Mighty Carthage now a leafy, seaside suburb

We were up early to take a stroll around Sidi Bou. Our objective was to catch the town before tourists and with good light. This is a photographer's paradise; it's hard to go more than a few feet without unother perfect composition hitting your eye. We eventually ended up on a little promontory looking down on the town beach and harbour, and down the coast at neighbouring Carthage, our objective for the day. The light was indeed spectacular, and at 8am there wasn't a tourist in sight.


Back at the hotel, we let our new friend Abdullah serve us breakfast next to the pool. A Tunisian breakfast, at least at the Dar Said hotel, is a Continental one: a pot of strong black coffee and jug of hot milk; a basket of breads including croissant and pain au chocolat; butter and jans, including fig; plates of meat and cheese; yogurt; soft boiled egg. It's quite enough to set you up for the day. Good thing, too. We were going to need our energy.

Carthage has lived many lives, most notably as the capital of the Punic kingdom and home of Hannibal who almost brought down Rome before it became a world power. Later, it emerged from the ashes of Roman conquest as a new and sophisticated imperial city, one of the largest in the Empire. Perhaps its most surprising incarnation is its modern one, a leafy and exclusive suburb of Carthage. To see the ruins you have to walk through palm tree-lined avenues bordered by walled villas. It all felt a bit like LA, frankly.

Seeing Carthage means walking. A lot. This was a big town and the main sites are spread out. It's also very hilly; culture and a work out at the same time.

We started on Byrsa Hill, where the Romans built their Acropolis-like forum on the remains of the Punic city centre. There's not a lot to see beyond foundations, but the spectacular views give you a sense of just what a great location this was for a city. And you can just make out the outlines of the ancient harbour, once one of the world's most sophisticated; now apparently a series of lakes giving some of those posh villas a bit more water in their view.

There's a small museum up on the hill that gives the history of the city and shows some of what was unearthed here. The models are most helpful, letting you get a better sense of what all these bare foundations underpinned. My favourite sight here, however, was two sarcophagi, each topped by life sized effigies, one male, one female. I looked closely at this woman who lived 400 years bc. She wore an obviously Egyptian skirt, beneath a very Greek blouse and hair style. Her funerary monument was Etruscan in tradition, yet she was burried in North Africa. And I laughed, thinking of our world's obsession with this "new" concept of globalisation. This 2400-year-old woman could tell us that there's nothing new under the sun.

Next to the ruins on the hill you find the slightly dilapidated, Moorish, yellow hulk of the Cathedral of St. Louis. (Turns out the namesake of my home town died here during a seige in the Crusades.) The church has been deconsecrated and is now used as a concert venue, so I didn't get the chance to get inside to hunt amongst the monuments for proof of the family legend that a 19th c Ferrara was a ptiest who had something to do with the bishop of Carthage.

A 20-minute walk, downhill then up again, brought us to a ridge covered with the remains of Roman villas. And sandwiched, a bit incongruously, between the sprawl of the President's palace on the coast and the massive mosque he's constructed just inland. The villas will be a dissappointment to anyone who's seen Pompeii, Herculaneum or Ostia. There's just not a lot here besides foundations and a few signs showing where a particular mosaic now in the Bardo once stood. But the views are magnificent and you do get the sense that the residents of ancient Carthage, just like their modern descendents, had it good.

Another stroll, about 15 minutes downhill, brought us to the Antonine Baths. These were once amongst the biggest in the Empire. There's a model here that shows how the massive complex spread out along the sea front: any modern city would lust after such a well situated and comprehensive facility. But once again, a lot of imagination is required here as only foundations remain. At least in this case, foundations are vaults and corridors that tower above your head. With underpinnings this impressive you can grasp, a bit, at what it might have been. Despite the overall size you're still going to get a better sense of a baths complex at the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, or out at Ostia. But there you won't have the sound of pounding surf and the sparkling sea vistas.

So my verdict on Carthage: very hard work for very average ruins within a particularly alluring setting. As a fan of all things Ancient Roman I had to do them, but the ruins we saw at Dougga and El Jem were finer.

