the coast

Are you of the belief that there is no such thing as a perfect day? I suppose you're right. There's always some small irritant, some blemish, something that you would fix.

But what if so much goes right that you can't recall a single imperfection? What if all day long the sun pokes in and out from behind a hazy mist, and you experience random friendship? What if the food you eat isn't what you expected but is great nonetheless? What if?

Well now. Let's begin with the honorable meal:

Breakfast at the Trevose Harbour House is unbelievably well thought out. There are the pastries, the croissants, all that stuff that I must pass on because of everything else. There are the berries and all varieties of other fruits, the yogurts, the organic granolas and organic thises and thats, the fresh juices. Then there are the cooked options. Britain in general is generous with its approach to breakfast, but these guys offer so many delicious choices that your head spins from indecision. I finally take plain scrambled eggs, with smoked salmon, roasted mushrooms and tomatoes. Sort of a Scottish classic -- one that will usually carry me through the day until evening. (The English couple to my left studies the menu, then does what the English nearly always do -- orders the full English breakfast, which includes eggs, sausage, baked tomato, and beans. The grumpy Alabama couple eats earlier and retires to their room.)






(Breakfast is with a view toward the blue sitting room.)






After eating all this, I have to wonder -- are Angela and Ollie (the guest house owners) in the food preparation business?

What they are is a cool young couple with a cosmopolitan background and a lot of professional experience in what is called the hospitality field (they are graduates of the Lausanne school of inn-keeping, which is as good as it gets). I say 'cosmopolitan' because they aren't actually English. Or at least between the two of them, only 1/4 is English. The rest? Italian (1/4) and Swiss (1/4), and Dutch (1/4), but that neglects her childhood in Majorca and his mother's inn keeping outside of Paris.

Basically, we're European, Angela tells me, but even that reveals only part of the story because when they searched for a place to open their guest house, their first choice initially was... Brazil. I ask -- but do you speak Portuguese? She shrugs her shoulders. We're fluent in Italian, French, Spanish and English. So we took a year of Portuguese. Easy, if you know the other languages. Oh, those Europeans with their language skills! Should I start teaching Snowdrop French? Italian? I must consult with her parents when I get home.

So here they are in St. Ives, with impeccable inn keeping credentials and a boatload of great ideas and a desire for a certain flexible life style (they have two kids -- a four year old and a two year old), with a 2.5  month break in winter. They are among the legions who cannot believe how bad Americans are at giving and taking vacations.


Late in the morning, I leave my cozy blue and white room and walk to town, passing clumps of friends lingering to chat in the dab of emerging sunshine.






And then I veer off to the south.

Probably this will be my most ambitious hike of the trip (I am prone to firing off the challenging ones at the very beginning, after which I get lazier). I want to walk the coastal path toward Land's End. I can't quite get to the trail's end (the tip of England, as it were), but I tell myself I will be happy with doing a 2.5 hour trek out and then a return. There are no villages along the way, no good ways of getting back by bus or otherwise. I'm on my own.

At first, Angela had suggested other hikes: there is one you can do to the north and then stop at a cafe and get a nice lunch... 
But I want to do the coastal walk heading toward Land's End! It seems rugged and beautiful!
It's pretty wild. A lot of climbs and descents... No place to stop...

I like the idea of Cornwall wild. I'm reading the book "Wild" at the moment. It does this to you: it makes you believe you can do more than you think you can do.

Here, you have to understand the positioning of St. Ives a bit: the town is on a peninsula: to the northeast, you have the long expanse of beach and coves and coastal life. To the southwest you have the rugged cliffs and wild heath: heather, gorse and scrub and not much else. This is where I'm heading.





There are a few walkers toward the town end of the path, but pretty quickly, the trail empties out. I am nearly alone. Selfie time! This photo is of a fragment of a stone circle. There are speculations about its ancient origins, but they are only that. One fable has it that they stand for 13 local farmers and a 19 year old virgin from St Ives. The writer informs us that you'd be hard pressed to find more than one 19 year old virgin in St. Ives. (Do note that I have shed my one layer of fleece and am in the purple layer purchased here. By the end of the hike, I will want to be only in my undershirt. Upon my return to town, I will quickly add back all the layers.)






The views toward the sea are grand! I think a bit about death and how easy it would be to slip and tumble on the wet and muddy trail. (Most of the trail does not touch the edge too much, which is a good thing as I really do not like sheer drops.)






