Severed socks and meals with eels; the perils of dining with Danes

There comes a point late into a Danish wedding party when word goes round that it's time to cut the end off the groom's sock.
Now, with Gloria Gaynor pumping away in the background and several glasses of øl already dispatched, that sounds like the sort of drunken idea that is just one misheard consonant away from putting a serious dampener on the wedding night.
The Danes, however seemed well prepared. The hapless chap was duly yanked off his feet, relieved of his patent leather shoes before a flash of scissors leaves five bare toes poking out from his truncated hose.
"It's to make him unattractive to other women," explains the suitablely beautiful blond bride. "In the old days, women wouldn't look at man with a hole in his socks."
So logical enough then.
With hopes of sowing wild oats thus ruled out, the groom can only be grateful for that other local tradition which states that whenever the bride nips out to powder her nose, all the females in the room must rush over to give him a kiss.
Fortunately Scandinavian equality ensures that the chaps all get to snog the bride each time the sockless one pops out for a Carlsberg-induced pee.

These particular Nordic nuptials could hardly have had a more spectacular setting. Middelgrundsfortet is one of three sea fort builts in the Øresund strait between Copenhagen and the Swedish coast toward the end of the 19th century, persumably to head off any threat of attack by maurading Swedes.
On a long midsummer's evening, bathed in gentle sunlight the view from here sweeps round from the Swedish shore past the delicate 8 kilometre curve of the Øresund bridge which now connects the two countries, to the church spires that punctuate Copenhagen's skyline.
Middelgrundsfortet is the world's largest artificial island but a stroll round its grassy perimeter takes only about five minutes.
Although some (disarmed) anti-aircraft missiles are still on show to remind visitors that this was a military base up to the 1980s, the island is now a popular day-trip or weekend destination for Copenhagers. Within the labyrinth of bunkers built into it is one of the city's strangest hotels.
Guests reach their rooms along long echoing underground corridors. It's all a bit Alcatraz, but beyond the heavy iron doors, the rooms are spacious, decorated with nautical charts and have the air of an seacaptain's cabin. Ours had a splendid view over the sound and Copenhagen in the distance. The island has small beach for those brave enough to face the chill, and a fine terrace along the quay side with cafes and a restaurant. Our wedding feast was held in a long candlelit mess room, all very hygge (cozy - a suprisingly important concept in this land of minimalist design). The menu reflected the long-standing French influence over the way Danes treat their abundant northern fisheries and renowned agricultural produce.
Turbot and langoustine were moulded into a terrine with typical Nordic herbs chervil and dill, this was followed with veal stuffed with breast of guinea fowl and foie gras, flavoured with truffle oil. Then Gateau Marcel - a favourite Danish chocolate cake - served with a rum and white chocolate mouse, and carrot and orange sorbet.
Danish food is not always so fancy.
It's still possible to get red polser hot dogs from stalls around the city, or pick up soused herring and smoke eels from the harbour side in the pretty fishing harbour of Dragør.
Visiting a few years back a Danish friend answered my request for typical local food by taking us to a basement restaurant just off the Strøget _ the shopping street that runs through the heart of the city. I tried the hakkebøf med kartofler, bløde løg og spejlæg _ which is basically a beefburger with potatoes, onions and fried egg.
Next night we were down in one of the old taverns of Nyhavn, once an infamous seafarers haunt, now surely one of Europe's most beautiful city streets, a harbour inlet filled with old boats and lined on each side by candy-coloured merchants' houses.

