Why Apple will rule the world (And I'm just fine with that)

Linked by my malfunctioning iPhone, but poles apart in customer service, are the divergent tales of Tesco and Apple.

Last week I wrote of the woeful treatment I received at the hands of pile-em-high-sell-em-cheap retail giant Tesco. Perhaps no more than I deserved for buying from a brand with their reputation. My experience worsened through the weekend as my letter to their CEO first took several days for a reply, then got a holding note from a flunky before finally a confirmation another "customer service" hack that they couldn't do anything for me.

Time to throw myself on the mercy of Apple. I made an appointment at the genius bar of the new Covent Garden store. (The largest in the world. Amazing.) I showed up promptly. Explained that I'd been an Apple customer since my first 512k Mac in 1986. That this was the first time I had ever NOT purchased an Apple product direct from the store. Related my Tesco experience. And hoped.

The lovely genius did not disappoint. A quick check of the serial number confirmed that the phone was indeed just 37 days out of warranty. Not a problem. We'll fix you up with a new one. That shouldn't have happened. We value your continuing business and want you to be happy. Fifteen minutes and a friendly chat later, I had my new kit in hand and was not only a happy, but a delighted, customer. I immediately treated myself to a new case for the phone and resolved that it's time to loosen the purse strings and buy an iPad. That one cheerful piece of customer service, requiring them to take a slight loss by giving me what's now one of their oldest pieces of kit, will trigger more than £600 in additional sales and the good PR of me boring friends and readers with tales of Apple-inspired delight. A shame Tesco couldn't learn from this. (Nope, not even an offer of a free month of service ... a princely £45 ... to get me back on side!)

Of course, it's not just a quick replacement of faulty equipment that makes Apple special. It's the whole ethos of the company. A few days later I was lucky enough to be invited, thanks to our advertising agency Ogilvy, to an innovation forum for a select group of marketing bosses at Apple's London HQ. There we met with a parade of senior execs. All casual, approachable and brilliant; human representations of all that makes their technology special.

They specifically asked us not to blog or otherwise communicate widely on the details of what we learned. Apple keeps its cards close to its chest, a marketing strategy that's worked wonders for them. So, without divulging any confidences, what did I see that convinced me of Apple's world dominance?

1. They know what they do best, and stick to it. Did you realise that they only have 14 products? They build what they believe in ... usually stuff that's revolutionary ... and put everything behind it. Amazingly, they do very little market research and don't rely on focus groups. And yet they instinctively "get" the customer in a way I haven't seen in any other technology company. They are confident that they can anticipate what we need, before we need it, and give it to us.

2. They're not a technology company, they're a mobile lifestyle company. Apple has always gotten the fact that it's not about the technology, it's about what you do with it. And we all are on the move these days. Whether it's the iPhone or the iPad, it's all about connecting you to the whole world, from wherever you are, with minimum effort. How did we ever live without it?

3. They are in the right place at the right time. Between iPods, Phones and Pads, a frightening chunk of the world has an iTunes account. Which means Apple has your contact and credit details, plus access to all the apps and media you download. You think "you are what you eat"? You are what you consume all right, but it's all about the media that goes through your brain. Think about it. With a credit rating, an address and a view of what someone reads, listens to and watches, you can climb into their soul without ever meeting them. All of which means that Apple is positioned to be the greatest channel of targeted advertising that has ever existed. A lot of people have talked about this, but Apple has all the tools to do it. And the discretion to do it well.

I could go on. As I did, to anyone who would listen, after my mind expanding session on Hanover Street. And the best part? I got to tell my Tesco story to Apple's EMEA CEO, as part of a discussion about their channel strategy and the dangers of tainting the Apple brand with companies like Tesco that can't deliver the same combination of wisdom and service. Turns out working with Tesco was indeed a concern, and that Apple's still watching the relationship closely. I like to think Tesco will someday regret treating me so badly. Just as Apple will be glad they treated me so well. I have another genius bar appointment next Tuesday, after which the new iPad is on the shopping list.

Longborough opera returns with a luxury picnic and an odd but enjoyable "Cosi"

By the time I left university, I believed I had mastered the art of the tailgate picnic. The coordinated line up of cars mustered early enough to pick a prime spot. The careful division of culinary responsibilities. The bright flags to help guests find you in the crowd and the decorations to make you look classy. I now realise, of course, that I was a rank amateur.

For the ultimate sports tailgate I must give a nod to my cousin, who sets up a pavilion before every USC game with his best mate (who actually kitted out a four-wheel drive specifically for the purpose) so elaborate it's been featured on the Food Channel. But for the elegance award, I have to hand it to the Brits.