But its not only the sea that takes your breath away here. The misty view inland is of pastures and hills, golden gorse and last year's heather.






And of crumbling stone structures, sometimes belonging to old mines that once dotted the landscape here.






I take note, too, of the beautiful spring sightings: of the wild and true English primrose...






Of the wild iris emerging by a cascading brook.






Of the birds! This one has an especially beautiful trill! What is it? A goldfinch? I cannot tell.





And speaking of bird watching, I must take note of the three couples I encountered on my hike  -- one with a pair of dogs -- I caught up to them and passed them each way. They were busy calling to their pooches to stay away from the cliff side. But they did remark how great it is to get out and appreciate the beauty of the land around you. I agreed. The second pair were the two avid bird watchers. They walked with binoculars and paused frequently. The third was already on the retreat when I was still heading out. We paused to exchange notes on the state of the trail (boggy at times; my shoes were caked in mud).

At first, I made nothing of these fleeting encounters. But the truth is, in the five hours that it took me to hike out and back, they stood out and I must have stuck in their memory as well because later, back in town, that third couple hailed me over to chat and told me where I should go to get the best Cornish cream tea in town. So these were my friends for the day. I honor them here.


And let me note the point in my hike where I turned and began my trek back. A large stream creates a delightful waterfall -- you can just catch it at the center left of the photo. I am in a bay of sorts and you can't see them here, but there are two seals having a fine old time bopping in the waves. The color of the sea is absolutely stunning.





And so it was a perfect hike!


And of course, you feel so noble and strong at the end of it. And certainly deserving of that cream tea -- as a reminder, a cream tea will always include scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream which is sinfully rich. I did tell the server to please take off that second scone. You shouldn't undo all the good you brought onto yourself in one sitting!






This is indeed the place you must go to for a cream tea when you are next in St. Ives:






In the remaining daylight hour, I visited a children's clothes shop and stared at lovely little summer frocks and playsuits, all made in Dorset -- not too far from here. You may find this silly, but it took me a full thirty minutes to decide if Snowdrop would be wearing a 3-6 month piece, or a 6-12 month number this July (when she will be exactly six months old). I mean, what would you choose, given that the first may be just right or too small and the second looked awfully large for that wee little girl? Such are the dilemmas of a person who is not in a rush, who can linger, who can reflect.


In the evening, Ollie struggled to find me a place to eat supper (and I surely was hungry for it!). He'd picked spots they like for the remaining evenings, but today stumped him as the one other favorite appeared to be still closed for the season. Finally he blurted out -- would you like to go to a great little burger place?  I balked. I haven't eaten a burger in years. If ever I'm in a place where there may be a credible burger that doesn't offend (meaning the meat is sourced in a way that I do not find reprehensible), there is always something else on the menu that I prefer. But he insisted this wasn't just a regular burger joint. Three women got together and opened something special: a place where food matters, even as the emphasis is on the burger. I was intrigued.


Here it is then, my dinner, with the burger of the day from Blas Burgerworks: Cornish beef with Ragstone unpasturized handmade goat cheese, beetroot, soft herb salsa and baby lettuce laves.






The place has four large communal tables, but it's not crowded tonight and I watch one couple to the side have a romantic evening over a fancy burger, topped off by a liqueur. Oh, young love!






It is my great luck to have had this, yes, perfect day. It is beyond wonderful to have more days of exploration still before me.

arriving in Cornwall

I wake up (or rather arise, since I am quite awake for a good bit of the night) to rain. Yesterday, I had carried a hotel umbrella against the occasional drizzle. I can't do that today and I have a twenty minute walk to the train station. Well now, it is what adventures are made of.

Breakfast is at the hotel. It's called "continental," but whatever continent it hails from is not one familiar to me: everything a hungry lumberjack would need is on that continental table and I help myself to juices, fruits, granola, yogurt, bread, salmon and an egg. I had toyed with pre-paying for the more expensive "cooked" breakfast, to last me the day. Ha! Frugality is (finally) rewarded!






Goodbye, lovely hotel with the TV in the bathtub!






And look! The rain has stopped! The world belongs to the hardy and willing!

I walk rather briskly again. I've purchased tickets for today's travel online, but I have to pick them up at the station. I need time for it. Not many photos for you from this walk then. Just two: one showing that not all cabs here are black and the other -- well it's a hat store display and if I had put it up with the question "can you tell where I am?" I'm sure anyone would have guessed England.