This time, my friend suggested I try biksemad. Which turned out to be basically minced beef with potatoes, onions and fried egg. When I pointed out that this seemed to be somewhat similar to last night's delicacy, Jan was amazed. "No, no, this is completely different, the meat here isn't formed into a burger, AND this has slices of beetroot!"
I forgave him, largely because he also took me on a bar crawl that took in Charlie's, a crowded little dive on the Pilestræde where dedicated drinkers down wonderful local ale's like Fuglsang and Hancock with a slighly furtive air, as if the Carlsberg/Tuborg beer police might somehow catch the breaking the big brewery's stranglehold.
He also led me to trendy place nearby where a beautiful, if slightly inebriated, blond, started out of the blue to nibble on my neck. Jan dragged me away. "I'm really sorry," he said, before I could protest. "That happens all the time up here."
Danes do like to have fun. During the long summer nights the cafe terraces and historic sailors' pubs that line Nyhavn are jammed with revellers and next morning, those who overdid it with the øl and aquavit can be found sprawled on the cobbles. At the other end of the Strøget _ Europe's longest pedestrian street _ is the Tivoli amusement park a sprawling collection of scary rides, open air restaurants and lantern-lit gardens which has captivated kids and their parents since the days of Hans Christian Andersen.
Of course, Copenhagen is also a capital of cool, renowned for its stark design of B&O stereos, Bodum teapots and the functional furniture of Arne Jacobsen. To be surrounded by some of this white-on-white modernism, try The Square hotel, just down the street from Tivoli on Rådhuspladsen. It offers a bargain "therapy for couples" stay for just 1,000 kroner that includes a free bottle of champagne and a Danish pastry (here they call it Wienerbrod) laden buffet breakfast from the top floor restaurant overlooking town hall square.
The Langelinie Pavillonen down by the quay near the Little Mermaid is a chance to eat among some of that Danish design. A 1950's glass square offering great views across the harbour and filled with Jacobsen's "ant" chairs and Poul Henningsen's artichoke lamps, this place was so cool that Wallpaper magazine chose to have its Copenhagen reception there. The food is a fine Franco-Danish combination and there are dance halls, lounges, sun terraces for chillin'. However, it's best to call ahead, (+45 33 12 12 14) because the place is often booked up for parties or corporate functions.
Another sophisticated eatery is the unlikely named Cafe Ketchup in the heart of downtown. This has a cool cafe at street level and a grown-up restaurant in the basement where prime local ingredients are given a gourmet makeover into the likes of baked cod served with pan fried and smoked roe and a warm salad of chanterelles, baby spinach and baked balsamic beetroot or grilled beef tenderloin on potato/celery purè flavoured with truffle, sautéed mushrooms and cranberries.
There's a fabulous wine list, and if you're in a group ask for your own room under the stairs. All this does not come cheap, but it's great for a blow out and they've recently opened a second restaurant in the Tivoli.
Ketchup proudly announces the North Sea or Baltic origin of its fish. That's not always the case.
The Mühlhausen Brasserie is a pleasant enough place on HC Andersens Boulevard with an interesting selection of modern art work and a reputation for grilled lobster, but when we asked the waitress where it was from _ fully expecting her to say it was plucked from the Kattegat fresh that morning _ she said "Egypt." Oh well, it was tasty enough, among the eclectic variety of vegetables served with it was a hummus-like chickpea puree, perhaps in homage to the Middle Eastern origins of the crustaceans. We started with sea scallop carpaccio with truffle oil, but didn't like to ask were they were from. The fruity Albarino wine was definitely from Galicia.
The long June days can transform Andersen's city from a drab, winter duckling into glittering summer swan overlooked by vast skies of forget-me-not blue where the sun rises at 4 a.m. and slips away just before midnight after longest, lingering dusk.
It makes Copenhagen a great town for walking in. Much of centre is traffic free, although you do have to watch out for the powerful looking women on big black bikes who seem to thunder by from all directions.
The Strøget is the main axis running through the old town getting more upmarket the closer you get to the Kongens Nytorv the great square with its temples of belle époque class - the Hotel d'Angleterre, royal theatre and the Magasin du Nord _ this being Copenhagen's chicest department store, with a basement foodhall which is a great place to pick up Danish delicacies from Albani beers to danablu cheese.
The Royal Copenhagen Porcelain Manufactory, Bodum homeware and the Illums Bolighus design shop are also to be found along Strøget. The street, which actually changes its official name several times along its length, cuts though several elegant squares including Amagertorv, where the Cafe Europa provides a strategic spot from where to watch the world go.
Wander off the main drag and Copenhagen is full of intriguing backstreets lined with little shops selling antiques, perfumed candles, second-hand books. The wonderful charts found in fishmongers around the world with drawings showing fish species in a dozen languages are made in Denmark and can be picked up in bookstores here. The dead trendy make-it-yourself IQL lamps are sold in the Bald & Bang Shop in Rømersgade.
There are cobbled streets lined with the high facades of bourgeois homes painted in rainbow shades, courtyards where the dappled sunlight pics out half timbered houses in vivid red or shocking orange.
Rosenborg Slot is a fairytale castle in peaceful parkland. Built in the early 17th century by it was once the home of the royal family and still contains the Danish crown jewels. A tour through it is a great introduction to the country's history. Rose Tremain's novel "Music and Silence" set in the renaissance court of King Christian IV would make the perfect accompaniment to a visit.
Today the royal residence is down the road in the Ameliaborg castle where guards in bearskins and sombre blue coats protect the neoclassical castle and steadfastly refuse to smile despite the best efforts of camera-snapping Japanese tourists.
Further afield is the Opera house which opened in 2005 to the complaints of traditionalists objecting to its great square roof jutting out across the harbour towards the royal palace and the Little Mermaid. Soon to join it is an ultramodern ballet centre next to Nyhavn. Heading the other way down the waterfront is the "black diamond," a futuristic glass library.
The Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, just next to the Tivoli, contains the city's best art collection displayed in airy galleries, amid tropical plants. It has Egyptian mummies, northern Europe's best collection of Greek and Roman art, Rodins, Degas' and Gauguins, plus the airy landscapes of home-grown painters from Denmark's 'golden age" in the early 19th century.
Better known Danish art works are served for lunch. Smørrebrød is the country's most renowned gastronomic invention and the words open sandwich just doesn't do it justice. A spread of these delicate little arrangements of cheese or meat or fish matched up with slices of rye or white bread is designed to combine colours, textures and flavours in a feast for the eyes as well as the palate.
Ida Davidsen is Copenhagen's most famous purveyor of smørrebrød. Her family has been serving their complex snacks to Copenhagen for three generations and her little restaurant on Store Kongensgade is often besieged with customers keen to try her latest innovations which she tends to name after various great Danes.
Footballer Michael Laudrup is honoured with a concoction of roast pork, tomato and beetroot, while jazzman Victor Borge gives his name to layers of raw salmon, lumpfish caviar, Greenland shrimps and crayfish tails served with lime and dill mayonnaise.
The choice can seem baffling.
At a family lunch we served Gravlaks med raevesauce _ marinated salmon with mustard sauce; dyrlaegens natmat _ the vet's midnight snack featuring salt meat and liver paste served with raw onion rings; roget aal og roraeg _ smoked eel with scrambled egg; rejesalat _ prawn salad; and one whose name escaped me that involved duck with red salad.
Normally these are despatched with beer and ice-cold aquavit, but our hosts were among those many Danish francophiles and served a wonderful sancerre that matched a treat. Skal!
Practical
We flew to Copenhagen with SAS -- fro 168 euro return inc. taxes.
Bed and breakfast at The Square was 1,000 DKK (about 135 euro) with a bottle of champers thrown in under the Couple Therapy plan.
A night in the.Middelgrundsforte was also 1,000 DKK inc. breakfast.
Dinner:
Main course at Cafe Ketchup around 280 DKK
At Langelinie Pavillonen around 225 DKK
At Mühlhausen Brasserie around 175 DKK
Ida Davidsens smørrebrød also available to takeaway run from 50 DKK to 150 DKK.

Reading
Rose Tremain's novel "Music and Silence" is set in the renaissance court of King Christian IV.
Karen Blixen's "Winter Tales" are good for Nordic atmospherics.
Jens Christian Grøndahl's "Silence in October" is a tale of angst ridden love armong the arty set in modern Copenhagen.