It's country house opera season again, and the black tie picnic is at least as much a part of the event as the opera itself.

After our deep enjoyment of the Longborough Festival last year (see 27.710) we decided to become members, and are now counting on at least two weekends each summer spent ensconced in luxurious B&B at the Windy Ridge Estate while taking in opera next door. This year's first outing: Cosi Fan Tutti. Piers' brother and sister-in-law joined us. We did the food, while they brought wine and setting. Together, we arrived properly on the opera tailgating map.

We drove their four-wheel drive over in the late afternoon, parking it in a prime spot at the top of the field next to the croquet lawn, with a lovely view of the manor house, the opera house and the valley stretching beyond. Up went the tented pavilion, large enough to encompass the tailgate of the car within one side, and beneath it a table and four chairs. In the back of the car, a mini fridge was cooling down the white wine. Having claimed our spot, we abandoned it temporarily, strolling back through the arboretum to the manor house to change into formal wear.

An hour and a half later the boys were in dinner jackets, pulling corks and filling glasses while we girls lounged in our gowns and checked out the tented city of silks, velvet and bow ties that had grown around us. Our pre-opera starter menu centred around arancini di riso, a southern Italian classic. Balls of risotto, wrapped around a piece of mozzarella, then lightly rolled in bread crumbs and deep fried to a golden brown. Piers has recently discovered a delicious recipe for roasted red pepper relish, which works magnificently with a bit of cream cheese in a croustade cup. Add some caramelised onion houmous and a pot of taramasalata with a pile of fresh pitta bread, and we had the Mediterranean on our table. (Sadly, the cool, overcast, breezy afternoon was solidly English. English April.)

Half way through the opera comes a 90-minute dinner interval, during which the Bencard pavilion served cold roast beef, string beans with roasted tomatoes and a horseradish potato salad, all accompanied by a lovely French red wine. As the evening gathered in we did realise that we were lacking in lanterns, torches or some other suitably romantic form of illumination. We'll have to work on that. The American in me came to the fore at dessert, with brownies and cookies laced with dark and white chocolate and macadamia nuts. After that, it's perhaps no surprise that the platter of French cheeses never made it to the table. Had we emerged from the opera into a balmy evening, we might have lingered beneath our pavilion watching the stars blink over Gloucestershire while we nibbled. But the firm chill in the air dictated a quick strike of the picnic camp and a return to Windy Ridge's sitting room for a warming port.

And the opera? I have seen Cosi Fan Tutti before, in the magnificent spectacle of a box in a tiny baroque opera house in Prague (see 12.5.08), but with the surtitles in Czech I will admit to only grasping the basics of the plot. This time the English text provided details which I'm not sure actually helped my enjoyment. Cosi is neither Mozart's most engaging story, nor his best operatic score. The preposterous and rather depressing tale has an old cynic convincing two young men that all women are fickle, then setting out to entrap their lovers (a pair of sisters) into cheating on them by putting the boys in costume, sending them after the girl who is not their love and wooing persistently. Each sister eventually falls in love with the other's fiance, before all is revealed and they go back to their original pairings with an acknowledgement that such knocks are inevitable in relationships.

While Cosi doesn't have any of the instantly recognisable arias of Mozart's other operas, the repeated seduction attempts of the plot mean that it's pretty much two hours of achingly romantic songs of longing. Nothing to complain about there. We found the whole Longborough experience just as wonderful as last year, with spectacular singers and a stirring orchestra performing in an intimate space. (We were in a box hanging directly over the harpsichordist, a spectacle that provided an extra bit of entertainment.)

My only complaint is the director's odd decision to transpose the action to the 1950s. I don't mind seeing the classics staged in other time periods. It's a time-honoured way of demonstrating that the great works are eternal, and sometimes they work even better. Certainly the 1995 film version of Richard III set in a fascist 1930s England is the finest interpretation of that play I've ever seen. But I need a reason for my transpositions, and I didn't see one here. Was there anything particular about the '50s that made the tale of infidelity resonate? I didn't see it. Meanwhile, the short hair and conservative dress of the 50s made the "disguises" of our returning lovers difficult to swallow. If forced into the modern era, why not set things in the late '60s, with Vietnam as the military backdrop and hippies providing a convincing disguise for clean-cut soldiers?

Still, no harm done. The set design was pleasant if uninspiring, and the womens' costumes were attractive. I can't help thinking I liked the staging in Prague better, but knowing what was going on made for a superior overall opera experience. As, of course, did the luxury picnic. Next up is a return to Wagner in late July. Back to just the two of us, so the set up will no doubt be less grand. I'm still hoping, however, for that balmy evening under the Gloucestershire stars.

