13 sightseeing bargains in London

The prolonged weakness of the pound against the dollar is clearly having an effect: I've heard from more American acquaintances scheduled to visit London this year than in the past four put together.

London is still bracingly expensive for most visitors, however, so everyone is on the lookout for inexpensive sightseeing options. This normally means museums: we have extraordinary collections and, unlike the rest of Europe, they're almost all free. But what if you're not a museum person? If a big of culture is fine, but too much is no fun? Here are 13 options that are either free, or under a tenner, in the English capital.

ONE: MUSEUM DINING ROOMS

Let's start with museums, but not for the reason you think. A handful of our great institutions also have some of the best bars and dining rooms in London; they can be great places to dine with ceremony at a reasonable cost. I have three favourites. The dining rooms at the Victoria and Albert Museum were purpose built to go along with the building and are masterpieces of Edwardian splendour. And their cafeteria-style food isn't bad. Tate Modern's bar and restaurant in the original building, not the new extension, has stunning views over the Thames to St. Paul's Cathedral. Food's a bit expensive for what you get but if you can linger over a drink it's tremendous value. The Portrait Restaurant at the National Portrait Gallery has a unique view over the roof to Trafalgar Square. This is getting pricey, but they often have packages ... especially if you dine early.

TWO: THE MITHRAEUM

I haven't been here yet, but you can descend to the basement of the new Bloomberg HQ building to see the remains of a Roman temple and other artefacts from Roman London. This is the result of a recent dig when they tore an old building down to erect the new. The marshy riverbed below preserved things exceptionally. It's supposed to be fascinating, and is free ... you just need to reserve a place. https://www.londonmithraeum.com/

THREE: A RICH AMERICAN'S OFFICE

When William Waldorf Astor moved to London he "went native" by building a Thames-side estate Three and Four Musketeers, his favourite books. It's now the HQ of a charity and only open a few months early in each year for special exhibitions. Free. (The 2018 show is on the Jazz Age.) You don't have to do the "museum-y" bit, though. You can just turn up and wander around the building, which may look familiar from its regular use in television drama. It most famously appeared as the venue for Lady Rose's wedding in Downton Abbey. https://twotempleplace.org/

office that was completely over-the-top in its traditional European architecture. It's a very personal building designed to his specifications. The main stair, for example, is decorated with hand-carved figures from the

FOUR: THE SKY GARDEN (top photo)

In order to get planning permission these days, builders need to give something back to the general public. 20 Fenchurch Street in The City (known to locals as "the walkie talkie) did this by turning its top four floors into an enormous conservatory. The "Sky Garden" features temperate tropical plants on a series of terraces. The low point overlooking the Thames has an observatory deck, and there are great views of London as you go around the whole thing. There's a bar on the main floor and two restaurants rising through the terraces in the centre (both good but expensive). It's free to get into the garden but you must book in advance, bring proof of your reservation and have ID.  https://skygarden.london/

FIVE: THE OLYMPIC PARK

London is full of magnificent parks and gardens. St. James' park is probably the most picturesque, Hyde Park has the most elements inside it (like Central Park in New York City). But if you want to try something quirkier, why not hop the Jubilee Line down to the Olympic Park? They've taken the landscaping very seriously and the architecture of the sports venues is impressive. It may also be interesting for a tourist, who's usually immersed in olde worlde London, to see a part of town that's entirely modern. This part of East London was redeveloped for the Olympics and is now a cluster of gleaming towers around a massive mall and entertainment complex. Free to wander around, though there are some attractions that charge to get in. http://www.queenelizabetholympicpark.co.uk/

SIX: RIVER TRAVEL

Everyone should see London from the river, its lifeline for so much of its history. The typical tourist jaunt involves booking a return journey to Greenwich from Westminster Pier. Greenwich is a great day out and there's lots to see between the museums and a charming town centre. But there are cheaper options for getting onto the river. The Tate to Tate boat takes visitors from Tate Britain to Tate Modern for about £5. http://www.tate.org.uk/visit/tate-boat Transport for London also runs river buses; these are not included in your travel card but it does give you a discount which brings their fares down to a few pounds https://tfl.gov.uk/modes/river/about-river-bus

SEVEN: THE GLOBE THEATRE

One of the pricier things on my list! You'll need £10 per person to tour the Globe theatre complex, which includes the main stage (a copy of Shakespeare's own theatre, open air, built with traditional craftsmanship; the Wanamaker (indoor, intimate, candlelit Jacobean theatre in reproduction) and a very good Shakespeare exhibit that's as much about the phenomenon of Shakespeare and the theatre project as it is about the Bard and his work. Definitely check the web site first, though, because they close parts depending on what's in rehearsal. http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/ Productions tend to sell out well in advance, especially in the Wannamaker, but being a groundling in the pits can cost as little as £5. Which means that if you're not into the full production, you can have the experience and slip away when you've lost interest.

EIGHT: LONDON WALKS

Another £10 splurge! You can find lots of walking tours in London these days but London Walks are the original and the best. They're led by fabulously informed guides on all topics, usually either actors or academics who do this to bring in some extra cash. And because they love it. Everyone flocks to Jack the Ripper but I'd recommend Legal London, Mayfair and any of their pub crawls. You just turn up at the right meeting point, hand over your cash and go. http://www.walks.com/

NINE: PUBS

Speaking of pubs ... pubs are as much a part of the historic fabric of London as cathedrals, museums and palaces. Do a bit of internet research and you'll find scores of "best of" lists. Everyone has their favourites. Mine include, for professional reasons, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (it's a dive, but Johnson, Boswell, Addison and Steele drank here; it's the world's first journalists' bar); The Black Friar (art nouveau masterpiece on the theme of monks making wine); Cittie of Yorke (late Victorians' idea of what a medieval pub would have looked like, like the set of an Errol Film flick); The Grenadier (former army officers' mess tucked away in Belgravia in some of the priciest real estate in London, stay late and look in windows on your way home for a view of how the 1% live); The Viaduct (proper Victorian gin palace with lots of brass and smoked glass). Note that while pubs have upped their game on the food stakes, the most picturesque ones often don't make an effort on the food front ... because they don't need to. They'll do fine burgers, chilli, pies, etc. for a reasonable price. "Gastropubs" are all about the food. Many are delicious (The Orange on Pimlico Road is a favourite) but you'll easily push past £50 for a 3-course meal and some drinks.