We hiked up hill to the Carthage train, and further up to return to the hotel from train station. Sidi Bou is not recommended for people who can't walk up and down hills. By the time I staggered up the stairs to the hotel, beneath the clouds of fragrant jasmine, I could hear the pool calling my name. We all collapsed there for a few hours, dozing like the hotel's wild cats in the sun.

Later, refreshed, dressed and made up, we were transformed enough in both energy levels and appearance to head out for a very special dinner at Dar el Jeld. This is mentioned in every guidebook as the best restaurant in Tunis, and it delivered on expectations.

The setting is fantastic. It's in a converted mansion near the souks of the old city. There's only one subtle sign; you have to be directed to the big, nail-studded door and then knock to gain entry. Once inside you go through a procession of reception rooms before emerging in what was the main palace courtyard and is now the dining room. Brightly coloured tiles covered the walls and the lighting was low, kept subtle by candles burning in wall sconces around the room. A musician played haunting strains on an Arabic stringed instrument while waiters in local costume seemed omnipresent when serving diners' needs.

Unlike most places we've been to, the maitre'd had a thorough command of English, so we didn't have to rely on our French patois to get through the menu. After an explanation of the local specialities, we opted for the mixed hors d'oeuvres to start. This was more what we expected when we ordered meze last night. There was a variety of small, fried, stuffed dough parcels; a cold, marinated seafood salad; slices of hard boiled egg on a bed of something like ratatouille; slices of a cheese somewhere between ricotta and bufala mozzarella on a salad of diced tomato, cucumber and onion. For mains, I had a plate of lamb couscous of great delicacy, the meat literally falling from the bone. Hillary had lamb as well and Lisa opted for kabkabou, a local specialty that prepares a whole fish in tomatoes, olives and capers. (No denying we're just 80 miles south of Sicily.) All this was washed down with a couple of bottles of vieux magot, Tunisia's best red wine.

We split assorted pastries for dessert; almonds and pistachios abound. The maitre'd, who by now had warmed to the charms of three single girls (waiters always love us) brought us a creme caramel/puddingy sort of thing covered with ground pistachios to try, on the house. Tasty, but the savouries were better than the sweets.

All in all a fantastic dining experience, with great food and wine, attentive service and super atmosphere. All for about £30 per person ... the most expensive dinner we were to eat in the country.

A wet Tunis greets us with spectacular sights

It was a bit disconcerting to arrive for our sun-baked holiday to find Tunis drenched in one of its rare torrential downpours. On the first morning the skies were still leaden and rain was falling steadily, slicking the marble pavements of our hotel and muting the white walls and towers around us.

But then the sun came out, bringing this charming small town of Sidi Bou Said ... a suburb of Tunis ... into sharp focus. It is, quite simply, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. Sidi Bou is famous, justifiably, for its blue and white colour scheme. All buildings, without exception, are painted a dazzling white. All architectural accents -- magnificent arched doorways, fanciful iron grillwork, latticework porticoes overhanging the street -- are painted in subtle variations of the same vivid sky blue. If that weren't striking enough, this is all complemented by the distinctive keyhole arches, domes, minarets and geometric patterning of arab architecture, draped with lush bouganvilla and given depth and dimension by the way the town spirals up its seaside hill. Add a backdrop of ocean and mountains glimpsed at the end of streets or over garden walls, and you have to admit that you've wandered into a landscape painting. It's all just a bit too pretty to be real.

Our hotel, the Dar Said, extends that fairy tale. It is essentially an Arabic-inspired palace, with opulently decorated rooms wrapping around cool, white marble courtyards full of exotic plants and fountains gurgling merrily. Bedrooms vary widely in decor and size; mine had tall louvred doors opening onto a roof terrace with views over the town. 

The hotel wraps itself around a glimmering blue pool, its pool deck enhanced with the decorative Tunisian tiles we would soon learn were ubiquitous throughout the country. You can take your breakfast here and gaze down upon the bay of Tunis, with the ruins of ancient Carthage and the sprawl of modern Tunis both visible. There's also a garden on a lower level, with white marble paths running through formal green parterres, sharing the same view and surrounded by the property's walls so entirely private. 

One of the glories of Sidi Bou Said in general, and the Dar Said in specific, is the quiet. Like most Mediterranean cities, Tunis is a bustling and brash, exciting and noisy. Here, you're within reach of the excitement, yet withdrawn into a soothing bubble like some enchanted potentate from the Arabian Nights.