On the Road in Britain

From Dim Sum to Bakewell tart, a bright future for England's eating

A road trip around Britain. Six cities in six days. 2,000 kilometres; four great old pubs; two-award winning Asian restaurants; fish-and-chips in Brighton; seaweed, served soggy with faggots on a wild Welsh cliff-top, or fried crisp with prawn and sesame in the heart of Manchester's Chinatown. The original Bakewell tart and possibly the best ice-cream on the planet.
England is always a new experience for me. When I left it, Margaret Thatcher was prime minister, pub food was scampi in the basket and the choice of wine was likely to be was Blue Nun or pink Mateus. Now reinvigorated northern cities have arisen out of decades of industrial blight. Chic couples sip Chardonnay and nibble dim sum among boutiques built into impeccably restored Victorian warehouses; coffee comes in a baffling variety from ristretto to double hazelnut latte; and Lithuanian sales girls serve butternut squash with chili and roasted pumpkin seeds as an alternative to the all-day, full English at motorway service stations.
Some things never change though, when we chugged into Dover a near gale howled though the Channel, horizontal rain pound the White Cliffs and temperatures were more February than May.
The downpour chased us across the salt march of Romney, past the medieval charms of Rye and continued as we took succour from a shoulder of lamb slow roasted with mint and cranberry in the genteel back room restaurant of the Denbigh pub in Bexhill-on-Sea, a city with the highest proportion of retirees in the UK.
We hit our first overnight stop as a hundreds of brave Mini enthusiasts sought to protect their Union Jack draped, Italian Job-themed vehicles from the tempest at the end of a London to Brighton rally.
Shivering for shelter on Brighton's one surviving pier, we watched the waves batter the burnt out skeleton of its sister down the coast. There's candy floss and boxes of fudge, Brighton rock in three dozen glossy hues. The helter-skelter is closed by the inclement weather, but more modern contraptions swing and jolt screaming fair-goers up and over the raging sea.
When we finally get some respite from the deluge it's to take a quick buzz through the Lanes _ the old fishing village at the heart of the city _ now filled with fashionable stores and trendy fusion food halls. The Hindu fantasy of the Royal Pavilion, Prince George's Regency pleasure dome is a must-see attraction, despite the current ugly scaffolding. Eschewing the exotic eateries down Western Road, we march on to Bankers, which competes with Bardsleys up by the station for the title of purveyor of Brighton's finest fish and chips.
Like so many of these bastions of traditional British grub, the owners of this chippy are actually Cypriot, their origins revealed by the Mediterranean seascape hung over the takeaway counter. Tucked away in the non-smokers' dining room the murals are all Brighton belle époque, Edwardian ladies with parasols parading down the prom. The menu provides all the necessary huss, haddock, cod, skate and plaice. Batter is suitably crisp, the fish in shark-sized portions is firm and fleshy fresh, the chips thick cut and soft in the British taste - none of that fancy, double-French-fried crunch here. A break with tradition takes us away from tea to a bottle of the house white, an acidic vin du pays that left me thinking that a nice cup of cha might have been a better deal after all.
Temporary sunshine brightend a walk back along the seafront, past the Grand Hotel where the IRA tried to blow up Thatcher's government in 1984. We loose some money to the pier's one-armed bandits, then stop for espresso and amaretto cheesecake in the Terrace Bar and Grill, a modern, cafe with comfy leather sofas and a circular glass front offering a front row seat for of all the black clouds scudding in from the West.
The delights of an old-fashioned B&B ... in the Lanes Hotel overlooking the sea, we get Weetabix followed by bacon and eggs freshly cooked to order (crispy and sunny side up), sausage, beans and grilled tomato, a big pot of good strong tea, lashings of toast with marmalade and Marmite for those inclined. All served with a smile by our sweat Continental waitress. A round 100 pounds for a room for four.
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We set off for out next stop over the soft slopes of the South Downs, skirt London and strike out west getting a break from the rain as the Seven suspension bridge grants us a spectacular watery vista over the great estuary leading into the dark, Celtic green hills of Wales.
Swansea's town centre was ruined by three days of Luftwaffe bombing in 1941. The post-war reconstruction was not successful, leaving a soulless heart of shabby shopping malls and concrete precincts. More recent efforts have given it a new maritime quarter complete with marina, the National Waterfront museum and some swank new hotels and bars. But, at least on this chill spring evening, it was lifeless.
Instead the heart of the city was beating down Wind Street which is home to back-to-back bars and restaurants. Many are brash modern places aimed at the under-20s, but tucked in among them is the No Sign Bar, a legendary literary hangout where the Welsh bard Dylan Thomas began his life of booze that would end with death at 39 after a heavy night in the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village. Renamed the Wine Vaults in Thomas' story "The Followers," this old place oozes atmosphere, particularly in the front section around the bar. You half expect to see blind Capt. Cat from Thomas' "Under Milk Wood" sipping on a pint of Brains SA served by the hand of Mrs. Ogmore-Pritchard. Food wise it's moved on a bit from Thomas' times and now serves serviceable tapas to compete with the renowned Spanish bodega, La Braseria, a reported favourite of Catherine Zeta-Jones, just down the road. We were disappointed that they'd run out of Welsh cawl - a local lamb stew - and the salmon fish cakes. However, the salmon steak with honey and mustard glaze on butter bean and rocket mash was excellent. The leak and pork sausages with Celtic champ mash were copiously tasty and the bar was loyal to its old wine merchant's link by serving some fine white Rioja. Iechyd da !(as they say around here). Dinner for four: 50 pounds.
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Tucked away behind banks and high street fashion stores is Swansea's covered market, an idiosyncratic slice of local colour that has survived the blitzing of its original home the competition from all the Tescos and Asdas. It's a big rambling place with stalls selling everything from knitwear and love spoons to vacuum cleaner attachments and second-hand Barbara Cartland paperbacks. It is the food vendors that steal the show though. Butchers with spring lamb and black beef, trays of faggots and sliced black pudding; cheese merchants displaying crumbly white Caerphilly, or ale-and-mustard flavoured Y Fenni; bakers flipping pancakes and trading savoury patties, raisin-rich Welsh cakes, but no bara brith - it seems this fruit-rich traditional loaf is too expensive to make!
The heart of the market is the seafood stands where fishwives tout their pungent pots of cockles and muscles from the nearby Gower shores, chewy whelks, lobster tails and crabs claws. Among all the shellfish are pots of slimy laverbread seaweed _ traditionally rolled in oatmeal then fried with bacon and cockles for breakfast! With the weather looking promising, we stock up with provisions for a picnic and head out for the wonders of the Gower Peninsula.