TEN: THE CITY

The City of London is just a square mile, home to so much history, but few tourists spend much time here after checking out St. Paul’s and the Tower. It’s a great place to wander. Gorgeous Wren churches, the Museum of London (free, fun), Leadenhall Market (Victorian wonder, now mostly restaurants), lots of great Victorian pubs. All the history is wedged in between modern spikes of steel and glass. You’ll have little tourism competition and there’s not even much road traffic. Just lots of office workers. Cross over London Bridge to Southwark to wander through Borough Market, in the shadow of Southwark Cathedral. It's London's best food market, filled with artisan producers, high-end fruit and veg vendors and an ever-changing glory of food trucks and stalls.

ELEVEN: MAYFAIR & ST. JAMES SHOPS

Go window shopping. Luxury brands and galleries cluster around Bond Street. Burlington Arcade is arguably the world’s first covered shopping mall. I like Princes Arcade across the street, where gentlemen have been buying their accessories since Beau Brummell’s time. This is where you can still get dressing gowns like Lord Grantham’s or “smoking hats” like Oscar Wilde’s. My husband will spend thousands at Budd here when we win the lottery. Jermyn Street and the street’s behind it ... now you’re in St. James’ ... are where English society has been procuring the finer things for centuries. Don’t miss Berry Brothers and Rudd, wine sellers to the Crown since the 17th century with a gorgeous historic shop and, believe it or not, decent prices on nice wines. (They played a major role in the last Kingsmen film, which everyone here finds a grand joke.)

TWELVE: HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT

If you book in advance (at least two months to be safe), you can get a free tour of the Houses of Parliament https://www.parliament.uk/visiting/ Amazing building: medieval great hall, the rest is Victorian. Group tours with informed guides mix history with the workings of modern government. This is particularly interesting if you’ve done Washington DC, to see how the American system compares to its governmental mother. It's been much in the news lately that the whole place is in precarious shape; it will soon be closed down for an enormous refurbishment. So book while you can.

THIRTEEN: CHANGING GUARDS

If you want to see a changing of the guard, my personal choice would be to head to Horseguards (11 am Monday - Saturday, 10 am on Sundays) rather than Buckingham Palace nearby. Equally showy uniforms, but on horses and with fewer tourists. Buckingham Palace's changing is also at 11am, though conventional wisdom says be in place in front of palace by 10:15 if you want to see anything. There, they march up and down, have bearskin hats and play musical instruments. I like the horses better. Always check web sites for either as these can change with Royal or diplomatic schedules.

Reunion of Charles I's collection is a once-in-a-lifetime wonder

Art and monarchy haven't been happy bedfellows in England. Quite the opposite. Our greatest royal
patrons have often come to sticky ends.

Richard II brought the courtly majesty of the international gothic style to England, pouring money into buildings, art and jewellery while setting fashions that would last centuries. Little is left beyond Westminster Hall and the exquisite Wilton Diptych in the National Gallery. Richard himself died in captivity after alienating everyone and triggering a palace coup. George IV literally defined the Regency era, stamping his architectural style across London, restoring palaces to give us most of the interiors we know today and leaving the wonder of Brighton's Royal Pavilion. He was widely reviled at his death. But no monarch pushed the extremes harder than Charles I. The cause of a bloody civil war, branded a traitor and beheaded by his own parliament, he was also the single greatest connoisseur of art ever to sit on this nation's throne.

The Royal Academy's special exhibition is now proving that point with jaw-dropping exuberance. For the first time since 1649, when the culture-hating Roundheads established the Protectorate and flogged off the collection, 140 masterpieces from Charles' precious collection are hanging again under one roof. It is a lavish Old Masters collection that rivals many major museums. It also tells some fascinating stories.

First, that Charles was a revolutionary. England at the time was an artistic backwater. The iconoclasts of Edward VIs reign had whitewashed the churches and destroyed a rich legacy of religious art. In the years that followed, the English displayed a notable talent for wood carving, plasterwork and floral-patterned fabrics, but painting was mostly limited to portraits of stiff nobles in heavy costumes. Into this world Charles brought the second century life-sized Roman statue of the crouching Venus, actually drawing attention to her lush naked curves with her coy attempts to cover herself. Behind her at this show hangs Rubens' larger-than-life painting "Minerva protects Pax from Mars".  More lush, exposed flesh, in a scene of movement and dynamism: armour glints, silks and satins billow, putti prance and a leopard gambols. It's safe to say that people who hadn't left England (which would have been most) would never have seen anything like it. And that anyone who'd been influenced by the buttoned-up conservatism of the Puritans would have been deeply shocked. Charles didn't evolve artistic taste, he dropped a whole new tradition into alien territory.

Second, that Charles had astonishing taste and bought well. If only he could have run his country with the same savvy. As a young man he travelled to Spain to woo a Habsburg bride. He was unsuccessful in love, but the Spanish royal family's art collection inspired him to shop. The gallery filled with his early acquisitions, including some notable Titians, shows off a sure eye for masterpieces from the start. Later, he capitalised on the decline of the noble Italian Gonzaga family, buying as a whole a collection they'd amassed over generations. He looked beyond the continental fashion for the Italians, however, seeing quiet beauty in Bruegel and Rembrandt, and beefing up the family's existing collection of Holbeins. He commissioned new works from Rubens and Van Dyck. He supported the Mortlake Tapestry works in their (ultimately unsuccessful) bid to become an English rival to Savonnieres or Gobelin.

