. We were impressed by starters of perfectly-griddled tuna (caramelised on the outside, pink in the centre) with wasabi puree and seared foie gras on house cured duck ham. A short mains menu majors on rich proteins: duck breast, lamb rump, sirloin, halibut. Deserts like chocolate delice with cherry gel and caramel ice cream, or salted caramel parfait with honeycomb and mango sorbet, packed a flavour punch.  Without any planning, we had started very well indeed.

The next night we were across the street and down a few doors at Hugo's, a marvellously cozy French establishment with enough lush fabrics, wooden panelling, mirrors, brass and chandeliers to suggest the heart of the Left Bank rather than Dublin. There's an impressive wine list, offering mostly French options but adding interesting options from around the world, with more than 50 possibiities by the glass ... all at fair prices. As with Bang, there's an emphasis on local sourcing: Dingle Bay Crab, St. Tola's goat's cheese, Kilkeel scallops, Irish beef.  When envisioning comfort food in Ireland I hadn't thought of Tournedos Rossini with a glass of velvety Burgundy, but this is comfort food indeed. The comfort of kings. Hugo's did it as well as I've had anywhere.

A leisurely 15-minute stroll across town, closer to Dublin Castle and in the shadow of the impressive Victorian facade of the George's Street Arcade, we found another pair of delicious and noteworthy restaurants a stone's throw from each other. This time, in both cases, we'd unwittingly fallen into the hands of celebrity chef Dylan McGrath, who owns a cluster of eateries around this obviously trendy area.

Fate seemed to be guiding our steps. Turns out McGrath cut his teeth at L'Ortolan, our local and much-loved Michelin starred restaurant, had earned a star at his own first establishment in Dublin and is now the anchor chef on MasterChef Ireland. If I'd done any research, I probably would have ended up at one of his places anyway. Instead, we wandered into Fade Street Social without any context, in search of Sunday lunch.

The concept here is Irish "tapas": homey favourites given a gourmet twist, served in small, sharable plates. Three choices per person produces a satisfying buffet of a lunch. Chunks of pork belly served crostini-style, beautiful fresh prawns, strips of rare sirloin. The outstanding dish was an amazing crab sandwich cut into soldiers you dipped into an eggshell filled with freshly-made mayonnaise, served with wickedly delicious fries. Turns out there's a regular restaurant, as well (they weren't serving that menu on Sunday afternoon) and a cool, elegant roof bar. My only problem with tapas-style dining, of course, is that I feel you always end up spending more than yo would have for a traditional two courses. But there's no denying that the quality here was exceptional.

The next day, with these three fine dining experiences behind me and still disappointed on the Irish breakfast front, all I wanted was a good, simple burger. Peering in the windows of Brasserie Sixty6, something reminded me of an American diner. A hamburger led the lunch menu. We plunged in. Once settled, I realised the mood was ... as the name implied ... more busy Parisian bistro, with menus chalked up on boards, plush banquettes and lots of mirrors. Though the lunch menu was filled with simple favourites, a drinks menu with a beguiling list of artisan gins and vodkas hinted at a more sophisticated place. The burger, with smoked applewood cheddar, bacon, homemade chutney, three-onion creme fraiche, thick cut chips and aioli, showed off how a simple dish can be elevated to greatness when packed with flavour. It was outstanding. And, at £10, probably the best deal we had while dining out in Dublin. Naturally, there was a hefty list of artisan beers and ciders to go alongside.

We finally got our traditional pub grub on our last night, when we headed out to the Abbey Tavern in
Howth. Though this picturesque coastal village surrounding a ruined abbey feels like rural Ireland, it's only 45 minutes from Dublin, linked by train and a popular neighbourhood for affluent commuters. The "world famous" (according to their web site) Irish pub puts on a show of traditional Irish music and dancing accompanied by a three-course meal from a set menu, followed by Irish coffee. It's a description that screams "tourist trap" and I wasn't expecting much. Somehow, they manage to make the experience feel both intimate and authentic. I wrote about the music in the last entry. On the food front, smoked salmon followed by beef and Guiness pie, with Bailey's cheesecake to finish, was obviously the stuff of mass catering, but flavourful and put together from quality ingredients. Far better than I had anticipated from what I thought would be a tourist factory.

If you get a chance, cast aside your skepticism and head to Howth; the Abbey's Irish Night is an atmospheric summary of the island's hospitality. And it's good to know that, while much of Dublin has gone posh and foodie, the traditional places are still delivering their simple comforts, too.