This jagged oblong jutting out into the Bristol Channel is a place of wonder from childhood holidays 30 years ago. The first part of Britain to be declared an area of outstanding natural beauty is reached by the coast road that sweeps round around the vast tidal curve of Swansea's Bay, surely one of Britain's best urban beaches. The Gower's roads are mostly narrow, shady lanes twisting through the valleys and offering tantalising glimpses of the forget-me-not blue sea. On Pennard Common, cars park in a line just back from the sheer cliffs with the vague line of Devon's coast on the horizon.
Although the sun is shining we keep the doors shut against the biting wind and eat our Welsh goodies from the market. Faggots - compact meat balls made with pork, liver and sage; Swansea pies of soft pastry filled with sloppy mince and onion; laverbread that tastes of spinach boiled in sea water; the little flat scones known as Welsh cakes. Across the cliff tops is a bracing mile-long walk to Three Cliffs Bay, recently voted one of the top five views in Britain, a perfect beach of honey-toned sand surrounded by rocky outcrops and bounded by a little river sneaking through to the sea. Beyond loom gorse-covered hills speckled with white cottages.
Next up is Rhossili, a truly breathtaking sight, where the grassy hills plunge down from almost 200 meters to a three-mile arc of sand battered by rollers which make the beach a favourite with surfers. At the southern end is the mysterious Worm's Head rock poking out into the sea and a target for adventurous ramblers at low tide. There's a hotel, pub and National Trust shop. And, at the head of the path running down to the beach, a fine tea room offering great views and a wicked Victoria sponge. A bigger variety of pubs and restaurants can be found in the picturesque nearby fishing village of Port Enyon.
Back towards Swansea, the bay-side resort of Mumbles was a bit short on the promised Victorian charm. Looking for a place for dinner, the choice seemed to be string of unappealing Asian restaurants and some sad looking pubs. We ended up in Verdi's, a cafe founded by a family from South Wales' large Italian community. A modern glass place on the harbour side, it has strange licensing arrangements that mean you can only drink wine with a meal, last orders are at 9 pm and there's a complex, semi-self service arrangement for getting the meal. The pizza and pasta were only average. Dinner 60 pounds for four. Verdi's also has an ice-cream rivalry with Joe's another Italian place along the seafront. Both have a penchant for some exotic flavours but neither Joe's Turkish delight, or Verdi's apple crumble flavour really convinced.
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Back to England through the pasture and forest lands along the Monmouthshire marches, then cut through the Midland sprawl to Coventry. Another city centre destroyed in the Second World War, but Coventry seems have done better in modernising its post-war reconstruction. An inner ring road leaves the compact city centre largely car free. There's a succession of shopping centres linked by broad pedestrian streets with fountains and carts selling baked potatoes and pork roast. It's mostly 1950's brick work containing all the familiar high street acronyms BHS M&S, C&A, etc., but somehow it seems to work. There's a proud statue of Lady Godiva riding bare back and a soaring chrome archway leading to the new transport museum which recalls the city's car-making past.
Ruins of an old priory have been incorporated into a garden and square with lined with trendy new bars like Dogma, Prague and Flamingo.
Enough half-timbered or stone buildings survived the Nazi fire bombs to give a taste of the old medieval town. And then of course there is the Cathedral. The vast, vaulted modernist building was a symbol of Britain's recovery from the war. It is very much a work of its time, and not to everybody's taste, but it forms an undoubtedly impressive whole with the gothic ruins of the 14th century old church alongside. The vast stain-glassed windows flood the nave with blue light, especially when viewed from the altar looking down to the angel-etched west screen. Britain's top artists of the day were recruited to decorate leaving Graham Sutherland's giant tapestry of Christ, Jacob Epstein's statue of St. Michael vanquishing the Devil and the cross made from medieval nails collected from the old ruins which has become the city's peace symbol.
The Polish and Ghanian produce stalls in the market show the extent of Coventry's multicultural mix, but the city's south Asian community has left a more enduring mark on the city's cuisine and the Turmeric Gold restaurant has won a host of local awards as the best Indian eatery. Housed in a 400-year-old house in medieval Spon Street, the interior is a disconcerting mixture of olde English inn and maharajah's boudoir. The service was friendly and attentive handing out hot towels and welcoming glasses of mango lassi. The rest of the meal wasn't really up to the mark though, like a seventies throw back, prawn tikka marsala featured a few of the poor creatures drowned in a vivid red, cloyingly rich sauce, the gold shashlik special was a rather bland kebab. The best bit was the side vegetables - lemony chick peas, okra with mango power. With a couple of Cobra beers the dinner for four was 82 pounds.
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Manchester, elevated as post-industrial capital of the North in the decade since the city centre was devastated by an IRA bomb is now little less mad, a lot more cool and looking seriously laid back on the sunny, traffic-free streets around St. Ann's Square, where well-heeled shoppers slip from designer boutique to pavement cave. The in-crowd head to the Lotus a blend of Chinese tea house with wine bar that offers cuttlefish cake with lime leaves and ostrich in lemongrass sauce for those seeking some adventurous mid-shop refuelling.
Red brick temples to the Victorian workshop of the world have been stripped of soot and now gleam with civic pride alongside the towering monuments of new steel and glass.
Among glittering new urban landscape of Exchange Square, between the world's biggest Marks and Spencer's and the trendy new Triangle shopping centre is a giant wheel to rival the London Eye. From the summit you can see the Pennine hills, Old Trafford stadium and the white glass slab of the Beetham Tower, freshly declared Britain's tallest building outside London. Down below, the Millennium quarter has relocated half-timbered pubs, the Old Wellington and Sinclair's Oyster Bar next to the 14th Cathedral in the medieval heart of the city. Round the corner is the bobo Northern Quarter with off beat stores and pop art cafes. There's a thriving gay scene round Canal street, a vibrant China Town, neon-lit Indian eating on Rusholme's "curry mile", canal-side nightlife around Castlefields and Deansgate locks. All set to a local soundtrack that ranges from the Halle Orchestra to Joy Division, the Smiths, Oasis, the Buzzcocks ....
Manchester has world class museums featuring pre-Raphaelite painting in the Manchester Art Gallery, trains and planes in the Museum of Science and Industry and the ultramodern celebration of city life, Urbis. The Manchester Museum down in the university houses an eclectic mix of T-Rex skeletons, live tree frogs and Egyptian mummies, while The Lowery arts centre is dedicated to the matchstick men of the city's favourite painter.
The Briton's Protection has been serving ale to Mancunians for 200 years, its name apparently linked to Peterloo Massacre of 1819 which happened up the road. Local lore has it that the landlord of the time favoured the Lancashire militia rather than the radical reformers who fell victim that day. The massacre is portrayed on tile panels that line the labyrinth interior beyond the standing-room only front bar. It's popular with Halle musicians from the next-door Bridgewater Hall who pop in for pint or two of Robinson's beer brewed in nearby Stockport.