One of Charles' early bargains, when still prince of Wales, had been to pick up Raphael's true-size working drawings for the tapestries then hanging in the Sistine Chapel. Charles then loaned them to Mortlake to create English-produced versions. The results (four from a set of 10) hang here, liberated from storage in the Louvre. Any visitor to the V&A has probably walked by Raphael's drawings, which are undeniably impressive. But the finished products here are awe-inspiring. They take a bit of imagination, given that their gold and silver threads have faded and tarnished, but other colours are still remarkably bright. The movement within the scenes (all taken from the lives of the St. Peter), the life in the faces and the lavish details woven into the borders are all remarkable. It's a real treat to see these, and one of the highlights of the show.

Another is to see three of Van Dyck's monumental portraits of the king in one place. This is a story of rigorous image management; Van Dyck is arguably one of the world's first great PR men. His work transforms Charles from a slight, weak, tentative man into a heroic military leader on horseback (one from Buckingham Palace, one from the National Gallery) and a thoughtful romantic hero captured while hunting (from the Louvre). It's the Louvre's version I like best, and it's a delight to see it here. The adjoining gallery is filled with more family portraiture. Here the Stuarts are a dreamily-gorgeous family in lavish settings, wearing sumptuous clothes, accompanied by majestic horses and adorable dogs. If Hello Magazine had been available to get these images to the wider populous, it might have saved them.

The tale of commerce and dispersal is another fascinating theme to follow. The Parliamentarians might have been artistic Philistines, but they were keen record keepers. They had decided to flog off all of Charles' possessions within two days of taking over. They appraised and catalogued over 5000 items, from art to dog collars and chamber pots, then recorded sale prices. (To be fair, nearly a decade of Civil War had beggared the country; liquidating the royal loot was a way to recoup some losses.) Today's curators have put those sale prices on labels throughout the show. It's great fun to go shopping, compare values and consider changes in taste. Portraiture from Northern artists was a bargain, for example: you could have had 20 for the price of that one crouching Venus. It's also fascinating to see where things went. Loans from the Louvre, the Prado and the Vatican demonstrate that the misfortune of one ruling family aided the collections of others. Around 60% of the items come from our own Royal Collection, testimony to the fact that successive generations worked hard to recover what was lost. Or to re-create. One of the Van Dyck portraits here recorded the crown jewels before Parliament melted them down, becoming a critical guide when they had to be recreated.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. There are 140 works here (mind-bogglingly, that's still just a bit more than 10% of the works of art that Parliament sold off), and they all deserve contemplation. Other favourites of mine included the famous triple portrait of Charles displayed with a copy of the marble bust for which it was the source material (the Bernini original was destroyed in the Whitehall Palace fire of 1698); Mantegna's enormous series of paintings showing the Triumph of Caesar (usually in its own gallery at Hampton Court, which many visitors miss); an astonishing oversized Roman cameo of the emperor Claudius, displayed so you can look at it side-on and see how the layers of stone have been cut away to create multiple colours; Italian Renaissance bronzes and some exquisitely detailed Nicholas Hilliard miniatures of the Tudors.

The size of the show is, frankly, overwhelming. We had 90 minutes before the gallery closed and felt rushed. I'd recommend a two-hour minimum or, if you can manage it, two visits. That's what I'll be trying to arrange, if I can work it into the diary before the exhibition closes on 15 April.

And if you want to continue the story, you can buy a combined ticket for the Queen's Gallery to see the show there that explores how Charles II started bringing his father's collection back together and used the power of art to restore the monarchy. I reviewed the show here.

Snowdrop festivals herald the English spring

Winter is grey and depressing in England, but it's blessedly short. By mid-February the days are getting noticeably longer and early bulbs are flowering in profusion.

This weekend was, according to horticultural experts, the height snowdrop season. Hundreds of private gardens up and down the country opened as part of the National Gardens Scheme Snowdrop Festival, while most National Trust properties and major gardens were packed with visitors. The English love snowdrops ... and the excuse to get outside in the improving weather.

I didn't have to drive far to revel in garden glories; North Hampshire has abundant snowdrop possibilities and gorgeous drives between each. I started out at Mottisfont Abbey, a National Trust property better known for the roses in its walled garden in May. But walking around the property in November has its own rewards.

The crystal-clear River Test flows through the property, and the woodland on either side is carpeted with snowdrops.

Ten minutes away are the Harold Hillier Gardens, given to Hampshire County Council by the famous nursery and plant-growing family who are perennial exhibitors at Chelsea. The winter garden here is considered one of the best in the county, showing off how various colours of foliage, bark and winter-blooming flowers can put on a display just as impressive as anything in high summer.

There are plenty of snowdrops here, of course, along with that other staple of the mid-February garden: hellebores.

The most amazing display, however, may have been that put on by the cornus (dogwood). In the standing light of late afternoon sun, the red and orange branches blazed like a bonfire.

Hillier helpfully signposts plants of interest throughout the property. Beyond the specific winter garden, there were broad swathes of crocuses in bloom, beds of iris and a plenty of camellias coming into bloom. And with the trees free of leaves, their trunks put on a display of pattern in bark, moss and lichen.

Sunday I took in a triple play of National Garden Society gardens running in a line west from Winchester. The NGS is a wonderful scheme in which private gardens open for charity. They're vetted by judges before they're allowed in the scheme, must offer basic amenities to visitors and are generally a wonderfully acceptable way to be a voyeur. Most of these properties are well worth poking around. And fantasising about. That's certainly true of Down House, a rambling, tile-shingled house surrounded by vineyards overlooking the River Itchen.

I'd visited here in the autumn, when the formal gardens behind the house are a blaze of colour. But at this time of the year it's all about a woodland garden to one side, carpeted with crocus.

There are snowdrops, of course, along with some early-blooming shrubs.

On to the impossibly pretty little town of Alresford, where if you get lucky you may see the steam train chug by on the Watercress Line on your way to your garden visit.