We didn't linger too much here on the first day, however. A week was already starting to seem a criminally short time to spend in Tunisia. Our movements plus different attractions' closed days dictated that Sunday would be the day for the Bardo Museum.

The Bardo is acclaimed for having the finest collection of Roman mosaic floors in the world, pulled from civic and residential ruins across what was once the capital of Rome's Africa province and the bread basket of the empire. Your first few minutes in the Bardo, however, you might find this difficult to believe. The building was once the Bey's palace and, though large, is looking more than a bit weather beaten on the outside. There is no clear, dramatic entry into the place. Even the door that appears to be the main one leads into a dim and unimpressive hall. The first room off this is filled with early Christian mosaics; interesting enough, but clearly from a time when the whole art form was in decline.

The secret: get upstairs immediately. The architecture and the mosaics get very impressive, very quickly. Both the number and the artistic virtuousity of the mosaics here are beyond belief. The closest I've seen is the museum in Naples, which is dwarfed by the Bardo. There are mosaics here of beguiling complexity, with vines or geometric patterns enclosing rondels of animals or people. Fish were a popular theme, with many floors depicting underwater scenes with scores of different piscine species. Hunting scenes were equally abundant, some almost a pictorial encyclopedia of different animals, some showing hunts in progress and some showing animals at their ease in nature.
Several mosaics showed buildings or scenes of everyday human habitation, giving some sense of what life must have been like. And, of course, there were endless scenes from mythology: Theseus and the minotaur at the centre of a complex labyrinth, Hercules surrounded by depictions of his labours and enough detailed depictions of Dionysus amongst his grape vines to pave a score of dining rooms.

If you can tear your eyes from the exhibits, some of the rooms themselves are spectacular, particularly the ceilings. There's some sculpture and a nice collection of Greek bronzes hauled up from a shipwreck, both collections of which would be star sights in most other museums. But here, the mosaics rule.

After this we took a taxi back to the centre of town, strolling up the main avenue and stopping first for a drink, then for a snack. I tried the much-written-about local tea, which had a lot less mint and a lot more sugar than anticipated. We then tried tuna and cheese crepes. Unlike the French tradition, these were folded into a square and left to grill for so long that they came to resemble toasted sandwiches. Not the greatest street food I've ever had, but we were starving and it went down a treat.

It took about an hour of train transport, walking and waiting to get back to our hotel. Once there we retired to the courtyard occupied by the swimming pool and took a table with an expansive view of the sea, drinking a bottle of wine and enjoying a quiet punctuated only by the dusk call to prayer ringing out from the nearby minaret.

After that interlude, we washed, dressed and headed out to Le Grand Blu, a restaurant about 15 minutes down the coast recommended by our tour coordinator. It was "assez bien" ... Good, but nothing hugely memorable. It's a big place, of modern construction but traditional design, built on a cliff face. It clearly has amazing views looking over the water to Sidi Bou Said, but as it was after dark we didn't benefit much from these. We opted for the meze, a mix of shared plates that included several types of fried fish, several grilled and a plate of pene pasta in tomato sauce with shrimp and caviar that was by far the best thing on the table. The meal probably would have been elevated several levels if they would have brought out a couple of dishes at a time, giving us a chance to sample a progression. By placing everything on the table at once, 1/3 was lukewarm and another 1/3 close to cold by the time you tucked in. There was also a complete absence of vegetables, so not a particularly balanced meal. But good service, tasty food and a bottle of wine between us in one of the area's nicest restaurants for the equivalent of £20 per person, so we're certainly not complaining.

And thus ended day 1.

Backstage tour of Royal Opera House reveals wonders

I was very fortunate this week, thanks to our Northwestern alumni network in London, to join a small group (47) at a dress rehearsal for the ballet, La Bayadere, to open Saturday night at the Royal Opera House, followed by a backstage tour. It was the highlight of my week and completely fascinating. (Though, sadly, I was so exhausted that I still nodded off a few times during the performance. It's been a tough week.)

I am far better than the average person when it comes to consuming classic culture, but I had never been inside the Royal Opera House and I've never seen a ballet. I THOUGHT I'd seen one; a Baryshnikov solo show and the touring Kirov in the '80s, but in both cases those were a collection of famous dances rather than the full ballet.