A couple of other 19th century pubs in the city centre Mr. Thomas Chop House and Sam's Chop House have become renowned bastions of traditional English food, but the intricacies of English licensing laws made it difficult to dine with kids, so we headed down to Chinatown.
Yang Sing on Princess Street has long been touted as the best Cantonese restaurant in Europe, but its reputation has recently taken a battering with some aggressive reviews. It's newly redecorated, and the refined interior aims to create the atmosphere of 1930s Shanghai. A small army of waiters and waitresses in red and black buzz among the packed tables. Chief chef Harry Yeung is a master from Guangzhou who's been giving Mancs a taste of his local cuisine for 30 years. The menu is vast and wonderfully exotic, featuring the likes of suckling pig with jelly fish, and steamed chicken feet. Tempting to be sure, but the kids were demanding something more familiar, who we order a set menu for three _ which was 66 pounds and more than enough for four.
Starting with spring roll and deep fried shrimp dumpling, then great dim sum, spare ribs in thick, smoky, nutty sauce, sesame and prawn toast on crispy fried seaweed, chicken and sweetcorn soup. All of this was wonderful, familiar Chinese restaurant standards taken to a whole new level of sophistication, perfectly accompanied by the fruity Argentine Torontes house wine. The trio of main courses included delicious prawn and mangetout, fine peppery beef and onion stir fry and sweat-and-sour chicken with pineapple _ now, the kids loved that last one, but it was a sticky step too far toward the takeaways of old for me. All in all a great meal.
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A short drive south east through the Mancunian suburbs is the Peak District, some of the wildest countryside in England. Plunging valleys, wind-swept plateaux, rough-hewn stone villages. Wedged between the country's biggest industrial cities the peaks are a rugged haven of calm. Amid all the natural grandeur are fine stately homes like Chatsworth - the palace of the Peaks, recently the backdrop for the movie of "Pride and Prejudice."
Jane Austin stayed in the Rutland Arms hotel in the market town of Bakewell which also features in the novel. Shortly after her stay, a cook there invented the jam and almond filled Bakewell tart which has become a nationwide favourite. Also known locally as Bakewell Pudding this delicacy is now sold in several bakeries and cafes around the village. The Bakewell Tart Shop and Coffee House on Matlock street sells wickedly huge wedges of tart with steaming hot custard, and offers lemon, cherry or coconut variations on the theme, as well as a selection of savoury pies which would be just the thing for picnics in the Peaks.
Nottingham has a bad reputation as Britain's capital of crime. Perhaps that's what you get from spending centuries vaunting the virtues of the world's best-known outlaw. Whether the hoodlums who have given Robin Hood's hometown the UK's highest crime and murder rates are aiming to give to the poor is unlikely, and the city is struggling to revamp its fearsome image. Wandering the centre on a balmy Friday night, it was boisterous but not threatening around Market Square as revellers staggered between the city's famous pubs.
Urban renewal is centred the old Lace Market area and the streets running up to Sheriff's castle, which are lined with boutiques and cocktail bars. The chic Lace Market Hotel is here, alongside the Cock and Hoop pub. Delilah's grocery store has a taste festival of local beers and cheeses alongside a great selection of olive oils, smoked hams and wines. Down the road is elegant Paul Smith store. The designer is a local boy who started his career in Nottingham following those other great British trademarks, Boots and Raleigh bikes. Nearby Castle Gate is the site of the stocking factory where D.H. Lawrence once worked and featured in his Nottingham-set novel "Sons and Lovers."
Nottingham claims to have more pubs per head than any other city in England and three of them dispute the title of Britain's oldest.
Best known is Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem which is built into the limestone caves beneath the Sheriff's castle. No evidence that Robin and Little John stopped by for a pint and bag of pork scratchings, but the pub's name is supposed to date from the crusades when local knights would meet up here before setting off to plunder the Holy Land. It's an intriguing place with a succession of little rooms linked by stairs and corridors extending deeper and deeper into the rock with cozy alcoves and cavernous ceilings reaching up toward the castle above. A big range of beers features Old Trip bitter made by local brewer Hardys & Hansons.
Disputing the title is the nearby Ye Olde Salutation inn which claims 13th-century roots and The Bell, in the heart of the city just off the old Market Square. Originally the refectory of a monastery, the Bell has been an alehouse since the days of Henry VIII and its cosy low-beamed front rooms still carry the Tudor interior behind the pub's Georgian facade. There's a bigger, noisier bar out the back popular with students and a quiet family restaurant upstairs. The friendly staff explain that the small square opening cut into the wall downstairs was once used to check the hands of incoming customers. Those with missing fingers were judged to be lepers and refused entry.
The restaurant serves old-fashioned pub food such as Kimberly pie made with beef and H&H beer or sausage and Old Trip beer-flavoured sausages floating on a mountain of mash. Excellent blackberry and apple crumble to follow. A window seat gives a great view over the city centre and increasingly inebriated crowds of pumped up chaps and scantily clad chappettes.
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Driving from Nottingham to Norwich takes in the flat lands of Lincolnshire and the even flatter Fens of Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, criss-crossed with canals and dikes through the flower fields and market gardens. En route is the fine old stone town of Stamford and the stately Burghley House two other places where Keira Knightley strutted her stuff in "Pride and Prejudice."
"Norwich, a fine city," says the sign as you arrive. Dominated by its hilltop Norman Castle and spectacular 11th century cathedral, Norfolk's capital has medieval streets like Elm Hill and Tombland, a colourful market in front of the 1930's town hall and a new ultramodern library and arts centre, The Forum. A major city in the Middle Ages it has dozens of churches and even more pubs, like the Adam and Eve and the Fat Cat which regularly wins awards from real ale connoisseurs. Unfortunately it was raining fat cats and fat dogs the whole time we were there, so we were forced to shopping shelter in the landmark Jarrold's department store which dates back to 1823; the art nouveau Royal Arcade _ home of Coleman's Mustard Store; and the vast Castle Mall and Chapelfield shopping centres.
There's an ice cream vendor on the market which makes a honeycomb flavour which tastes of crunchie bars. But for a ice-cream nirvana you have to move further south into Suffolk and Alder Carr Farm in Needham Market. Here you can pick-your-own fruit, buy Suffolk cured bacon, or home-made chutneys and smoked fish in the farm shop. But the real attraction is the ice-cream. I've tired Giolitti's in Rome and Paolin in Venice, but have never had gelati as good as these from Suffolk. There is nothing but fresh fruit, sugar and cream in each of the 14 varieties, no flavouring or artificial preservatives. The fruit is plucked fresh from the farm. There's gooseberry and elderflower, stem ginger and rhubarb, blackberry and apple, as well as single fruits like strawberry, tayberry and damson. Hard to pick a favourite, but the sinfully spiced Christmas flavour is awesome.