Brandy Mount House sits just above a main street that hasn't changed much since Jane Austen last passed through. (She lived nearby.)

This isn't a particularly large garden ... none of its edges are any further than an easy stone's throw back to the main house ... but the beds, stone troughs and greenhouses were packed with snowdrops.

This was clearly, amongst all the gardens I visited, the one where the owners were going for variety of species.

There's also a small pond surrounded by ferns, snowdrops, hellebores and dogwood.

My final visit was to Bramdean House. If Alresford feels like Jane Austen should still be walking its streets, Bramdean is the kind of place her heroines would have headed to for a ball. It is the kind of mellow Georgian pile, fronted by wobbly yew hedges and backed by formal lawns sloping up to open countryside, that fuels many an architectural fantasy.

The gardens here are actually quite simple, benefiting from the weathered patina brick walls only get after a century or two.

The gates you see above lead into an orchard heavily underplanted with snowdrops, aconites and crocuses. The grass path leads through a hedge fancifully clipped as round castle walls, up to a garden folly that has the look of a temple. On either side, hurdle walls separate the greenery of the garden from the winter browns of the fields beyond.

While the central axis leading up the hill from the house was quite formal, winding paths down one side cut through a woodland garden, complete with this thatched retreat and more bulbs.

My own garden is still mostly asleep, with just one bunch of hellebores, a single clump of snowdrops and a spray of purple crocuses. While I'll never get to NGS level, it's clear. I need to work on more February interest. One thing's for sure: gardening season is almost here.

Adventures of living like a local in the French Alps

A full decade after the internet liberated me from a regular office, I still wonder at the marvel of flexible working. Through the magic of quick flights and broadband, two weeks ago I seamlessly switched my workplace from my office above a garage in Basingstoke to a dining room table overlooking the Alpine splendours of Lake Annecy. Without missing a step at work, I could spend 10 days helping a friend recovering from surgery and shoulder some of the responsibility for my 9-year-old godson.

When I signed up for the gig, I'd imagined a winter wonderland. I liberated my snowboots from storage for the first time since our 2014/15 Iceland trip. Sadly, whether the result of global warming or a freak mild spell, I was to be mostly disappointed. The majority of my stay resembled what we've endured in Southern England all winter: cloudy, grey and around 5c/40f. Gloom is, however, somewhat more palatable when you're sitting in a bowl of dramatic Alpine peaks. With admirable timing, the one stretch of clear weather came with the rare blue-super moon. (Moons are blue when they are full for the second time in the same month, and super when they reach their closest possible point to the Earth.)

Though I did have one weekend to play, the visit featured little sightseeing or dining out. This was truly going native: when not working I was on school runs, daily grocery shopping, helping with homework, cooking and binge-watching Netflix. If you want to know more about the tourist scene, search "Annecy" on this blog for earlier reports. Instead, here are some random observations about real life in Alpine France.

Call me Auntie Mame
Being an aunt (and, in this case, godmother) is a magnificent role. You get to do all the spoiling, earning exalted status as provider of treats and becoming confidant as the insider without the responsibility for discipline. You're generally rewarded with best behaviour: a kid as smart as my godson is not going to endanger this gravy train with tantrums. I discovered that nine is a particularly glorious age. He's starting to be grown up enough to have a decent conversation, but he's still young enough to cuddle. We went on a Lego voyage of discovery. I observed his prowess on scooter at the skate park and on skis up a mountain. I did my bit for American cultural imperialism, teaching him to blow bubbles out of his gumball (I was excellent at this, he informed me, because as an American I had been "in training all my life") and sing Take Me Out to The Ballgame. Satisfyingly, he believes the official words include "root, root, root for the Cardinals". I let him ride in the front seat and make movies with my iPhone.

In return, I'm hoping he'll someday be smuggling premium gin into my nursing home and springing me for the odd cultural excursion. He's starting well. And growing up in France doesn't hurt. How many nine-year-olds do you know who, as the clock strikes 6, respectfully ask you and his mother if you "would care for an aperitif" before dinner?

The art of deferred concentration
I've always wondered at the energy and resilience of working mothers. I discovered yet another of their astonishing skills this trip: a particular discipline of will when it comes to concentration. My most productive hours are generally from about 3pm to 7pm. Once I down tools, I collapse. On this trip, my temporary duties included the afternoon school run. I had to break concentration at 4pm, tearing away from full engagement in something weighty. An hour and a half later, after hijinx with the kid and the required grocery shopping, it was time to end the break and get back to work. I found it an agonising effort, and I didn't always succeed. And yet, I realised, this is how most mums I know live their lives, able to switch work on and off in pockets throughout the day. Respect.

Ladies who lunch
Then again, I didn't encounter too many women trying to juggle kids and the corporate rat race in Annecy. This is not for lack of skill or desire. For all of the celebrated benefits of the European Union, tax harmonisation leaves a lot to be desired. My friends' social circle is primarily comprised of English expat professionals, mostly husbands working in Geneva and wives at home. The wives are typically well-educated, dynamic and ambitious, but their tax situation leaves little profit in the kinds of freelancing or long-distance part-time best suited to their situation. Technology allows flexible working; governmental red tape doesn't.

So these brilliant women channel their efforts into their kids, each other and "gig economy" strategies that pay cash. English lessons. AirB&B. EBay trading. I rather suspect that's one reason you'll find some staggeringly good restaurants for posh lunches in the small villages around Lake Annecy. We slipped out to Le Florilège one day. Three courses at fine-dining levels of sophistication for €22. The starter of pickled cabbage rolled into dainty pieces resembling sushi showed off their leanings towards Asian/French fusion, while a main of pork tenderloin reinforced the national reputation for sauces. A simple meringue with lemon curd and raspberries no doubt helped claw a profit margin from the reasonably priced lunch, but was delicious in its simplicity. It all made me wish I had planned more time off. My wallet and my waistline disagreed.

