No sign of George at Lake Como

Our trip from Lyon had started with a couple of laps of Lyon and then onto the open road and a variety of cd’s we’d bought on a binge. The trip south east wound us through the low alps and in and out of more tunnels than I care to remember. Soon we were within Italy and on our way towards Milan before the big left hand turn towards to the Lake. We missed the left hand turn but thankfully hadn’t gone too far so somehow negotiated the most ridiculous off ramp and on ramp and headed back in the right direction. There is a little part of the journey as you come around a hill and spot the Lake for the first time that takes your breath away. In NZ we have some spectacular lakes though there was something about the colours of the villages around that make you melt in moments. We dumped the car in Como town and headed off in search of lunch. There were times when we pinched ourselves initially to make sure we were there and then after the most revolting  Italian meal (our first in Italy) as punishment for making the wrong restaurant call. A quick walk around and we were on our way up the left hand side of the lake to Tremezzo. An hour winding through little villages and not hitting pedestrians later our hotel popped out of nowhere sitting on the side of the road pretty and proud right on the lake. 

La Darsena has been a find on tripadvisor and we couldn’t have got better. Our room was up in the attic space but was the most spacial room we had had on the trip so far. With Prozy’ell’hole still quite ripe in our heads La Darsena was total paradise. A little courtyard to the right was the perfect setting for a couple of Campari’s and a good few chapters of Michael Caine’s new autobiography. It’s been lovely on this trip so far, Michael Caine and Barry White, my mission now was to find George. 

We chose to eat in the restaurant in the hotel on the first evening and the loveliest hotelier ever reserved us a table on the water. Showers and a potter around the town later and we sat down for one of the best meals I have had. My starter was smoked guinea fowl with goats cheese and roast veg. So delicately light but full of flavour. The bald man had green pea risotto which burst with freshness, I was being looked at for diving across the table at his plate every other mouthful. 

I chose some “caramelle” pasta for main course to obliterate the microwave crap we’d had for lunch. The pasta was sweet shaped and full of fabulous ragu. Light, tasty and the best pasta i’d ever had. The lake fish the Bald man had was also exquisite. Our meal finished off with a shared white chocolate and strawberry parfait, cognac, grappa and espresso. 

A brilliant sleep later and we woke up to a gorgeous breakfast back out on the water the next morning. Our plan for the day was very simple, walk, boat, lunch, boat, big house, wine, dinner, bed. And we did all of it. The boat trip to Bellagio was stunning and while my eyes were clued to the shore line in search of George, The bald man was absolutely stunned at the beauty of the lake, the surrounding countryside and the incredible architecture of the buildings that decorate the lakes edges. 

Our lunch was in a little trattoria full of locals. I had a veal ragu with polenta which was a little heavier than I needed but thoroughly delicious. The bald man tucked into a bowl of pasta which lasted very little time in his presence. Coffee and onwards back to the cobbled streets of the stunning town. Our afternoon was spent in a house called Villa Carlotta which was built for a woman a million years ago who promptly went and died. Complete waste I thought, but we enjoyed getting out of the heat and looking around what she could have had. I had read about a cantina in Tremezzo called Cantina Folli which we discovered tucked away off the beaten track. The owner was so lovely, chose a bottle of wine for us and provided us with a very large lump of parmesan and some honey and pear to enjoy with it. Nothing was too much trouble. As the two of us laughed our way through plot lines and potential story lines I could have stayed in the vine covered courtyard forever. It was a little piece of paradise. 

Our supper that evening was in a restaurant called red and white which I should have known better and not gone, but the bald man enjoyed his meal and I shoved too much pizza in my direction, while we listened to a couple of english bus drivers talk rubbish at each other for an hour. The general patronage of the restaurant was only there for pizza’s and spag bog so I was quite surprised at some of the tripadvisor reviews of it. 

As we drove away the next day towards Venice I vowed to come back and spend longer with my bald man in a very very beautiful area. 

p.s on another note, George wasn’t available at the time of writing. 

Loved Lyon

On the Friday morning we woke to the task of getting out of Paris in a rental car also named Margaux. Why? because they are as ugly as each other. To cut a long story short, we got lost on the way to Gard De Nord to get the car, then narrowly missed a near death experience as the Bald man turned into some oncoming traffic, we only went round in a circle once and somehow we hit the open road to Lyon with the BBC world service on the radio. Apparently professional cricket stars are getting depressed when they retire - who would have thought. It was fascinating to hear John Kirwin talking about his experiences though and as we drove south both of us did some thinking and some actions were noted.