And now I'm at Paddington Station. Here's my train.





It's nearly a five hour ride to the tip of Cornwall (a total of 305 miles to where I'm going) -- the train is  high speed until it reaches this southwestern county and then it becomes a local. But my seat is luxuriously comfortable and I have a computer plug and a table and a conductor who tells me that before June, the entire train will have free WiFi. It's spotty now. I must have reacted to that with a pout (not that I need WiFi) because he assures me that the scenery will be quite pretty and I should not ignore it. Though honesty gets the better of him, because he feels compelled to add that this will be the case only once we pass Reading.

In the meanwhile, the cart comes with the warm beverages and snacks. I listen to the passengers putting in their requests. Tea, room for milk, again and again. One asks for biscuits, another for fruitcake. I have never before heard anyone willingly ask for fruitcake. Yes, I am in England.

I so love train travel.

I have time for the paper. I learn in the Times that there is a national discussion taking place on whether the new requirement that students memorize up to 15 poems by heart for their GCSE English literature exams (16 year olds take these) is a good idea (you wont be able to bring in an anthology for the requisite analysis -- you must remember the poems to write about them). Jane Weir, whose poem "Poppies" is on the exam syllabus is saying no: memorize poems you like, not because you have to! But Seamus Heaney (the Irish poet who received the '95 Nobel Prize in literature) is in support: it's the beginning of a cultural ear!

You can read "Poppies" here. It was commissioned for The Guardian, as part of a response to the escalating conflict in Afghanistan and the Iraq. Weir commented in an interview that, ‘I wrote the piece from a woman's perspective, which is quite rare, as most poets who write about war have been men. As the mother of two teenage boys, I tried to put across how I might feel if they were fighting in a war zone.’ It's not a short poem. I should think it would be hard to memorize.

In other news, you might be interested to know that between now and the national elections (picking the P.M.) on May 7th, the British can cast a vote for a national bird. Polls indicate that the robin is a favorite. However, David Lindo, the guy who leads the National Bird Campaign (his claim: the Americans have the eagle, the French have the rooster, it's time for Britain to have a bird!), thinks the hen harrier, which is on the verge of extinction could come in from the back. He himself is hoping for the blackbird, whose song evokes "lazy, hazy sunny days." Other birds on the short list are (derived from a previous vote): barn owl, kingfisher, blue tit, wren, puffin, mute swan and red kite. Personally I'd go for the puffin, with the blue tit -- in its lovely blue and yellow -- being my close second. You can inspect the birds and read the Guardian's version of this story here.

Too, there is a campaign to eradicate the gray squirrel in Britain, an unwelcome American intruder who, it is said, "belongs in the oak and hickory forests of North America," not here. That's a gory story. I'll leave it to your imagination how such a campaign, in a country where there are four or five million American grays (and only 100,000 reds left) might proceed.

And so the train rolls into Cornwall.






In St. Erth, I change for the little train to St Ives.






St Ives.

As I was walking to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. 
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each cat had seven kits:
Kits, cars, sacks, wives,
How many were going to St. Ives?

Am I the only one who remembers this nursery riddle?

But the question remains: which St. Ives does it refer to? Because there are a number of towns with that name in England! Half the nation believes it's about the St. Ives in Cornwall. This once was (and to an extent still is) a fishing village and so the reference to cats is understood. On the other hand, the St. Ives in Huntingdonshire is a huge market town and so that, too, makes it a fit.

As to how many were going to St. Ives? Well, who knows? At least one, possibly a hell of a lot more, depending on where everyone else was heading.

St. Ives: population 11,200. Named "best UK seaside town" in the last several years. It is on the Celtic Sea coast of the western and southern most tip of England. If you walk due west from it, you'll reach in about 25 miles Land's End and then you really are at the land's end.

I am at the Mountain Warehouse (a British sporting attire store), buying a thin fleece pullover to go under my fleece jacket. My hosts suggested it. On sale for twelve pounds. I took one walk on the coastal path and decided enough is enough. The sea wind is gusty and even if I only use it this one day, I know that it packs well and is a good thing to stick in my suitcase in these shoulder travel times. A much better idea than taking a warmer jacket. I say to the clerk (who looks like he'd rather be surfing) -- St Ives looks to be doing well!  I'm impressed that on the main shopping street, the shops, bakeries, eateries are all open. No closed and shuttered storefronts here. Fresh coats of paint on buildings.