The appeal of skiing
Growing up in Middle America, where parents usually only had two weeks of holiday a year, few families had the time to embrace both beaches and skiing. Each required long, expensive trips in opposite directions. The Ferraras were irredeemably linked to the beach. I couldn't understand why anyone would want to go on holiday to be cold. My mother found it inconceivable that people would lay out all that cash on the required gear, lift passes, etc., when the joys of the beach were essentially free once you got there. My one disastrous attempt at skiing while at university added the vice-like discomfort of ski boots, the horror of making a fool of myself in public and a take-away of aches and ugly bruises to my incomprehension. Given that experience was on a hill in central Michigan, spectacular landscape was not a mitigating factor.

No skiing fan ever brought the word that would work for me to the top of their defence list. Sun. It seems the magic is quite simple. When you drive up a mountain, you climb above the cloud line, leaving mid-winter rain and gloom behind you. Suddenly, you're basking under blazing sunshine and blue skies. This might not have seemed such a big deal before I moved to England, but after 20 winters here the unremitting gloom of England from November through March grows increasingly oppressive. It just never occurred to me that skiing would offer as good a chance for sun as a beach. Don't get me wrong: I'll still pick a coral reef over a snowy mountain every time. And you'll never find me on skis. But we had a magical walk through a snowy forest with jaw-dropping views. We ended with a sociable drink on a sunny deck watching the skiers. The local genepi was another revelation. A distinctive regional liquor distilled from wormwood, it's punishingly medicinal on its own but when added as a shot to lager makes something shandy-like, with a slightly more grown-up, bittersweet flavour and a bright green hue like something out of a Harry Potter film.

The daily shop
After 10 days of living like a native, there seemed no bigger difference between France and home than the experience of grocery shopping. In England, massive supermarkets dominate the supply chain and delivery ... at least in my neighbourhood ... is the norm. Most people do a weekly shop, supplementing with bits from smaller stores as needed. There is some move back to specialist providers for things like milk and vegetables, but this is mostly amongst the affluent and arguably the delivery-to-your-door is as important as the product.

The French still prefer to shop every day. This is a necessity, friends tell me, because while they believe the fruit, veg and meat to be of higher quality than in England, it all goes off faster. And though you'll find big supermarkets here, specialist shops still abound. Not far from my friends' is the Tomme & Beaufort, an entire shop dedicated to selling two kinds of local cheese. They also have select cabinets of local wine, dairy, charcuterie and meat, but the star is definitely those wheels of golden goodness, marketed with an attention to terroir that reminded me of fine wines. (It's true. The winter Beaufort tastes totally different from the summer version because of the difference in the grass the cows eat.) You'd think such a place would be mostly for tourists, but on a Friday night after work it was packed with locals picking up supplies for that night's fondue.

pragmatically-named

The ultimate example of the specialist shop, of course, is the bakery. The greatest tragedy in San Jorioz this winter is the shuttering of their local, which was also an impressive pastry shop and chocolatier. It's 80-year-old proprietress had finally decided to retire and nobody in the family fancied the nocturnal hours of a French baker. Despite that loss, my friends can still call in to two specialist bakeries within the distance I travel to Tesco for what they pass off as an artisan loaf. Point to France for that one.

The Crown
We don't have Netflix at home. With the mass of other viewing options my husband has bought in, the only time I've missed it is when reading reviews of The Crown. Imagine my delight at discovering that my friends had Netflix, but had somehow not managed to consume the acclaimed production. A ten-day visit, two series to get through ... let the binge watching begin!

It's as good as everyone says. As a committed royalist I was anxious. Would drama thrust the family into a bad light? Not at all. It's much like Stephen Frear's film The Queen, where real history blends with imagined insight into distinctly sympathetic and human people. No wonder, it turns out, since the writer ... Peter Morgan ... is the same on both. The casting of both actors and sets is magnificent. Perhaps my greatest joy was finding that the whole story is as much about Philip as Elizabeth. Matt Smith, who I never really warmed to as Dr. Who, is wonderful in the role, able to convey an impressive range of emotion without saying a word.

It was almost as much fun as hanging out with a nine-year-old. Now back home, I'm missing him desperately. Though I'm appreciating the quiet and the uninterrupted afternoons.

Southampton Airport has me rethinking my aversion to budget airlines

 I haven't flown a budget airline in about 15 years. I swore them off after a horrific trip when the 80 miles from the arrival airport to the named destination caused serious stress, my mother was injured by young parents using pushchairs as weapons as they charged for those first-come-first serve seats, and I calculated the cost of driving to and parking at Stanstead as almost the difference between the "discount" fare and BA.

Easyjet and their ilk were false economies, not worth the extreme discomfort and hassle.

Of course, there was a big difference back then in the flight experience. My BA ticket included pretty much whatever baggage I wanted, I got seat assignments with my flight purchase, staff treated me like a treasured customer and even a short hop to Paris pampered me with a light meal and free drinks from a full bar.

Sadly, since then BA has been steadily slashing service and experience to lower themselves to the standards of their cheaper rivals. Without lowering price, of course. We kept defaulting to them because of frequent flier miles and the known comfort of Heathrow Terminal 5.

Then I had to fly to Geneva during ski season.

BA's outbound prices were laughable. A friend suggested trying Southampton Airport, given its convenience for public transport from Basingstoke. Easyjet had just introduced a route with timings that met my needs. So, fighting to keep nasty flashbacks from early experiences at bay, I gave it a try. And found the whole journey from Southampton to be so wonderful, I'm wondering where else we can fly from there to repeat it.

First, there's the transport. A quick hop to our local Basingstoke train station. Half an hour to Southampton Airport Parkway on trains that run four times an hour. The station isn't in the airport: you have to cross a small road. Here's the view from the train platform to the terminal building. I doubt it's more than 100 steps.