After a quick coffee in a truck stop we swapped and I drove us into the traffic jams of Lyon and to a rather spectacular city. As I discovered in Winchester, the Bald Man is not perfect and can not navigate which led to some abrupt words and a little longer trying to find hotel and parking than necessary. However, we checked in and made our way to THE MOST REVOLTING square whole of an apartment room in Lyon. A room with a sofa bed is not an apartment and so the Bald Man told them, so we moved up 3 floors to a room with not only a sofa bed but the first double bed we had slept in in weeks. The “balcony” was a filthy mossy mess but it was better than the hell whole downstairs. Downstairs, we discovered the next day was also the abode of a rather glum looking prostitute and as we discussed the pro’s and con’s of prostitution, it dawned on me her abode was a sofabed in a hell whole. Nothing glamourous there.

Our first meal was on the Rue Mercerie, a street of restaurants which was touristy but good for dinner. We were squeezed into a table and had two English menus dumped in front of us. Determined to eat Lyonnaise the Bald man had eggs cooked in red wine with lardons and crutons (which is French sounds much more appealing but they only gave us the English option so english it is) They were devine and he was in heaven. Not a heavy dish, but one I am going to master. I had sausage and lentils (again better in French) delicious and simple. My main dish was crucified duck which was my own fault for mixing instructions up and ordering well done, the Bald man had a chewy steak. Not brilliant, but ok. We went back to La Appartment Prozy’ell’hole via a bar and lots of red vino!

Lyon is the easiest city to get around. The Metro is quick clean and efficient. We headed in morning to the best place in the world http://halledelyon.free.fr/ Halle de Lyon. It can only be described as food heaven, aisle upon aisle of French Cuisine, delicious French Cuisine. My eyes popped out, my ears rang and I wanted to run up and down shouting loudly “I’m here, I’m here.” However, I didn’t! We had breakfast, got ideas, ate chocolate, shopped, snapped and left. You can fill the rest in yourself!

A little walk later and we were back where we had dinner the night before. In search of the open top bus stop, we stumbled across a homewares shop and yes reader you guessed it, Elle is a happy chappy with some stonking new oven gloves and a rose scented drawer liner..... the Bald man bought a clock! Our simple lunch of salad and a burger washed down with some beer held us in stead for the afternoon of avoiding the gay pride march blasting YMCA around. We escaped to the hills, a cathedral and some amazing views via a cable car (he was a happy bunny) As we got back down we discovered the complete delight of Old Lyon, where we shopped, pottered and oooh’d and ahhhh’d at buildings before our afternoon beer. It is an absolutely beautiful city.

We headed back to freshen up and return to Old Lyon for dinner. In the hour we were at La Appartment Prozy’ell’hole her downstairs was a busy girl. I have to say I’m impressed by the use of her blackberry for bookings. Dinner was at a little restaurant where the Bald man tucked into terrine and a scrummy fondue while I devoured onion soup and discovered Quenelles. Quenelles are a poached mixture of creamed fish, meat or chicken in said shape, that in my case was served with a gorgeous cheese sauce. I will be investigating and making. A yet again simple, but delicious meal.

As we said goodbye to Lyon, I promised to be back and after doing various laps of the city trying to get out, I thought we would never leave. Our next stop beckoned, with cheap cd’s and impressive views to see. We were off to Lake Como.

Gay and very full Paris

So I’m way behind on this and will fill the rest of Devon in later.

We were met in Paris by my uncle and his friend’s exceptionally ugly Bulldog, Margaux. We had been warned that she was the ugliest dog and true to form she is, but when you are lugging your entire 8 weeks of wardrobe up the hill to the top of Montmatre a rock solid bulldog is as good as a tugboat. Margaux is in fact the sweetest dog, desperate to play at any cost and with expressions film directors would pay big money for.



My uncle’s apartment is high in Montmatre with a beautiful view that includes a glimpse of the Eiffel tower and wide open spaces around him. Down the street is a little terrace with a rather fab little restaurant we had lunch in one day. The view from the terrace is surreal and made me want to don a beret quickly and become fluent in the language.



As it was Chris’s birthday we, being Chris, the bald man, Margaux’s owner Faith (stunning american) Chris’s girlfriend Ann and I cabbed it across town to a restaurant called La Closerie des Lilas where having already drunk a large amount we got stuck into Martini’s and some rather fantastic red wine. My love for Fois Gras didn’t let me even think about what else was on the starter board and while the others tucked into fish and langoustine I tried my very best not to lick the plate. The Bald man and I both had steak as a main which was unfortunately not cooked to perfection and where we had all gone for medium rare it was mainly blue and disappointing. The Fois Gras was beginning to dominate the space available for anything else, but again gluttony prevailed and a cheese board was deposited at speed in front of me. I am just going to recap here....... red wine, champagne, martini’s, Champagne, Fois Gras, red wine, steak, red wine, cheese, champagne, coffee and petit fours. Now this is not an exercise in gloating or making anyone reading this feel in any way green with envy. In fact the only thing slightly green here was me by the time I had finished. My Dr is forever telling me I am a half pint and should not keep trying to fill myself up with pints, in this case Dr Twaites, I well and truely yard glassed myself.