The salesclerk shrugs. The people who come here are doing well. We locals, we're struggling. The season is two months long. By the end of winter, we don't have any money.

But I think there must be some variation to this. My (newly opened two years ago) guest house is fully booked. The place where I eat dinner is full as well and the waitress tells me that from Easter onwards, they wont have a quiet night.

Still, the clerk has a point: St. Ives is just a tiny bit upscale. I'm told it's a favorite for Londoners and Germans. You don't put a local branch of the Tate Museum (yes, here since 1993) in a hole in the wall. (The Tate, aside from its two London galleries, has this St Ives one and another regional gallery in Liverpool.) And St. Ives is not cheap: I had wanted to spend a week here, but after looking at the prices, I cut it to four days. I should note that the bed and breakfast -- the Trevose Guest House, is so worth it! It's beautiful!

And here's another thing that's absolutely stunning: the scenery. Oh, the views!  I catch a glimpse on the little train -- a ten minute coastal link, running back and forth between St Erth and St Ives. I take photos, but then erase them all because I know I'll have better ones once I'm out and walking.


From the St. Ives train station (if you can call it that) it's just a four minute hop over to the Guest House. It's rather conventional on the street side...






But inside, you really catch your breath: it's all about blue and white here and the spaces are light and airy.











I come at a time of a flurry of activity: the owners, Angela and Ollie, are off for their first ever parent teacher conference (they have a four year old girl; I ask them later how it went -- brilliant! the teacher says she's brilliant! Ollie grins, understanding fully well that she may not be the only one in class with that designation). Their assistant at the guest house checks us in. I say "us" because just at this moment, a couple from Alabama drive up. They are on a fiftieth wedding anniversary trip and they seem despondent. She trips on a step and her mood never improves after that. She admits that they had a few frustrating words as they couldn't find the guest house and yes, it's a long drive from London.

Me, I am in no hurry, so I let the inn keepers attend to the unhappy celebrators first. I sip an offered tea in the breakfast room and look around.






Everything about this place appeals to me. It still smells fresh, as if I am in its opening moment.

Eventually I am shown to my room -- which I picked because it was the cheapest, but also the most perfect for me. As they explain - it is the only room in the house where you can lie in bed and look out on the sea.






The view:






And now it is 4 p.m. and I am outfitted with my additional layer and I am raring to go. No ambitious hike for today: just a walk east (meaning back toward St Erth) along the coast.

I leave the town, noting that others aren't so put off by the still mid forties temps (they're coming in from a day of surfing).






Well, let me walk briskly. Ah, but that extra layer is good! The feeling of cold is completely gone, despite the wind. And I am in England and the English are perhaps the best in Europe at marking walking trails. They are such keen and spirited walkers! I pick up the coastal trail.

The views are tremendous every which way you look.






I walk down to the water's edge. A stream runs into the sea here, creating sand formations of different tones and hues. Colorful bath houses line the edge.






Along the trail itself, I come across the spring blooms -- some in the wild, some cultivated by the locals.






It is an exhilarating walk! Even if today I'm still under gray skies -- I have no complaints!






What I do have is a raging appetite. Again, breakfast seems far in the past. I let the guest house hosts pick the restaurants for me. My criteria are simple: fresh and honest food, not too expensive or stuffy. For tonight, they send me to the Sea Food Cafe.






Here, you pick your catch from their day's selection and they prepare it for you as you want it. The sea bass, grilled, with a Mediterranean sauce (their description) of red peppers and garlic. And a large salad. Oh, and a few local scallops to start me off. (No need for dessert. I'll save that for France.) I am in sea food heaven.






Later, as I lie in bed and listen to the noise of the sea gulls, I think about what it must feel like to live in England but really far from London. Berwick upon Tweed (last June's trip for me), on the Scottish border, is arguably further at 338 miles (St Ives, as I noted, is 305), but it is close to any number of larger cities. Cornwall has the feel of a more remote destination. At the St Erth station, I made my way to the tiny waiting room, because even the fifteen minute wait outside for the train was too cold for me. A young woman was there as well.
I stand by the radiator here when it gets too cold outside: it's the best spot to wait for the train, she tells me.
She looks to be around forty. I ask her if she is from here.
Yes, I live right by St Ives. That is, I moved away for a number of years, but then I came back. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I get it. Even after only one late afternoon and evening here, I understand why she wont ever leave.