The terminal is tiny and easy to navigate. In the photo below, I have my back against one end, and you can clearly see the other.  Dropping bags took slightly longer than at Heathrow because the check in desk is also where they sell all their extras to you. I was stuck behind jolly skiers pre-purchasing champagne before the flight. I seemed to be the only person without skiis, too. All that additional baggage checking also added time.

Even with those extra disruptions, I was down to hand baggage within 15 minutes. Off to security. Here's the entrance at 7:20 on a Thursday morning. Note there are more staff members cleaning up a spilled potted plant than people in the queue. Taking my snow boots on and off consumed more time than the entirety of the rest of my progress through security.

I feared an airport so small would be bereft of shopping opportunities. Not so. There's a small but decent duty free well stocked with alcohol, make up and chocolate. Tiny compared to Heathrow but bigger than your average American airport version. There's also a basic WH Smith. You wouldn't want to kill hours here, but there's enough to survive.

Somebody has put thought into lounge design. There's only one, with 10 gates, but seating comes in a variety of colours and configurations. Walls feature full-bleed photographs celebrating Southampton's sailing heritage. There's a small Costa booth downstairs, with a larger Costa and some kind of exec lounge in a loft up the stairs..

 There's even a dedicated charging station and work bar for laptops.

Hand luggage is certainly more draconian than BA. Staff made me pack my purse into my laptop bag before getting into the waiting area ... one carry on means one. (Note to self: copious pockets are enormously useful.)

When it's time to board, you walk over the tarmac to your plane. The picture up top shows the distance from gate to plane. Everyone has seat assignments these days; none of the uncivilised scrum of memory. Inside the aircraft, the insubstantial garden chair feel of the seats, with advertising on the back of each, betrays that you're on a discount airline. But they were comfortable enough for 90 minutes, the staff was polite and efficient, and everything happened on time. The food and drink being peddled from the cart might be plain label rather than M&S, but you're still paying for it ... so there's no real difference to the travel experience.

It was all remarkably easy, fast and stress free compared to our usual airport departure. My Fitbit told the tale: home to my airplane seat was 1,700 steps, including a train journey. A Heathrow departure, even when driven to the airport by taxi, can easily chalk up 5,000 steps before buckling in. Bad on the exercise front, but otherwise a clear demonstration of improved efficiency. 

If you're one of those few remaining travellers who still have access to the premium lounges, and sit in those nice, wide seats at the front of the plane, you'll probably consider Southampton far too downmarket for you. (So no girls' trip departures from here, clearly.) For me? I've finally realised that neither BA nor Heathrow deserve the supremacy I've automatically accorded them all these years. It's time to pay more attention to Southampton timetables.

With parallels to Shakespeare and Mozart, Hamilton is set to take the Brits by storm

I gave my English in-laws Hamilton tickets for Christmas.

I'd owned the tickets for almost a year, and had dreamed about the success of my gift. They'd gaze at it in awe, then look at me with misty-eyed gratitude. "How did you manage to get these?" they'd gasp, aware that the show's initial London run had sold out almost a year before it opened. They would be amongst the first in London to get in on this phenomenon. I would be a hero.

It didn't work that way. Because on 25 December 2017, the London Bencards had never heard of Hamilton. The show had been drenched in good reviews on its official opening, but that was only four days earlier. They'd missed the news. The description of a hip hop musical about the United States' first secretary of the treasury raised sceptical eyebrows. They received my gift politely, but were unenthusiastic. And I wondered ... had I made a mistake? Would a show about American history resonate with Brits? Would the modern music element turn off the family with whom I was more likely to attend baroque opera or Gilbert and Sullivan? My musical-hating, pop culture-averse husband had already made it clear that he was an unenthusiastic attendee. As our show date approached, I grew worried.

My sense of relief as we left the Victoria Palace last night was palpable. They loved it. Even the husband admitted enjoyment. Hamilton's magic extends to grab those who are ignorant of, or resistant to, its weighty reputation.

And me? I adored it. Compelling music, gripping lyrics, a tremendously talented cast delivering a performance that hooks you from the first minute and doesn't let go. One powerful scene follows another at a breathless pace; even the quiet moments demand and reward your full attention. But that was as expected. I've been jealously watching American friends rave about the show for two years, am entranced by the Ron Chernow biography on which it's based and have been listening to the soundtrack for the past month. You could consider Hamilton the most successful journalist of all time, which gives him a special place in my heart.

But what about the Brits, currently free of hype and generally strangers to the history on which this show is based? Here's why that won't matter a jot.

Hamilton is Shakespearean

Take a charismatic hero who reaches giddy heights, only to be brought down by his own hubris. Add sophisticated villains, Machiavellian plots and innocents unfairly wronged, all playing at personal dramas that will ripple outwards to change a nation. These are the same plot points and emotional hooks that make Richard II, Julius Caesar or Macbeth work. True, this is foundational American history. But the story no more needs an awareness of early American politics than you require insight into Medieval Danish history to enjoy Hamlet. Hamilton's plot line plugs in to some of the most enduring themes of human existence: ambition, desire, honour, legacy. And the one that drives us to the climax: envy. Hamilton belongs in an awe-inspiring box set with Othello and Amadeus as the best-ever examinations of how the little green monster can break colleagues apart and send them spiralling towards tragedy, carrying others with them as they go. In a country where The Bard is just as current today as he was 400 years ago, Hamilton's Shakespearean elements make it a comfortable cultural fit. 

Hamilton celebrates the English language
Confession time: pre-Hamilton my impression of hip hop and rap was of monosyllabic, profanity-fuelled rantings about base instincts and brutal lives, blasted out in an irritating percussive dim. Now I see them as valid art forms, closer to poetry than music, perhaps unique in their ability to pack meaningful words into a story with fast-paced density. This musical may be a child of our soundbite age, but rather than dumbing anything down, writer Lin-Manuel Miranda has delivered the weight of literature at high speed. Listening to Hamilton is like standing in front of a fire hose of artfully crafted words and phrases. There are poetic constructions (Hamilton's wife Eliza sings achingly of "palaces of paragraphs" when she describes how his love letters won her), literary allusions (Washington is the model of the modern major general, Hamilton is Icarus flying too close to the sun) and countless remarkably clever rhymes. Brits love their language, and wordplay with it. Hamilton delivers a rare gift for them to enjoy.