We had prebooked a Paris food tour on the Wednesday morning at 9am. Had I know I would have chronic indigestion, a cold and the biggest hangover I would never have booked it, but we got up and headed with Chris and Margaux to the metro in time to get to our meeting point, a cheese shop the other side of town. Hungover and snotty, the smell of cheese which would normally excite me was making my stomach curdle. An American doctor called Sarah was flapping the same booking form in front of us and after introductions and numerous tissues we met up with “Yves” our guide for the morning. Over the next 4 hours, he took us around the Latin Quarter and I took a million photo’s in between nose blowing.



By the afternoon we were back in Montmatre and took to the streets to explore and look for a dinner venue. If you haven’t been to Montmatre and Sacre Ceur, you should, it is one of those breath taking little moments in life that should be remembered. Our restaurant for dinner was Le Poulbot, recommended by the other tour guide on our trip. Tiny, quaint, unassuming and cosy, we shared each others onion soup and escargot (“which were bloody good too” Bald Man) and Caseolet and Confit du Canard. Chris joined us for coffee and desert and when I lost the bald man to the phone and NZ, I decided it was time for bed. Margaux was later sent in search of the Bald man with success.



Day two, not hungover, our mission was to dance on the top of the Eiffel Tower and 2 hours later we were up there. However my insecurity and perfect capability of making a complete tit of myself stopped me dancing with my lovely man and instead we gazed at the view and each other with a little pinching going on to make sure we were both there! We took a boat to Notre Damme, ate lunch at a little cafe in a square, bought shoes and aged coffee grinders and headed back to the great cathedral as the bells tolled. It really is an amazing building. “I didn’t realise the Supremes were on tour” said the Bald Man pointing to 3 microphone stands next to the alter. This resulted in me getting a fit of giggles just as the 5pm service was starting. With shopping bags and memories we headed back up the hill for a pretty lousy dinner at a restaurant and some well needed sleep.

Heading South

Part of this trip is about reading, writing and spending time not on a computer…… so I am handwriting this! Well almost. We packed on Saturday for our week in the West Country.  My visions of packing with heavy suitcases of novels and magazines got obliterated by new purchases and extra bags for all the laptops and power supplies that have come with us.

Our first visit was with the Jimjam’s brother Andy in Winchester, half way on the journey to Devon and in time for a slap up early lunch.  A fellow foodie and all round good guy, Andrew had chosen the rather superb Chesil Rectory for lunch which according to the Maitre’d was the 3^rd oldest building in the city.  The option of starters left us all wondering what to have. Claire and I had a fabulously rich squid ink risotto with chilli calamari on the top. We were both much mocked for the Goth appearance the squid ink gave our lips. The bald man devoured a huge helping of smoked mackerel and whisky pate while Andrew had enjoyed the ham hock. The only thing on the menu we didn’t try was the asparagus soup. I have to admit defeat with the risotto. It was gloriously opulent and bursting with flavour and I don’t feel I did it justice really, but I was trying to leave some space for the roast Pork belly I had drooled over the menu for.

The main course didn’t disappoint by any stretch of the imagination. The Roast beef was piled high and succulently pink accompanied by a huge Yorkshire pudding. My Pork was stunningly cooked, moist with slightly crisp layers of juicy fat full of flavour.  Now I am slightly disgraceful in that I love horseradish with roast pork and the dollop of creamed horseradish that melted into the gravy did nothing but enhance it. My other accompaniment was an apple sauce which was almost a mousse. So light and fluffy I would have asked for ladles more if I had the courage and space! Crunchy roast potatoes and red cabbage lit up the plate and a sweet puree added some more textures. The bald man and Claire both had a fish pie which was piping hot and full of fish and bright green peas with a piped potato top. Neither of them left a morsel.  We opted against desert as we were losing time and had absolutely no space anyway. It was not a cheap meal, but it was certainly a memorable one and I would thoroughly recommend a visit to the Chesil Rectory any opportunity.

From Winchester we headed badly toward Devon. When I say badly, neither of us had studied a map and spent 25 mins driving around Winchester until we were out on the open road when the car broke down. Thankfully the car broke down in the car park of a French Restaurant and cooking school in the pouring rain. We were rescued and plied with coffee by the waiter who added a couple of exquisite truffles and refused any payment. Within the hour and thanks to the most friendly RAC man in history we were back on the road, slightly soggy but with much better directions on how to get to Devon.