DON'T SHOP AT TESCO! A tale of poor customer service and lessons learned about heartless discounters

A vocal minority of Brits see grocery and superstore owner Tesco as the anti-Christ of retail, a heartless leviathan who advocates animal abuse, ruins the income of farmers and destroys the local high street. I must admit I never thought too much about these things. Tesco was convenient. Cheap chicken and milk had their merits and the local shops in my village were so overpriced and limited in their offerings they deserved to go out of business.

My mind has changed. Tesco is, indeed, an evil enemy to customer service. I respect their pile-em-high, sell-em-cheap business strategy, but now realise the consequences. The new truth in marketing laws really should have them investigating replacing their tagline "every little helps" with "caveat emptor".

The source of my awakening is my 13-month old iPhone. Last May, after a lifetime of employer-provided mobile telephony, I decided it was time to get my own kit. Having never paid for a mobile before, I wanted no hassle. Thus I purchased the premium deal: biggest, most sophisticated phone matched with an unlimited use contract for two years. It was, the love of my life now informs me, a rotten deal, but I didn't care at the time. It was fast, spur-of-the-moment and easy. A small diversion from the weekly grocery shop and a big item knocked off my to do list.

Forward 13 months, during which time I have dutifully paid my £45 a month and forked over extra cash when traveling for outrageous roaming fees. Again, not bothered. The glory of the internet in my pocket, the complete connectivity to the whole planet at every moment of my day, made the cost inconsequential. Then, on Wednesday morning, I woke up to an iPhone with a black screen. Held under a bright light, the images are still there; the mechanism to light them up has busted. The device is still working, you just can't see much. Which makes it pretty useless. (I have temporarily switched to my work Blackberry for survival, which, for anything other than work email, is painfully awkward.)

Following instinct and 26 years of Apple ownership, my first stop was to the Apple store, where a charming, sincere and very helpful man couldn't give me an immediate appointment with a genius (Apple's customer support people), but took a look, told me what had probably gone wrong and discussed options with me. First step, clearly, was to go back to Tesco Mobile to see what they could do for me. If I was stuck, come back to Apple and go from there.

Well, I shall certainly be returning to Apple, because the Tesco Mobile people were poster children for poor customer service. (And in this country, that's saying a lot.) First, there was the spotty youth who greeted me with the information that he was new, didn't know anything and probably couldn't help me. Then there was the slightly less spotty youth, who ignored my explanation that I'd tried all rebooting, brightness checks, etc. and had even visited the Apple store. He did all of this anyway, telling me as he did that since it was a month past one year it was my problem. Although they might be able to send it away to be fixed for me. I'd have to pay, of course, and it would be several weeks without a phone. Maybe a manager could do something.

This is where I usually expect things to get fixed. Skip the teenagers, get to the mature people who are making a career out of their chosen businesses. People who usually are given some discretion by their corporate overlords to do what's necessary to please, and keep, a good customer. As in, customers for whom convenience and service is more important than cost. (Yes, I know, anyone who's shopped in a Tesco will see the flaw in my argument right here. "You're not in WAITROSE, Ferrara. You think they give a damn about you as a customer?)

So on to the department manager, a pinched, pale 30-something who I suspect looked at least five years older than she was. Clearly, working for Tesco does you no favours. (Nor does the manly, ill-fitting blue polyester suit she was forced to wear.) Her position was pretty much the same as the spotted youths. I was a month past warranty. I might have heard a "sorry", but it was the same kind of "sorry" delivered by train engineers when you're running late. They say it because the marketing department told them to. They don't really mean it. The pinched and pale manager offered no suggestions and gave no help. Not even an offer to try to send it away for repair. Nor an attempt to upsell me to a new phone at a slight discount. (Which, had they read me right and been nice to me, I might have done.)

I have learned my lesson. And, oddly, it's not "you get what you pay for", because I paid the premium rate and still suffered. It's "you get WHO you pay for". No matter what you buy and how much you spend, if you buy it from a bare bones discounter who's all about profits, and figures cheap prices eliminate the need for customer service, you will be treated badly. If you buy from a premium retailer, even if you got something at a whacking great discount, they'll take care of you; because their brand depends on that service. So, dear readers, please learn from my pain. DON'T SHOP AT TESCO.

And, dear John Lewis partnership, don't you think there's a market niche for Waitrose mobile?