Hamilton has memorable music
I feared that a "hip hop musical" wouldn't be pleasant listening. Wrong. While the poetically lyric style of the rap and hip hop tradition run throughout, melodies range across jazz, r&b and soul. There are a few stonking love ballads and comic pieces that would, on melody alone, sit comfortably in older, traditional musicals. Few modern shows, however, send you out the door with such a broad choice of tunes to hum. Though the style may be modern, the musical virtuosity of Hamilton sends you back to the blockbusters of Rogers and Hammerstein, when every tune was both memorable and integral to the plot. Or you could go even further back. There are several points where different characters, singing their own melodies and stories, come together in an intricate counterpoint that finds its closest parallel in Mozart's operas. Even the most musically worthy (my husband and brother-in-law were debating the merits of various versions of Handel oratorios on the way in) will find plenty to like here.

Hamilton showcases London's artistic talent
This is the first version of Hamilton to run outside of the United States and, in line with the "young, scrappy and hungry" ethos, the cast is full of fresh, largely unknown actors. The kids won't stay that way for long. The quality of both voices and acting ... flawless less than four weeks into their run ... says a lot about the continuing strength of the UK's talent pipeline. Fresh out of drama school, Jamael Westman has been garnering raves for his performance in the lead role. The director has decided to split the glory, however, and on our night we saw the alternate, Ash Hunter (pictured above, in white). His Hamilton was charming, sexy and looks a bit like Aidan Turner, a useful shortcut to draw the Poldark-loving nation into the 18th century. His beautiful tenor ranged easily from the powerful to the poignant. While there's no real attempt to make the actors look older, his voice and acting do the work as Hunter takes us from bright, ambitious spark through crushed, tired power broker.   Rachel John's Angelica Schyler was the strongest amongst a trio of impressive female voices. Obioma Ugoala's Washington has a voice that drips warm honey.  It's unfair to call any individuals out, however, as the whole cast is equally strong. Several of them worked together on Motown: The Musical; a logical match for the vocal style. And Shakespearean experience ... him again ... is rife across the team. The director is on record saying that those comfortable with Shakespeare had the easiest time mastering the dense lyrics.

Hamilton is funny
From eviscerating wit to puerile slapstick, the English prize humour as one of the highest forms of human interaction. A favourite criticism of other countries is lack of it. The Germans such an odd sense of humour only other Germans get it, Americans don't grasp irony, etc. Hamilton is a proof point against those American criticisms while giving the London audience much to laugh at. Though it's a serious story, there is plenty of both clever, intellectual jibes and simple physical humour here. Thomas Jefferson's grand entry will have you in stiches, thanks to Jason Pennycooke's impish portrayal (above, in pink). The real show stealer, however, is Michael Jibson's King George (below). Though he's probably on stage as the monarch for less than 12 minutes total (otherwise Jibson's part of the chorus), his hysterically funny delivery of the song "You'll be back", meditating on the rejection of his colonies and their future without him, is one of the most memorable parts of the evening. Evidently this was one of the few bits of the show changed from New York, with a more splendid costume and staging to give "the local side" a bit to cheer for. Given the reaction of the audience, I'd say it worked.

Hamilton is topical

Political parties at each other's throats. Parties imploding from within due to strong personalities. Angry battles in the media with accusations of fake news. A time of enormous change with an uncertain future. Specifics of news stories might differ on either side of the pond, but these themes resonate in the UK just as strongly as in the United States.  If you consider the American revolution and its aftermath as one big Brexit analogy, Hamilton might actually be more topical here than in New York. (Sadly, I fear we don't have any brains as big as Hamilton's and Jefferson's to debate our future.) Hamilton and Lafayette's shared line before the battle of Yorktown ... "immigrants, we get the job done" ... got the biggest spontaneous cheer of the night. The politics connect across the centuries.

I have no doubt that Hamilton will settle into the same kind of institutional run that shows like Phantom, Les Mis and The Mousetrap have enjoyed for decades. In fact, so sure are the theatre owners of this fact that they totally gutted and renovated the Victoria Palace just for this show. The interiors are now sparkling as brightly as Hamilton's London prospects.

The current ticket release runs through late June and is sold out, though there is a lottery for returns every day. The next release of tickets goes on sale Monday, 29 July at noon UK time. In an effort to prevent the exorbitantly priced scalping that's plagued the show in the States, Hamilton in London only has electronic tickets. The person who purchased the tickets must be there with photo ID matching their name, and the credit card with which they booked. Once the door security checks your ID, a staff member with a hand-held printer gives you your tickets at the door. This means there's a big queue to get in, but it moves quickly.

Queen's Gallery captures lush and lavish world of Restoration

In a drawer awaiting my retirement lies the first two chapters and an outline for the rest of my novel, started at university and abandoned when real work got in the way. A sweeping historical saga charting an English Royalist family's attempts to survive through the Commonwealth and take advantage of the Restoration, it reflects my early and enduring fascination with Charles II. He's my favourite of all the British monarchs, and his court had a panache few others have equalled.

It's no surprise, then, that I was an early visitor to the latest show in the Queen's Gallery, London. Charles II: Art and Power shares my fascination, exploring how The Merry Monarch used art to validate his reign.

Charles chose his 30th birthday for his coronation (29 May 1660), celebrated with a blaze of magnificence.

His life up to that point, however, had probably been the hardest of any person to occupy the English throne since before the Norman Conquest. Though his father and mother kept a magnificent court, the tensions that exploded into the Civil War were present from his earliest memories. He was barely a teenager when circumstance forced him to the battlefield, 20 when Parliament executed his father, and by 22 was fleeing to exile as the Royalists lost their last battle at Worcester.