Thus, when seeing the real thing, I was struck by several major differences. First was the acting. The full ballet was, of course, a proper story, thus the dancing was interspersed between plot. And, because they don't speak, that plot was carried forward through exaggerated movements similar to mime, but much more graceful. I was amazed at how easy it was to follow what was going on. Although we're not talking about great depth here: Indian temple dancer and hero are in love; Rajah wants hero to marry his daughter; fickle hero falls for sophisticated charms of princess; temple dancer has to dance for them at their wedding; hero realises his mistake; princess arranges for poisonous snake to kill temple dancer during dance to protect her new marriage. And that's only Act 1, which is all we saw in the rehearsal.

Next were the sets. Wow. Towering, dreamlike evocations of India, using all sorts of painter's tricks to draw the eye back and make you think you were looking into the vastness of a palace or the depths of the jungle. And matched to those were the costumes. Lush and sparkling, dominated by glittering jewels and vivid colours.

After watching the first half we went on our backstage tour. In the late '90s the ROH did a significant renovation and expansion, going from a cramped and probably sub-par facility to a large complex that's one of the best in the world. We went upstairs to see the dance studios, which are on the top floor with expansive views over Covent Garden and the city beyond. Evidently most ballet companies spend their working lives in basements, so the ROH is very proud of its ability to offer humanising natural light to its team. Past the costume department, where thousands of luscious outfits hung in long rows. (All for tiny people, of course)

And then backstage. Imagine three aircraft hangars arranged at angles to form an "S" and you have an idea. The stage fits into the top curve of the "S", but is separated from the backstage area by heavy steel doors that raise or lower. (The place burned down twice in its early history and they use a lot of pyrotechnics on stage; the steel fire walls can keep a fire contained within the stage area for hours, protecting the rest of the facility.)

It was a magnificent jumble of sets. The Indian temple we'd just seen now sat on one part of the floor, a giant dragon, presumably Wagnerian, loomed in another area. Despite the size of this space, there's nowhere near enough room to store all the stuff for all the opera and ballet productions. So they have warehouses in Wales and drive the sets and costumes back and forth. There's a lift mechanism that raises the big trucks from ground level up into the centre of the backstage area.

While we stood there talking, many of the cast walked right by us. I was struck by how differently they move from the rest of us. Every movement imbued with grace, feet pointing with every step, but every step hitting the ground with great force. These little ballerinas, frankly, sounded like stomping horses as they moved by us. The mesmerising principal dancer Carlos Acosta walked within inches, his princely looks thrown off a bit by the preposterous striped overalls he was wearing over his costume to keep his legs warm. On the way out, we ran into the bad guy (temple priest, covets dancer and schemes with princess to keep dancer from hero) getting a coke and a twixt bar from the vending machine. We had a little chat after I told him how magnificently sinister he was. It was amusing, though, to see how utterly the magic fades when you lose the distance and lighting of the stage. Standing two feet from him, he was cheerful, my height, the bald head was obviously a rubber cap, the makeup preposterous and the jewelled breastplate obviously fake. Yet 40 minutes before he'd been a towering, menacing, dramatic figure dripping in the jewels of the Orient.

It was a lovely view into why theatre people get so excited about their art. Turning illusion into reality to give joy to thousands must be great fun. I'm glad I had the chance to see a little of the way it's done. I think I appreciate it all a bit more now.

Two weeks sampling St. Louis area delights

It has been at least a decade since I spent two full weeks in St. Louis. And although my career and life has moved me beyond ever living in a mid-sized American town again, I was reminded that the place (and its environs) offers a lot of fun times and some very fine dining.

I had planned to write a wealth of blog entries but I was, frankly, swamped. I was working remotely, so was generally at my computer from 5:30am. I'd run errands and spend time with my mother from 2pm, then generally be out to eat with Mom or friends in the early evening ... dropping with exhaustion by 9:30. The prevailing heat for the first 10 days of my visit didn't help my energy levels; I'm not used to high 80s and humidity any more.

And so, rather than loads of detail, here's an overview of my St. Louis highlights.