Ten tips for a top Dublin weekend

Dublin is a perennial favourite for a weekend city break from London ... with good reason.

It's a small place, easily covered in a few days. If you stay anywhere in the city centre and are even marginally fit, everything is walkable. It's loaded with history, is justifiably considered one of the best places to see Georgian architecture and is studded with exquisite parks. The major museums are free.

Most strikingly, it's a place of abundant hospitality. Even after the hard wear of hen and stag dos, Americans searching for their ancestors, partying Six Nations rugby fans and twenty-somethings on the lash ... Dubliners manage to welcome you with open hearts. They start meaningful conversations and seem honestly concerned about helping you to have the best time possible in their fair city. Those pubs are famous for a reason. Somehow, you can feel more like a local in 10 minutes here than you can in a year in your English neighbourhood watering hole. The cozy atmosphere and friendly locals make it, quite possibly, the best city in Europe to go and just "hang out".

I knew Dublin well at the turn of the century, but hadn't visited in about 15 years. Tough years, during which the Celtic Tiger economy crashed and then clawed its way back to life. Most of what I loved about the city remains the same, though I did spot some significant changes.

• Immigrant workers, who had been a trickle in the '00s, now seem to be hovering near a majority of the hospitality workforce. We met a Brazilian waiter, a polish restaurant manager, Southeast Asian bar servers and hotel staff from India. While it's great to see a country that was once unable to find enough opportunity for its own people now with enough jobs to welcome others, they face a challenge. It's hard to carry off that legendary Irish hospitality when the guy bringing your pint of Guinness can barely speak English, much less engage in a merry conversation.

• Money has poured into the city and improvements are under way at an even higher pace than during the height of the .com boom. From the shining new offices in "silicon docks" and modern art installations to the glittering Aviva rugby stadium or the scaffolding sheathing renovations on many an old building, the city feels vibrant and prosperous. The biggest "improvement" will be a tram system in the city centre, but for now most main streets are a nightmare of construction traffic.

• Dublin has gone "foodie". I remembered a city rich with hearty, reasonably-priced comfort food. Traditional fry-ups, steak and Guinness pies, great burgers, beguiling potato dishes. Such menus now seem the exception to a rule of upscale oyster bars, tapas-style grazing, fine dining and ethnic eating. (More on food to come in a separate entry.)

Here are my top 10 picks for a great long weekend in Dublin.

One: Take the Viking Splash tour
At €25 per adult, it's more expensive than other tours and doesn't feature hop-on-hop off. But it's loads of fun, with guides fit for the comedy circuit who also give you a fine overview of 2000+ years of history ... including the Viking age. There are horned Viking helmets for passengers and organised Viking roars at competing buses and unsuspecting locals. With a city centre this small, you don't need the hop-on-hop-off feature, anyway. Do this first, get the lay of the land, and walk back to what you want to visit over the course of the weekend. The "splash" element wasn't as big as I'd imagined. It's just a brief circuit around the basin in "Silicon Docks" rather than a cruise up the Liffey, but the experience of the conversion from land to sea vehicle is fascinating.

Two: Go to the Archaeology branch of the National Museum of Ireland

As in the UK, Ireland's national museums are free, so there's no excuse not to drop in to this treasure trove for a few minutes. And I do mean treasure. The main gallery on the ground floor is devoted to the gold of the pre-historic Celts. Case after case of torcs, earrings, cloak clasps and ceremonial objects to make your jaw drop. Off to one side you'll find "The Treasury", where curators have collected some of the greatest items from pre-history through Vikings and the late middle ages. Upstairs, there's a fine Viking section and more medieval goodies. All in an architecturally striking building attached to the modern parliament. Don't miss the gift shop in the entry rotunda with a particularly good jewellery selection.

Three: Go to a Pub
Go to lots of pubs. This is one of the glories of Ireland. You don't need to be a big drinker to enjoy them. They're about conviviality and fellowship. Even in high-traffic tourist areas they still feel authentic, because they're still filled with locals. No fruit machines, no bad pop music, no remodelling into themed gastropubs. And the locals will talk to you, something that will rarely happen in the UK. You're likely to find some live music .... especially if you head to O'Donoghues on Merrion Row ... which leads me on to my next point.