You always feel better once a sign post announces you are going in the right direction for your destination and once the Brixham signs started appearing we were a lot more relaxed. The cottage we are staying in is light blue, perched on a hill looking right out over the harbour. Brixham is a really beautiful fishing town with a bustling harbour, pastel coloured cottages and a view to die for. We dumped our bags and left for town at speed, clambering down some lethal stairs to get to the harbours edge. A brief walk around the town and we decided a G&T and pint was definitely in order. So to a local pub we went and straight into the nosiest gaggle of Scousers. Not just the noisiest gaggle, but the most foul mouthed, butt crack showing, shell suit wearing gaggle I’ve seen outside of Liverpool. One of them proudly boasted how he’d been thrown out of every pub in his neighbourhood “’Aven’t I” and promptly misaimed his pint to his mouth and threw most of his lager down his front.  Obviously more than one drinking problem!  We left pretty damn quickly as I was sick of hearing how overweight his wife was declaring to be and another “gentleman” was busy stuffing Roger Rabbit down his trousers….. don’t ask, it happened.

Our haven was a little restaurant called Beamers where we were welcomed, seated and given menus by now the politest waitress in England. Traditional fare was on the menu with not a hint of spice. We chose to share a bowl of mussels which when they arrived and we tucked in, both had the look of “damn, should have ordered one for myself” Little local mussels drowned in cream and garlic sauce, richer than the traditional mariniere, that neither of us could get enough of it. So beautiful!

The Bald man was in need of meat and ordered an 18oz sirloin while I stuck with the reliable fish and chips. By the end of our meal we were both full to the gunnels and the Bald man declared that had been the best steak he’d had all year! Very high praise indeed! We collapsed into bed exhausted, full and happy and left the windows wide open for a while, filling the room with fantastic sea air and not a single Scouse sound in earshot. 

SW on all counts

There is nothing more exciting than knowing one of your closest friends is waiting to pick you up from the airport when you have had a long haul flight. The last 3 hours before we touched down in LHR was hell on earth, I was uncomfortable, hadn’t slept much, wanted to get off the plane and realised I was just eating for the hell of it when the snack trolley kept coming round. The bald man was soundo beside me, as much he says he can’t sleep on planes, I have photographic proof of it otherwise.
Miraculously we were through LHR within 30 mins and into the arms of the lovely Sarah Warner. A quick trip around the carpark and within 2 hours we were home, showered and into the pub. The biggest hugs of all were to follow from Jack and Tilly and we spent the evening catching up with everyone.
The plan was simple, the execution a failure. A couple of drinks and then off for a curry. The end result, Saturday so hungover we all struggled around Saffron Walden trying to show Barry the town’s highlights when really we wanted to be tucked up in bed asleep. We finally had a curry with Steph and Justin on Saturday night before both collapsing in bed exhausted and jetlagged.


Our Sunday was laid back and relaxing. Vix and my gorgeous godson joined us for Sunday Lunch at the Coach where Ian surpassed himself with Roast Pork. A few drinks, a snooze and a kip on the couch left us in good stead for more catching up in the evening, more introductions and more bubbles.
Monday was Clavering Village fete, Maypole dancing, sausages in buns, feel the vegetable, maggot racing, plant stalls, bouncy castles and Belly dancing! all the classics of an English Fete.
Phoebe did a fabulous job at the maypole dancing. The resulting knot around the maypole was seriously impressive. The moment the rain kicked in we were out of there like a shot and into the pub!


On Tuesday the Warners, Bald Man and I headed for the big smoke and a museum of wax works - potentially the most stupid idea being the first day of half term. However we took numerous pictures and had a fabulous time with each other. Lunch in Convent garden at Henry’s and we were off round the market. We did lose the Bald man and Ian in the Apple Store…… funny that!


We left the Warners on the South Bank and headed for Balham and for my newlywed cousin. A lovely meal was cooked and the 3 cousins, the new addition to the family and the bald man sat and caught up and got to know each other again.


On the Wednesday, the Bald man and I headed for Oxford St and a spot of shopping, which was fruitless and depressing. We retreated to Chinatown and had a somewhat strange meal at Baozi Inn, which was covered in accolades but neither of us could admit to being enthralled by it. 2 Tube trips later and we were outside the Apollo Victoria waiting for Wicked to start. And Wicked it was, just a brilliant show! Definitely one to go and see.


Our evening was spent with my lovely friend Ellie at a great bar called the Folly Inn on Gracechurch Street. Great atmosphere, amazing food and fab presentation. All in all a great couple of days.