Busch Stadium: Thanks to generous friends with excellent connections, my second trip out to the ballpark this year. I miss baseball more than any other aspect of American life, so watching my team play live is the highlight of any trip. Of course, they were well into their spectacular late-season slide by the time I got home, my dreams of watching a tight pennant race downgraded to the simple appreciation of a night out drinking in the atmosphere of the game. The new stadium is a marvel. Whilst I shed a tear or two when the old Busch (cradle of my formative baseball years) came down, the new version is better in every way. They've somehow managed to make it feel smaller and more intimate, whilst building in better facilities and giving an amazing outfield view towards the arch and the city skyline. They've payed huge attention to architectural detail. I particularly appreciated the bronze cardinals sitting atop all the signposts and the wrought iron redbirds worked into the end of each row of seats. And Mom really appreciated the escalators that now speed you to your seats. Only one thing is missing: the old scoreboard on which a neon cardinal would flutter back and forth whenever our boys hit a home run. I suppose he was far too low tech for the digital delights of the new board.

Lake of the Ozarks: Another trip down memory lane, though this a more distant byway. I bet I haven't been to the lake since I was 10 years old, and I'd certainly never been to the upscale Lodge of the Four Seasons. I followed long-standing St. Louis tradition and made the four-hour drive southwest for the weekend. It's a lovely place for a break; and that's coming from someone who's used to a wide and elegant variety of weekend options. The Lodge sits on a beautiful hillside, and the expansive views of forests and winding inlets are impressive. Service is excellent and the late '60s architecture, once probably in danger of a tear down, is now looking quite classic and historic. The main pool, set amidst a lovely Japanese garden, was nearly empty but still open thanks to the late-September heat wave.

Food at the lake was particularly good. Li'l Rizzo's is one of those places that sends Europeans reeling on the value for money scale: the size of the portions versus the low price was amazing. And the food was good, too. On the high end, we dined at the Potted Steer, supposedly one of the two best restaurants on the Lake. Its homespun, almost New England Seafood Shack decor belies the elegance of its menu. This is a place that could stand up against most fine restaurants in big cities, and the wine list was bloody impressive. I had a perfectly cooked rainbow trout, Mom went for their specialty deep fried lobster tail and I have to confess to not remembering what Dad ate. But all were very satisfied. Back on the down home, unsophisticated side of the scale we finished our night at Andy's frozen custard stand which, though it is probably heresy for any St. Louisan to say this, was actually better than establishment favourite Ted Drewes.

Annie Gunn's: I would happily send any sceptical European foodie to Annie Gunn's to prove that Americans can do much more than burgers, BBQ, corn on the cob and junk food. (I'd sendthem to the Potted Steer as well, but the idea of a European getting to the Lake is a bit much. The St. Louis suburbs would be enough of a stretch.) I remember when this place was just the dive bar next the the local butcher and smokehouse in Chesterfield's bottom lands near the Missouri river. Now it's probably one of the finest restaurants in St. Louis, obsessed with local ingredients, quality sourcing and variety of flavours. The wine list is surprisingly broad, with interesting choices from America, the New World and Europe ... and a staff knowledgeable enough to comment on my choice of a vigonier and discuss the merits of the grape. The old smoke house next door has become a luxury market with gourmet foodstuffs from around the world. The only thing "countrified about it these days is the sculpture of the happy sow in front. A far cry from the old place where we used to buy beef jerky after Sunday mass. And a great improvement, as long as you're in the mood to spend a bit of money. American restaurants are not the deal they used to be, even with the strong pound.

Bacana's: Also in Chesterfield, I spent my last evening with Mom and our friend BJ at the latest sensation: Bacana Brazilian grill. After my last blog entry about St. Louis and tradition, you might think that nothing ever changes. But this place is proof that a few things do edge in and transform the establishment. A restaurant with South American cuisine, staffed by a multi-ethnic team of waiters some of whom barely spoke English? Impossible 10 years ago. The concept is an interesting one, ideal for meat lovers or people trying to avoid carbs. Vegetarians stay away. Everyone pays a flat $29.99. That gets you access to a massive buffet of salads and unusual vegetable dishes. Then the meat comes to your table throughout the meal. 20+ different options of beef, chicken, fish and pork, all grilled or barbecued in different ways, sliced off long skewers onto your plate by guys dressed as Brazilian cowboys. (The costumes were a bit over the top at first, but you get used to them.) It reminded me a bit of a tapas bar, because you're taking nibble-sized portions of each thing and could thus sit there all night. Throw in some Brazilian cocktails and salsa played by a band in the bar, and it was a fine evening.