Four: Make an effort to find traditional Irish music
Some cities just seem more musical than others. Dublin shares with Prague and Vienna a feeling that music is woven in to the soul of the place. You could head to formal concert halls. Riverdance is currently in revival at the Gaiety Theatre. But most pubs lay on live music. Sometimes it's an officially booked band, sometimes a bunch of locals who've brought instruments and are jamming for fun. Check out the Abbey Tavern in Howth, a picturesque coastal village half an hour's train ride from Dublin. The Abbey stages its own singers and dancers in a regular Irish revue. It was a magical night for us as we joined the visiting Maryland State Boychoir. The Abbey's performers invited the boys to sing in return; sitting at their centre as they raised the roof was soul stirring.

Five: More Music ... go to Evensong
Dublin is the only city I've encountered with two cathedrals of the same religion (in this case, the protestant Church of Ireland); a conundrum that embodies much of the odd, fractious, artistic, warm yet contrary spirit of Ireland. Both charge to get in, though neither is particularly special as gothic cathedrals go. So attending an evensong service is a great way to get in for free, take a quick look around and drink in some great atmosphere. (Naturally, I'd encourage you to chuck some money into the collection box in thanks.) Again, we were riding the Maryland State Boychoir's coat tails here, and were lucky enough to hear gorgeous concerts at both St. Patrick's and Christ Church. The first is the National Cathedral, most famous for being under the administration of Jonathan Swift as he wrote blockbusters like Gulliver's Travels. It has an impressive choir area decorated with the remnants of the Order of St. Patrick. Christ Church is older, the cathedral of the City of Dublin, and home to some impressive treasures in the crypt. This includes a collection of plate William III donated to the city after winning the Battle of the Boyne, a point of political discomfort that's probably best kept in the basement. Evensong is usually around 5pm but changes with church and day. Check web sites for details of daily services.

Six: Wander Merrion Square

Dublin is justifiably known for its Georgian architecture. See it in its greatest harmony by taking a relaxing stroll in and around Merrion Square. The soothing, regular lines of the houses are enlivened by their doors, with bold colours, brass ornaments and ornate windows above. In the original design, every fifth house had to have a lantern incorporated into the over-door window to light the street; many survive. Plaques on many buildings show off the history of the great and the good who lived here. In the centre you'll find a marvelous park sunk slightly lower than street level so you wander in a green bowl with the Georgian rooflines framing the sky.

Seven: Hang out with Vermeer
You'll only be able to catch this blockbuster show at the National Gallery of Ireland until 17 September, but it's a good indication of things to come after the museum's €30 million, 6-year renovation. The special exhibition space is now in a purpose-built, modern wing and this show throws down the gauntlet to other European institutions. They've managed to accumulate almost one third of Vermeer's total work (10 of 34), even more impressive when you consider they started with just one and had to talk places like the Met (New York), the Louvre and the Rijksmuseum out of some of their biggest crowd pullers for the summer. The show puts those 10 Vermeers in the wider context of genre painting, illustrating how he and his competitors tackled very similar scenes in different ways. If you're an art lover, it's worth making a trip to Dublin for this alone. Even after it's gone, you'll have the pleasure of free entry into a beautifully renovated collection.

Eight: The Book of Kells
If you want to see it, book in advance and go first thing in the morning. I don't know whether it was the passage of time, or simply that I've never been to Dublin in high summer, but I've never seen the city so crowded. The wait to get into Trinity College Library at 11am on a Tuesday, without pre-booking, was 90 minutes. Trinity itself is one of the stateliest sets of quadrangles you'll ever find, but every inch was crawling with tourists. The buildings, the library and the book are all worth seeing. Just get in and out fast.

Nine: Buy knitwear
Irish woolens used to come in a limited, very traditional range. The designers have swept into the scene in recent years to turn that famous wool into more fashionable stuff. Quirky styles, eye catching patterns, interesting cuts. You can still find plenty of classic, cable-knit crew necks, but there's much more to tempt. The best shopping flight path is a short and direct one. Start at the Avoca on Suffolk Street, just across Grafton from Trinity College, near the main tourism information centre and the statue of Molly Malone. End at the Kilkenny Shop, straight ahead as Suffolk turns into Nassau Street. In between, there are plenty of smaller specialty shops, while the anchors offer a mini mall of clothing, craft and design. Americans benefit from tax free shopping. Brits will find prices only slightly less than at home, but the designs are unique.


Ten: Drink a Guinness
Even if you think you won't like it. Give it a try. It really does taste different here. They say it's the Liffey water. I'd guess it's simply the comfort you'll be feeling after all that hospitality.