Tosca doesn't win the Italo-Germanic opera war, but she provides a fine night out

Note to self: When I next take the trouble to queue up for Royal Opera House tickets the day they go on sale, I really should check out who’s singing.

Had I done my research it is at least possible that I, making my purchase within three hours of the box office opening, might have gotten seats at one of the two performances of Tosca starring the dream trio of Angela Gheorghiu, Jonas Kaufmann and Bryn Terfel later this month. Unaware of those details, I opted for last night’s opening performance.

Of course, satisfaction was pretty much guaranteed, whoever was singing. This is one of my favourite operas, conducted by the wonderfully gifted Tony Pappano and staged in full splendour at one of the world’s greatest venues. While the tremendous trio would have given me bragging rights, Marcello Giordani made Mario’s famous arias stir my heart. Martina Serafin’s Tosca was passionate, brave and admirably fiesty, while Juha Uusitalo was a suitably despicable Scarpia. (Although I think the Finnish baritone actually underplayed the role. This is one of the most evil men in the operatic repertoire and I thought there could have been more menace in his delivery.)

I wish I could report the same satisfaction on my other half’s part, but the Wagner lover … as regular readers will know … is no fan of the Italian greats. At least he accompanied me happily, admitted there were some merits to the evening’s performance and had the foresight to get a nice bottle of white wine that carried us through both intermissions. During those breaks we continued our ongoing debate over the merits of Italian opera versus German, and though we’ll never agree, we did come to some conclusions about the source of our differences.

All operas balance music, production and plot. The great ones tend to have all three in abundance. But, inevitably, some elements are more dominant than others. In an honest moment of introspection (in the break just after Tosca had dispatched the heinous Scarpia with his own blade) I had to admit that plot comes first for me, followed by production, and then music. With these priorities, is it any wonder I love Tosca? A passionate tale of love, jealousy, betrayal and murder, filled with double crosses and grand gestures. It’s played out in a lavish baroque chapel, a palace interior and the castle rooftop from which Tosca leaps to her death. There are three really memorable arias, and a lot of good music that links the plot together. But this is primarily a bombastic melodrama set to a fine soundtrack.

Conversely, I now realise that Piers’ priority list is music first, by a long shot, then plot and production in a distant tie behind. He would be quite happy to lie in a darkened room and listen for three hours. In that situation, I’m afraid I’d be bored in 15 minutes. Call me a cretin, but music alone has never been enough stimulation for me.

Given these differing priorities, our preferences for German or Italian opera become clear. If I only had the soundtrack to listen to, I’d pick Wagner, too. His music provides consistently grand orchestration; a multi-layered symphonic work in which people happen to sing. But, simple creature that I am, I’m going for the big show.

While we continue on in our long running debate, the fact that we’re battling over such nuances is reassuring. Strip away the fine points and we arrive at the truth that we both love opera, and all the rituals of grand occasion that accompany it. Looks like that 98% compatability rating is still proving accurate.

Speaking of grand occasions … We popped into Clos Maggiore for their pre-theatre special before the main event. Just 50 yards down King Street from the northwest corner of Covent Garden market, this place is wonderfully located for the Opera, allowing you to go from paying your bill to sliding into your seat in less than 10 minutes.

The menu looks to Italy and Provence for inspiration, and offers a reasonably priced (£19.50 for two courses and half a bottle of wine) special before 6pm. Service is friendly and prompt, sensitive to the fact that everyone needs to dash for at 7pm.

Marketed as one of the most romantic restaurants in London, the highlight is the beautiful main dining area with a massive fireplace at the rear. It’s a small room, holding only eight tables, but a testimony to the decorative power of mirrors. Lined with them on three walls, which are then partially screened with columns and branches heavy with silk cherry blossoms, the space looks far bigger than its reality and is, indeed, a wonderfully romantic setting that sweeps your imagination to distant, southern holidays. Should you come here on a special date, however, specify that you want to be in the main room. There are few tables at the front of the ground floor, and another dining room upstairs. Both spaces are attractive but lack the special charm of that main room.

Does the food match the atmosphere? A good range of options, well presented and prepared. We both started with the ham hock and foie gras terrine, clearly a glamorous way to use up the leftover luxury from the a la carte menu. Excellent, but could have used double the accompanying fig jam to balance the richness of the meat. Shared taste reigned again for the main, as we both went for the pork chop. Fully satisfied, there was no need for pudding. A couple of coffees, served with a few chocolates, and we were good to go.

The drinks here are clearly where they’re making the profit margin on the value-priced set menu. Our gin and tonics before dinner and coffee after almost doubled the bill. Still, a good experience and a place I’d recommend before any opera … German or Italian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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