Shopping: God bless America and her weak dollar. I doubt I've ever shopped so much in one trip, and my bulging suitcases provided evidence. It was hard to pass anything up, given the lovely combination of stores more lavish and comfortable than anything in Europe, magnificently friendly sales people and a currency exchange that made everything half price. My autumn and winter wardrobe has been rejuvenated, and I've made a dent in my Christmas shopping. Why any European with enough money to get to America buys clothes here, I shall never know. And why Americans want to shop in Europe is an even greater mystery. Do culture on this side of the pond; do consumerism beneath the Stars + Stripes.

Meet me in St. Louis for a good, old fashioned time

To be born a St. Louisan is to be swaddled in tradition from cradle to grave. Sometimes a comforting security blanket, sometimes oppressive and suffocating, but never escapable. St. Louis is the most hide bound, past-worshipping, establishment place I know. I now live in a city with more than 2000 years of history, and work in an office on a road originally laid down by the Romans ... but London is young, vibrant and utterly dismissive of its past compared to this 300-year-old upstart on the Mississippi.

It will be no surprise that I'm reflecting on this do to a slight venue change of life for a bit. My mother hasn't been well, so I'm working from St. Louis for a couple of weeks to keep an eye on her.

I doubt I have been in St. Louis for two full weeks since I first moved away in the mid '90s. It is ... unsurprisingly ... pretty much the same. There's been some urban regeneration in the city, there are some major building works going on and the suburbs in which I grew up are looking ever more established. But it's pretty much the same old place. My mother tells the same old stories about the same old families as we drive by the same old landmarks, we eat at the same old places and respect the same old friends.
The greatest pleasure of a lengthy visit will no doubt be time with those old friends. When I left St. Louis I was fleeing, in part, from a repressive society that bound everyone to their high school social groups and interlinked the same families into shared traditions for multiple generations. As I reach the mid point of my life, I acknowledge that there's also something extremely comforting in the company of people you've known that long, and with whom you share so much. Of the 62 women with whom I graduated, I've probably known at least a third of them since I was three years old, and half since I was 12. And in the best traditions of St. Louis, I'm coming to accept that despite the years since school, many of these are people I can depend on, enjoy being with, and with whom I'll always have a bond.

Which brings me to my induction, on Saturday night, to "the birthday club", in which high school classmates use the excuse of one person's birthday to meet up for drinks, go out to a lovely restaurant and have a good gossip. And shower the birthday girl ... yes, me ... with gifts. (That traditional St. Louis attitude also seems to yield particularly fine, classic taste in presents. Or maybe it's just my own taste, shared by my childhood friends.)

We went to a small, neighbourhood bistro called "Cravings" in Webster Groves, a southwestern suburb of the city. It's known for its deserts, which were indeed excellent and various, if rather .... inevitably ... traditional. I was delighted to be celebrating my birthday with a turtle cheesecake brownie slice with vanilla ice cream, whilst others indulged in apple pie, chocolate mousse and cheesecake. Of course, we are grown ups, and we did order and finish dinner before moving on to the sweets. My blue fin tuna was beautifully cooked and well complemented by a topping of wasabi mayonnaise. The wasabi was certainly proof that some things in this town do evolve and change. You certainly wouldn't have seen that on the menu when I was a kid.

Everyone else professed equal satisfaction with their food. And I, still re-adjusting to America, was particularly impressed with the great service and reasonable prices.

There's plenty of home town activity stretching ahead before I return to London. And while I'll be happy to get back to my house, dog and friends, and while I know it's unlikely I'll ever live in St. Louis again, returning to my birthplace reminds me that I'll live and die a St. Louisan.

Roll on September, my favourite month

Autumn has arrived.

I know this not thanks to any astronomical milestone, or due to a specific calendar date, but because last night was the the last night of the Proms. And just as the Chelsea Flower Show marks the start of summer, so this particularly manic concert ends it.