For the next eight years he lived off the generosity of friends and family on the Continent. The early years weren't so bad, hosted by his glamorous cousin Louis XIV. (Charles' mother, Henrietta Maria, was sister to Louis XIII.) But as the Commonwealth's grip on power tightened, France decided the benefits of trade with a current ... though illegal ... British administration outweighed the benefits of supporting a rightful heir with dwindling prospects. Louis asked his cousin to leave. By the late '50s, Charles and a tiny group of friends were living hand-to-mouth in freezing garrets in the Netherlands.

Had Cromwell been a bit less of a Puritan, Charles' story might have ended there. But history proves that few people like the restrictions brought on by religious fundamentalism; particularly not the English. When Cromwell died without an effective succession plan (his son Richard was a disaster), the head of the army took the initiative and invited the rightful heir back home.

Though Charles vaulted from pauper to king, his worries weren't over. He had to re-establish the business of monarchy from scratch when the Parliamentarians had sold off or melted down most of its trappings. He had to reconcile two sides in a society that had been in conflict for almost 20 years. European politics demanded military involvement, plague popped up and London burned down. Through it all, the treasury was never full and Parliament ... the organisation that murdered his father ... controlled the purse strings.

It's thus no surprise that Charles became a master of compromise. The Merry Monarch on the surface, he was a practical man of the people, scholar, scientist and secret Catholic at heart. He was the centre of a newly-glamorous court, but always managed on a budget. (His plans for a palace near Winchester to rival his cousin's Versailles never got funded. He made do with makeovers at Windsor that, while in the height of lavish fashion, were done on the cheap ... thus in poor enough shape by the early 1800s that most were swept away by renovations.) He was often quoted as saying that he had no desire to go on his travels again, thus would do whatever was necessary to keep the new status quo.

The objects on display here illustrate three storylines from Charles' life that have always fascinated me.

1. The role of the visual arts in what we now know as public relations, used by Charles to shore up his position and create a new story for his family.
2. Charles' career walking a knife edge between delivering the magnificence expected by both the public and fellow monarchs, while limiting spending and staying on parliament's good side.
3. How Charles managed his inner demons: coping with, and trying to redress, a tragic family legacy

We start in a room dominated by a somber portrait of the father, Charles' I, captured during his trial. The strange combination of intelligent nobility and pig-headed obstinance that drives so much of the Stuart family saga is obvious in his face. We move to the restoration of 1660 quickly, however. This is an art show, after all, and the dreary years of Civil War, Commonwealth and exile produced little. More often, it destroyed or eliminated art ... making it particularly appropriate that the first blockbuster display here is the plate Charles II commissioned for his coronation.

With the exception of the solid gold chalice and paten (the small plate used for the communion wafer), the collection of platters, ewers, candlesticks and a weighty mace is "only" silver plate. Still, it's enough to make a statement of serious bling. The royals were back, and livin' large. The work on these pieces is exquisite. (Check out the cavalier King Charles spaniel characteristically scrounging for scraps from the table of Jesus' last supper; sadly the only appearance I spotted in the show of the era's iconic.) Normally, this set lives at the end of the gallery with the crown jewels in the Tower of London, where you've been overwhelmed with other bling and you're buffeted by tourists. It's a delight to see it here, given its own space in a gallery generally free of crowds.

Though they initially pale before the glitter of all that gold, the prints and books that dominate the rest of this first large gallery provide a fascinating exploration of the Restoration world. The real artistic firepower, however, comes in the following galleries.

One, dominated by a ceremonial portrait of Charles II enthroned (pictured above), is mostly lush and lavish portraits of the key players in the Stuart court. There's no better way to drink in the spirit of this age than to revel in how its key players chose to be remembered: strong men, romantic women, everyone dressed in ridiculously expensive, lovingly detailed fabrics while they flash their bedroom eyes at you. The the real people couldn't possibly have been as attractive as the artists made them. Within the exhibition you can compare some early, and probably more realistic, portraits of Charles' Queen Catherine of Braganza with the sexy, oversized painting of her as a shepherdess. This is first-class image management for PR spin.

The last large gallery looks at Charles II's efforts to re-establish a Royal Collection after his father's was sold off. Though cursed with abysmal political instincts, Charles I was arguably the greatest single connoisseur of art in English royal history. As sensuous in their own way as the portraits, his son's treasures include pastel-perfect Renaissance scenes, photo-realistic Dutch old masters, magnificent tapestries and noteworthy furniture. Most impressive amongst the last is a rare silver furniture set. The table, matching mirror and pair of pedestal stands usually live at Windsor Castle, where they can be lost in the surrounding opulence. Here ... much like that Coronation plate ... their isolation in a plain background allows you to appreciate them for the magnificent items that they are. Especially as the whole set has just been cleaned and restored, shining with an almost eye-damaging gleam.

Three smaller rooms offer additional insight into Charles' re-assembly of royal treasures. There's ornate dining decor, including the magnificent Exeter salt; precious books, some of which demonstrate Charles' serious commitment to science; Old Master drawings (here's the source of the Royal Collection's wealth of Michelangelo, Leonardo and Holbein on paper); detailed portrait miniatures, jewellery and a blockbuster ivory and ebony altarpiece.

Overall, the exhibit does a fine job of capturing Charles' story and conveying the lush style of the court. Your £11 admission includes an interesting audio guide and the right to return to the gallery for a year. As with anything in the Queen's Gallery, the intimate spaces mean the show is digestible without being overwhelming, and you can appreciate items without big crowds.

It is, however, a solidly traditional exhibition and thus perhaps best for people who already have an interest in the topic. Last month I wrote about how the Opera show currently on at the V&A sets a new high bar in how to present culture and deploy multi-media. After that, the Queen's Gallery seems much more solemn, and like harder work. Charles II might have been famed for his common touch, but this show appeals to more rarified tastes.

Charles II: Art and Power is on at the Queen's Gallery, Buckingham Palace, until 13 May.