Algarve Diary

Fish, fado and flowers –

welcome to Portugal in April

Lagos, April 2005

Wednesday, 12 April:
Ah, the benefits of budget air travel. A three-hour flight and we exchange neighbours scraping ice from their windshields for neighbours coating each other with sun cream.
Spring can be a great time to visit the Algarve – if you catch the weather. It is a lot less crowded than the summer and the landscapes are fresher,and greener, with wild flowers carpeting the hills in blues, pinks and yellows.
“April in Portugal,” as Portugal's great fado singer Amália Rodrigues once crooned, “Can love exist anywwher but Portugal in April?”
These days, some parts of Portugal's south coast strip have a less romantic reputation, getting a bad rap as a haven for cohorts of northern lager swilllers. But come out of season or stick to the balmy and largely undeveloped east coast east between Faro and the Spanish border, or head west to the windward shore beyond Portimao and you can find a land of unlimited charm, with the best beaches in Europe, fabulous seafood and a laid back lifestyle that makes for the ideal escape from the rat race.
Lagos is an 80 kilometre drive from Faro airport, along the new Via do Infante motorway.
We stay at the expanding Marina complex across the river from the town centre. The new wing of the Marina Club hotel is just opened – minimalist design, flat scene TV, big roomy apartments opening onto the kidney shaped pool. A two-bedroom flat is 145 euro a night.
Cheaper options can be had in the nautically themed Estibordo building or by renting privately in its twin Bombordo.
The Marina has shops, cafés restaurants, overlooking the luxury yachts bobbing in the harbour. It's a five minute walk to the old town, ten to the wonderful 6 km, curve of soft sand that makes up Meia Praia beach.
Newly built on the crest of a dune overlooking the western end of Meia Praia is São Roque, which after three or four visits has become one of my favourite restaurants.
It has everything: great location, the freshest seafood, good wines and friendly service. The glass façade reveals a seascape ranging from the distant cliffs Alvor and Praia da Rocha, the surf crashing on beach below and the ramparts and church towers of old Lagos just across the river.
There's a broad terrace blending into the sand and an airy interior decorated with colourful abstracts by Vila – the celebrated co-owner of another classic Algarve restaurant – Vila Lisa just down the road in Mexilhoeira Grande.
We are given no menu, but are guided to an ice cabinet where the waiter sweeps away layers of crushed ice to reveal an array of fishy delights.
Lagos fishing port is a stone's throw away and the fish looks like it just came from the nets. There is red mullet, bream, bass, turbot, squid, grouper.
To start we have a portion of amêijoas – sweat clams steamed just enough with garlic and coriander with a squirt of lemon – a wonderful recipe named after an obscure 19th century poet – Bulhão Pato. I can think of no better way to start a meal.
A bottle of a crisp dry white from the Douro – Quinta Seara D'Ordens was the ideal companion. Main course was grilled pargo – a large sea bream. It came whole but sliced down the spine. The waiter expertly sliced off fillets and kindly asked us if we also wanted the head. I have to admit to declining. Delicious, light white flesh, fresh enough to need just the lightest charcoal grilling. It tasted like it had just stopped splashing about in the cool Atlantic waters outside.
Served with boiled new potatoes tossed in excellent olive oil, fresh oregano and garlic, and a great salad of roasted green pepper, carrot, tomato and lettuce.
They have great old Algarvian desserts – carob tart or a wonderful sticky wedge that combines carob, fig and almond – the trinity of regional sweetness.
Thing black bicas of espresso and then we are offered a glass each of the home-made bagaço – Portugal's answer to grappa. Usually it's more than a little rough, but his was the house's own, aged in port barrels and with a taste that matched its warm ruby complexion.
To help it down came a complementary bowl of toasted almonds and dried figs – a really nice touch that rounded off a great meal.
About 30 euro each. Like almost everywhere in Portugal families are more than welcome. At the next table a big, multi-generational family were tucking into a huge dish of massa do peixe – a fish stew with pasta which is a house speciality.

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Thursday, 13 April:
Sun shining bright at 7am. Clear blue skies. We stock up in Lagos municipal market in its newly restored 1920's home beside the river that separates the old town from the fishing harbour.
Fish on the ground floor, fruit and veg above. At this early hour, fish were still arriving from the boats across the river, some still gasping in the air.
The multitude of life aquatic on show ranges from tiny whitebait to great, blood-dripping sides of tuna and corvina the size of a man. We picked up a pair of plump red mullet and a wing of skate. Upstairs there's a great view over the river, port and beach and raucous vendors tout the season's best in strawberries, meddlers, broad beans, onions, potatoes, tomatoes, peppers ...