The last night of the Proms (a concert series at the Royal Albert Hall stretching through the late summer) is formulaic, predictable ... and an utter joy. The beginning of the concert may vary, but the end is always the same: Pomp and Circumstance, Fantasia on British Sea Songs, Rule Britannia and Jerusalem. The Brits, who cynically look down upon patriotism and flag waving for the rest of the year, are transformed into jolly, union jack draped revellers belting out this national canon at the top of their lungs. I love it. And so, to, does the rest of the country, since it's televised for all of us to enjoy from the comfort of our sitting rooms.

But I loved September long before moving to England and embracing its rituals. It's the month of returning to school. I still have a pavlovian response at this time of year, buying myself some fresh notebooks and new pens. There are few things quite so emotionally and intellectually stimulating as a new, empty notebook. September, far more than January, has always seemed the right time to me for new starts and the excitement of fresh hopes. Of course, it's also the month of my birthday, the month when the terrible heat of my home town finally broke, and the month in which the baseball pennant races got really interesting.

In England, Autumn is quite literally in the air by September. I am reminded of just how much further north than the land of my birth we are. The length of days is plummeting dramatically. Two weeks ago, twilight enveloped the garden at 8. Now, it's already pushing towards 7. Though we see some fine, clear days, there's a chill in the air. Unlike the damp chill of the summer rains, this promises proper cold. Rather than feeling glum, I'm looking forward to pulling out the sweaters and kicking through the fallen leaves.

The countryside is putting on a magnificent display. Every hanging basket and flower box in my village is tumbling over with the final, riotous blooms of September. The brambles along many of the paths on which I walk the dog now reveal themselves to be blackberries, groaning with a load of fruit available to anyone who's thought to bring something in which to collect it. The leaves haven't started changing yet, but the birds are on the move. The honking of Canada Geese regularly fills the air, and I see scores of them gleaning the new-mown, golden hay fields beneath the castle every morning. If spring is a pregnant girl, giddy with potential, September is a woman in the full, final flush of maturity, wrapped in the breathtaking beauty of her experience.

The brambles are groaning with blackberries while the Canada Geese glean the Queen's new-mown hay fields.

Sadly, these days September brings us some darker milestones. It's time once again for the round of 9/11 memorials, the release of the latest Osama Bin Laden video and countless newscasts debating just how much worse off we are now than were were before that day of "lost innocence".

While I'll never forget those sad events, I can't let them take over the magic of my favourite month. So bring on the fresh notebooks, the cool evenings and the uplifting sense of the potential that always came with going back to school. The rest of you can celebrate on 1 January. I'll celebrate my New Year now.

Magical Peak District captivates in every season

Despite the fact that Britain is an island, with no place more than 100 miles from a coast and all of it swamped in maritime history, some of the most popular bits of the country are completely landlocked. This includes one of my favourite places for a long weekend: the Peak District. A friend is heading there soon and wanted some sightseeing advice, so this round-up is for her.

A bit like the Lake District, the Peak is another range of low mountains, incredibly popular with walkers. It is, however, closer to London, nestled in the centre of the country below Manchester and Sheffield. The area is bigger over all, and the valleys much wider, than the Lake district, so rather than the repeating pattern of lake-filled valleys you find massive stretches of woodland (magnificent in October and early November) and sparkling rivers. The Peak District also has some major cultural highlights, so you're able to balance the beauty of the great outdoors with an exploration of Britain's heritage. The "peaks" that loom out of these valleys, especially in the North, are high and rugged. These are wild moors that will remind you of Wuthering Heights. And you've probably seen them in many films; most recently in Pride and Prejudice, where we saw Kiera Knightly standing on a particularly dramatic rock escarpment with the moors spreading around her. That's a typical landscape for any walker to find with a bit of a ramble.

My top sight in the region, despite all the natural beauty, is a house. Chatsworth is known as "the palace of the Peak", and if you can only see one English country house, this is the one to visit. It encapsulates all the elements of the great estates of the nobility, in great style. The Dukes of Devonshire have been building and remodelling here since Tudor times. The bulk of the main house is 17th century, but parts have been added in every era. The state rooms are amongst the most impressive in the country, equal to most of the royal palaces. The artwork, furniture and architecture combine to dazzle, and the size of the place leaves you exhausted by the time you get to the fabulous shop in the orangery. But you're only half through.