London

Twenty-two hours in London: how to spend them? Sleep: they must include sleep. But of course, there is the issue of adjusting to the time change, though not so much as is typically the case on trips to Europe: the UK runs an hour behind the rest of the continent and, too, daylight savings time comes here in two weeks, so I'm actually just five hours ahead of home (as opposed to the usual European seven).

Twenty-two hours. In a city like Paris, the night seamlessly blends into the day: it's really true that that city never sleeps. London is different. Especially now, in March and on a Sunday. It hasn't the pulse of a night city -- at least not here, not in Marylebone -- my neighborhood this time around. (And if you think you know how to pronounce that, well then, let me tell you, you're one better than me, because I have heard a million different versions, though the most enduring is some very quick rendition of Mar-lee-bone. The name comes from the days when the aristocracy spoke French and so it's actually a French name of "St Mary a le bourne" -- St. Mary being a local church, and le bourne being French for a stream that once ran through here.)

Twenty-two hours on March 15, 2015. That's Mothering Day in the U.K.: it falls on the fourth Sunday of Lent and has been, over time conflated with what we would call Mother's Day. A nice bit of history on this British holiday is provided in the Independent here, where you can also see the Google doodle honoring this day. (A funnier one minute clip depicting a parody on how Prince Charles celebrates his mother-the-queen's day can be viewed in the Daily Mirror here -- burnt toast and all. The British have a unique sense of humor.)

Let me run through my London twenty-two hours. You've read about my arrival at the hotel. Let's take it from there.

I do leave my room. It's warm, it's snug, but I have this itch, you see, the one that has made me endure the hours of travel to be here, far from home: it's the itch to explore.

I am very close to Oxford Street -- which is sort of like taking one of our great big malls and spilling it out onto a street (and it is, as a result, under high alert right now, since it has been threatened, but you wouldn't know it for the crowds here on this cold day). If I'm to buy an extra thick sweater, this would be a good place to search for it. I have a light sweater, I have a fleece jacket, but it's not enough for a damp mid 45F. People are wearing their winter coats and I can't blame them.

I go into one of the stores and I look at racks of discarded winter sweaters and I then I just turn my back on all of it. I can't do it: I have maybe a day more of cold weather. I can't give in to a season that I consider over and done with. I tell myself to walk briskly to ward off the cold. And I do. For three hours, I walk very briskly.

But where to?

So much traffic! Because London is under a "lorry control scheme" (basically no trucks are allowed on weekends), you'd think there would be less of a traffic issue here, but no. London also imposes a congestion charge on cars in the city, but only on weekdays. In effect, cars here have free reign on weekends and of course, there are plenty of buses and cabs. To my eye, there are far more buses and cabs moving around here than just about in any other European city.






So I take to the park. Hyde Park. (And I walk briskly!)

It's quieter here and of course, there are fewer people on a day like this. I enjoy that for a few minutes and I especially appreciate the daffodils.





Yes, makes you recall the poem by William Wordsworth, doesn't it?

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils...

Recalling these flowers later, warmed the soul of Wordsworth, but it doesn't warm the flesh and bone, I can assure you. Still, they are lovely flowers and since they come on the cooler days of spring, I always think of them as being unusually resilient.

At Piccadilly Street, I leave the park. I want to be tempted by a cafe. I haven't eaten anything since the half a yogurt I downed on the plane (I never like the inflight breakfasts -- they are an insult to my images of this exalted meal). But London isn't Paris and every street does not boast a cafe. I go in toward Shepherd Market -- a set of blocks that has a higher number of eateries. I peer inside the one obvious cafe with a very local looking clientele...





I go inside. I am accosted by the waitress. What would you like? Are you wanting something to eat? Oh, I recognize that accent. Polish, I'm sure of it. She follows me as if I required supervision and as I appear to hesitate, she continues the questions -- what..? what...? I finally ask about the heavy looking cakes -- do you make these yourselves? She seems visibly put off by the question and I know that no matter what the answer, I don't want to be here.

Rejecting that cafe, I think I should look for another. I walk further down Piccadilly. Nothing tempts me. But as I pass the Royal Academy of Arts, I notice the banners for the current exhibit:  Rubens and his Legacy. Maybe I should poke in?





I ask -- how much is the entrance fee?
Thirty pounds.
That's a lot! 
Are you a senior?
What do you call a senior?
Over 60.
Yes!
Then it's twenty five. Less if you just want the Rubens.