Then the beach. Lagos' best known is Dona Ana. We parked there – impossible in the summer crush, but no problem today. Then walked south over the cliff tops to Praia do Camilo. The views are breathtaking, the honeycomb cliffs of the Costa d'Oiro running towards Lagos, then the broad sweep of the bay backed by Meia Praia's white sands running off into the distance to the Alvor estuary and the towers of Praia da Rocha on the horizon. Beyond loom the Serra da Monchique mountains. Looking down the cliffs at the deep, dark sea, there are rocky coves and inlets. One small beach for nudists, another even more inaccessible with just two couples soaking up the rays. A myriad of wild flowers, multicoloured butterflies pursued by a cacophony of bird life – rosy hoopoes, dashing beeaters, choughs, screeching gulls battling for pinacples on the cliff tops, bands of larks and finches.

Praia do Camilo is always worth the long climb down. Two crescents of golden sand wrapped by crumbling sandstone cliffs, limpid waters, sheltered by the Atlantic winds. Never too crowded. We explore rock pools and hidden caves that open up to the sky. Look out for the divers hunting octopus and cuttlefish, then swim in the chill water before lunch with sandwiches of presunto (smoked ham) and sardine paste.
Then walk some more to the lighthouse overlooking the rocky outcrop of Ponta da Piedade, where little boats carry visitors in out of the sea caves Drink a coffee in the cliff top café among the Spanish visitors who flock to Portugal during the Easter semana santa.
In the evening we grill our mullet on the balcony, drink a bottle of Planalto wine form the Douro and fall tired and a tad sunburnt into early bed.

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Friday, 14, April:
Good Friday and an armada of low grey cloud blows in with a forecast of rain till Sunday. Along with thousands of other disappointed sun seekers, we head for Algarve Shopping – the giant, post-modern, vaguely Moorish, completely over-the-top shopping centre outside Albufeira.
This is a traditional rainy day alternative. There is a big range of shops _ Iberian home décor at Loja do Gato Preto, Portuguese menswear at Throttleman, alongside international chains like FNAC, Zara, Benetton.
There's also a vast array of fast food joints. We hit O Kilo _ a Brazilian chain found in shopping malls around Portugal, where you load up black beans, shredded cabbage, ground manioc, sausages and a range of spit roasted cuts of beef like the lean salted picanha or juicy maminha. When you've filled your plate, they weigh it and you pay by the gram. Washed down with fruit juice combinations like strawberry-passion fruit or mango-orange. It sure beats chicken nuggets.
Still raining so it's afternoon movie time. Films are almost always in the original language in Portugal, with subtitles. Nanny McPhee was a family favourite.
Dinner at home is favas à Algarvia _ fresh broad beans from the market fried in olive oil with chouriço, morcela (black pudding), torchinho (bacon), garlic, onion, sea salt and a bundle of fresh, green coriander. With it a fine bottle of Quinta dos Grillos – the oddly named grasshopper farm – from the Dão region near Coimbra.

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Saturday, April 15:
The sun is back. We head to the Santa Amaro market to stock up with vitals for a family Easter. Far from the tourists downtown, this market is less well stocked, but cheaper than its main riverside rival. It's currently operating away from its usual site in an old cork factory overlooked by a couple of white storks nesting on a disused chimney stack. A cheerful place with some excellent butchers specialized in porco preto - the acorn-fed, semi-wild pigs from the Alentejo region to the north.

A stroll from Lagos' old town leads to the Paderia Central – the city's best bakery. This is a wonderful old place where locals stand in line for freshly baked bread and cakes. At this time of the year, the rush is for folhar – sweat Easter loaves heavily flavoured with aniseed. Some contain a boiled egg. It's for decoration and Easter symbolism – don't eat it with your cake.
Lunch was a salad of skate and potatoes awash with chunks of garlic and a puddle of olive oil, followed by fresh local strawberries, oranges and meddlers.
After that, a couple of hours by the pool and a long walk along Meia Praia beach as far as the Por-do-Sol restaurant – a great place to sit outside and watch the sun go down over simple grilled fish, or to join the crowds on a Sunday lunchtime, where the Angolan owner cooks African favourites – muamba da galinha (chicken with palm oil and corn or cassava meal) or caldeirada de cabrito (spicy goat stew).
The walk builds an appetite for another of the Algarve's great culinary events – dinner at Adega Vila Lisa.
Tucked away in the big, farming village of Mexilhoeira Grande, just off the road from Lagos to Portimão. This is a superlative restaurant. Unmarked on the main street twisting up though the village, it's in a simple whitewashed Algarve house with bright yellow shutters and the door frame picked out in cobalt blue.
The inside is rustic. You share big tables and sit on rough wooden benches. It may not be the best place for a romantic tete-a-tête, because you'll be in enforced communion with your neighbours, who may well be visiting politicians or TV personalities from Lisbon who have helped maintain Vila Lisa's legendary status in the capital for over 20 years..
It's always crowded, despite the additional space upstairs and in the patio behind.
Contrasting with the rural fittings, the walls are covered with the big bold abstract paintings of Senhor Vila – an artist on canvas as well as in the kitchen who runs the place with his partner Senhor Lisa.
You don't get a menu. The serving girls just bring you dish after dish along with constantly refilled flasks of the anonymous house wine – either white or red or both – they are both hearty, rough and ready brews that go down a treat with the rigorously traditional food.
We start with slices of morcela sausage, triangles of fresh white cheese, potatoes tossed in olive oil and oregano, a little plate of eggs scrambled with tomato sauce served with chewy country bread.
Next up comes sopa de cacão (dogfish soup). This is a nod to the cuisine of the Algarve's northern neighbour, the Alentejo, an unctuous confection with slices of crusty bread, chucks of firm white fish in a tangy juice tasting of vinegar and coriander.
Then broad beans again, with golden fried toucinho, morcela and a slice of fired peixe espada – the long silvery scabbard fish whose toothy grins are one of the scariest sights in Portugal's fish markets.
The next course is pernil de porco – one of Vila Lisa's signature dishes – leg of pork slow roasted to produce the perfect combination of tender flesh and crispy, crunchy skin.
Just when you think you can't take any more, comes sopa do grão – chick pea soup fortified with oxtail broth and handfulls of fresh mint _ the twist in the tale of this gastronomic epic.
Dark, pungent sweetmeats made with figs and almonds come with a pot of excellent coffee and a icy bottle of medronho from which you can drink your fill. This is a fire water made from the sweet red fruit of the strawberry tree which thrives on the wooded hills of inland Algarve.
An extraordinary civilized meal in, one of Europe's great restaurants. All for a fixed price of 30 euros a head. Unbeatable.