The gardens at Chatsworth are amongst the best in the country, on par with many a civic botanical garden. There are formal allees, luscious vistas over the rolling countryside, walled gardens, wilderness gardens, a dramatic stepped water feature than rolls down a hill to the house and a woodland walk up to the Tudor hunting tower that offers magnificent views. There's also a petting zoo for kids, and the restaurant and shopping on offer in the stable complex is excellent. In fact, all the shops at Chatsworth are particularly good; a range of boutiques for house and garden offering the distinctive and beautiful.

About a mile from the main house you'll find the Chatsworth Farm Shop. These days, every major estate has one (I live half a mile from the Queen's version) but when the Duchess launched it, this was the first of its kind. No rustic attempts here. The shop is a miniature version of the food halls you find in the great London stores, but filled with local produce, artisan baked goods and all manner of gourmet delights. The selection of ales and ciders from small breweries is one of the biggest I've seen.

Stop by the Chatsworth Farm shop to assemble a luxury picnic

Whilst the gardens are at their best in the late spring, and the walks around the house are perfect for summer rambles, Chatsworth is a particular delight just before Christmas. Most country houses aren't open in the winter. Chatsworth embraces the season, allowing you to tour a festively decorated house. The shops are stuffed with great gifts and local groups sing carols. The farm shop erects a large tent to hold all its Christmas specialty products.

For truly spectacular walking country, head a bit deeper into the Peaks to the village of Castleton. It sits at the bottom of big, deep bowl of a valley, encircled by a line of high, mostly continuous hills. Once you've made your initial ascent (somewhat strenuous, but even the unfit can make it at a gentle pace) you can walk for several miles on the ridge of the hills, with magnificent views in every direction. There's a six-mile walk that starts and ends in the village, taking in the neolithic fort on one of the highest points in the area, Mam Tor. The visitors' centre in Castleton has maps and guides to the region, and a big car park from which you can start your rambles.

The hills around Castleton are also filled with caves, many open to the public. I haven't made it in one yet, but it's on my to do list. They're particularly famous for the mineral bluejohn, a blueish-purple stone that, when polished, resembles coloured alabaster. This is the only place in the world it's found. It became the rage in the 18th century; most Georgian country houses have a couple of impressive bluejohn vases in their collection. (Chatsworth, as you can imagine, is filled with the stuff.) Unfortunately, all the seams that yielded big pieces were mined out 100 years ago. They are still mining small pieces that are used in jewelry, however, and Castleton in filled with charming little shops selling bluejohn.

My favourite place to stay in the Peak District is an unusual B&B called Stoney Ridge. Unusual because it's a modern house, and because it has an indoor pool. The latter is something you rarely see outside the homes of the very rich. The house sits on a hilltop in almost three acres of gardens with lovely views. Coming home from a day of hiking and having a relaxing swim before a hearty pub dinner is a perfect way to end the day. There is in excellent pub (the name of which escapes me) just down the hill from the house, so you can leave the car behind and have a few drinks to wash down that hearty meal. Proprietors Helen and Richard Plant are well travelled, especially in America, and fond of American visitors. They also allow dogs, making my life much easier. www.cressbrook.co.uk/hopev/stoneyridge

Those are my Peak District "must sees". There's enough to keep you busy in the district for a week, however. To me, the best way to explore it is to simply get in a car and drive around, stopping when a site inspires you. A few other picks:

• Head further north into the district for bigger hills and wilder landscapes.
• Haddon Hall, near Bakewell, is another gem of a house. This one is entirely late medieval, as much castle as home, fortunately left alone for hundreds of years as the family lived in other properties. Another one you'll probably recognise when you see it, as it's been used in many films. The rose gardens are particularly impressive in June.
• Bakewell itself is a pleasant town in which to ramble. While there, it's compulsory to treat yourself to a bakewell pudding. This concoction of puff pastry with jam base and a topping of eggs, sugar, butter and almonds is the ancestor to the millions of mass produced Bakewell Tarts on British grocery shelves. The Old Original Bakewell Pudding Shop supposedly makes the best, although they all taste good to me.

For a detailed guide to the area, try www.peakdistrictonline.co.uk/content.php?categoryId=1103