It's not that I wouldn't spend that money on an exhibit that I would enjoy, but I don't even especially like Rubens and the other exhibit is of an American artist (Richard Diebenkorn) and that just seems so wrong for my one afternoon in London!

But they surely have a cafe...

Well no, it's a cafeteria. And though it has a bit of a British cast to it...





...the whole large cafeteria space seems lonely in its crowdedness. I know, I'm fussy today! I leave.

Up Piccadilly once more, all the way to Piccadilly Circus which I remember as being such a disappointment the first time I saw it -- I expected dazzling lights. I expected a vast space. I don't know -- I expected more than a congested roundabout, with one statue of what is thought to be Eros in the center. Or rather centre. These days I just smile at these old expectations. London is what it is. Enjoying it requires discarding expectations.






And I walk on, turning right onto Regent, all the way down to the Mall, which borders St James Park and is known to many of us as the wide boulevard that leads all processions to Buckingham Palace. If you're a royal wedding watcher, you would have seen it many a time on TV. The street is blissfully free of cars. I don't know why. Maybe to give strollers some peace from the noise of traffic. Maybe for security reasons. I exhale. And I really love St James! Yes, those daffodils, for one thing...






They're really beautiful here! For a minute, I forget about everything else -- the hunger, noise, cold -- all of it. The British know how to do flowers well, even in these first days of spring!






(I'll throw in a quick look at a London favorite -- Big Ben.)






And in spots, there are other emerging flowers too. The English daisy is already visible. Here's a rather impressionistic rendition of a clump of this so English a flower!






And, too, I see the English primrose is up and running. The primrose here is a near evergreen and it grows wild in forests. This one is a variation on the traditionally yellow flower.






And there's another thing that the British really appreciate: birds. As I approach the pond, two gentlemen with huge cameras are eying this guy:





What is it? I ask. It looks like our heron, but it's all hunched into itself.
It's a gray heron, but a young one. 
Oh, it's quite pretty!
It's aggressive in the pond! 
Well, it looks gentle now!

The two chaps help me identify another funny looking guy: a coot, with feet that look like they should be webbed, only they're not.





(You can read about these two birds at site of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds: here's the coot and the gray heron.)

The park has squirrels too and I watch as a couple feeds one. (Two things to note: the squirrel seems to be across between the Polish orange one and the American gray. And secondly, in the background, you see Buckingham Palace.)






Alright. I'm out of the park...






...and turning toward my hotel neighborhood. I give up on the cafe. Or at least on a breakfast-lunch-predinner snack. It's actually time for me to go for my evening meal.


Marlybone  (my neighborhood) is getting to be a bit trendy. I can tell, not only because the New York Times once said so, but also because walking along Marylebone High Street...





... I come across all the standard French left bank upscale shops and boutiques. But it also has a relaxed and quiet demeanor. It's not stuffy like, say, Knightsbridge (from what I remember of it). 

I've booked a dinner at Fischer's on the High Street itself-- a cafe-restaurant that serves what can be described as Mittel-European food. It's not that I'm in love with central European fare, but the description of this place appealed to me: informal, a cross between a cafe and a restaurant, open all day. The menu looked good and it would not exhaust my budget for the trip.

The crowd is lively -- possibly there are mother types being celebrated with big glasses of hot chocolate with whipped cream, like at this table...





Most people, like me, are eating a full meal now. And I enjoy mine tremendously! (Hunger will do that to you.)

I'll just post my appetizer -- three thin slices of rye, one with chopped sardine and beetroot, one with smoked salmon and goat curd (their terminology; it seemed like regular goat cheese to me and I'm from Wisconsin, home of the curd!), and one with artichoke.





The meal is entirely successful, though it doesn't do what I had hoped it might -- it does not warm me up after a day of chilling myself inside and out.

Only one thing can do that: back at the hotel, I pour myself a nice steamy tub of water and I do what I have never done in my life: I climb in and turn on the TV, which amazingly in this hotel room is placed right inside the bath-shower combo and I watch BBC news.

Honestly, I nearly fell asleep in that hot tub.

A warm quilt, a cozy, quiet room -- perfect conditions for a good night's sleep? Well, almost perfect. I do the usual first night in Europe thing: I sleep some, then wake up in the middle of the night and there's nothing to be done but accept the fact that sleep wont come back quickly or easily. So I take out my computer and write this post.