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Sunday, April 16:
A family visit for Easter and we prepare a lunch of coastal goodies. Fresh local prawns boiled with sea salt and a dash of piri-piri, Aljomoho – a gazpacho-like concoction using up day-old bread, tomato, green pepper, oregano, and loads of garlic. The main course is caldeirada – fish stew similar to French bouillabaisse. Ours had conger eel, dogfish, skate, grouper, with potatoes, tomato and pepper.
To finish up an Easter sponge cake layered with sweetened egg yokes and topped with toasted almond and doce de gila – a jam made from fibrous pumpkin like vegetable grown around here.
A post lunch walk along the water front past the 16th century Forte da Ponta da Bandeira, which guards the entrance to Lagos harbour – built to counter raids by the likes of Sir Francis Drake. Alongside is Praia da Batata – potato beach – the closest to town. It's popular with local families and teenagers. The water was recently cleaned up and the local diving and sailing clubs are based there offering beginners' courses, beneath the Naufragio bar, which offers great view across the bay.

On the far end of the beach begin the ragged cliffs that are the trademark of the great string of beaches that make up the golden coast running south and west from Lagos.
Batata is a mini Acapulco, where local kids leap of the cliff tops into the sea. Not something I'd recommend after a big lunch.

With the wind picking up, we walk back through the old town walls and past the statue of Gil Eanes – the local hero and one of the first great Portuguese discovers. Lagos was the point of departure of the early voyages and was the base, along with nearby Sagres of Prince Henry the Navigator.
Stop for coffee in the Cafe Central, an old-fashioned favourite in the heart of the city, where tourists sit in the sunny terrace, but locals prefer to enjoy their coffee and cake inside, where the prices are dramatically cheaper.
For dinner we cook Cozido do Grao – an Algarve version of Portugal's national dish of boiled meat and vegetables. It includes beef, pork, a selection of sausages, potatoes, runner beans, pumpkin, chick peas, mint, all boiled up in a hot pot together. The water is strained off and used to cook rice to go with in all. Washed down with a robust Alentejo red.

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Monday, April 17:
Lunch at the Adega da Marina _ a cheap and cheerful place alongside the river in Lagos. Very popular with Portuguese families who will form long queues on the pavement outside to get in.
The immense rooms are decorated with fishing paraphernalia and waiters rush around among the long tables. It's big, brash and noisy.
Part of the popularity must be the price. The dish of the day is less than 5 euros, a plate of grilled sardines 5.80 euros.
But go early, we arrived at 1.30: sardines were off and the dish of the day _ arroz de safio, rice with conger eel _ was sold out.
Instead I went for that old favourite, chicken piri-piri. Not bad, if a bit greasy. The piri-piri sauce came on the side and was satisfyingly spicy. Not a great culinary outing, but good for a budget family lunch.
Later that night we ended up at the Amoras bar on the Lagos Marina, a trendy, laid back sort of place, popular with the yachting set for cut price cocktails at happy hour. It's open terrace overlooks the water, but most eyes were glued to the big screens at either end of the bar _ showing live football from both the Portuguese and English leagues.

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Tuesday, April, 18:
The Easter holidays are over and the city empties out. We had the hotel pool almost to ourselves and spent the day there in the patchy sunlight.
For dinner Galinha Cerejada – cherry chicken – so called because of the ruddy colour the bird is supposed to take on after being fried with garlic in bacon fat and served with rice cooked in stock.
In contrast to the hectic weekend, the city was dead after diner with none of the normal all night summer street life.

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Wednesday, April 19:
Clear blue skies, but that old Lagos bugbear, the west wind, sweeping in from the Atlantic cools things down.
It's a good day for a run along Meia Praia – six kilometres end-to-end, and reward at the eastern extremity of the beach: a glorious view of the Ria de Alvor – a great estuary alive with bird life. Its sands are the haunt of shellfish hunters digging for cockles at low tide. When the tide is in the still waters offer shifting shades of blue and a calmer, warmer alternative to the surf rolling onto the beach.
The water today was almost deserted and surprisingly warm, great to have a dip and dry off running back. like a castaway on all that deserted white sand.
In complete contrast, in the late afternoon we head to Praia da Rocha. I'd not been here for about 15 years and the scale of the new development is astonishing.
The broad, palm lined avenues of tower blocks give it a mini-LA feel. The architecture ranges from modernist monoliths to mock-Moorish fantasies. Along the cliff-top strip, Irish pubs fight for space with hippy trinket stores, pizzerias, vast discos, theme eateries like the Sitting Bull wild west restaurant. The old Penguin hotel is closed down and the elegant Bela Vista – once a haven for exiled world leaders, looks under siege.
I dread to think what this is like on a packed, boozy summer night. Best to keep your eyes seaward on spectacular of sandy beach below, which is long and wide enough to guarantee some space even at the height of the season.
At the far east of the strip, things calm down, there are some older surviving villas and some picturesque gardens tumbling to the beach to recall the resort's belle epoque origins. The Santa Catarina fortress still offers spectacular views along the beach and across the mouth of the Arade river to the tranquil beaches of Ferragudo village on the far side.
We drive into Portimão passed the now mostly disused fish canning factories which were the economic mainstay here in pre-tourism days, then skirt the riverside Praça Manuel Teixeira Gomes square with the charming old Casa Inglesa cafe. Then over the old bridge to Ferragudo.
This beautiful fishing village is a world away from Praia da Rocha across the river. The whitewashed streets wind down a low hill below the church to a little creak that runs into the Arade. Beyond the cafe-lined main square is a warren of lanes lined by well-kept traditional homes. There is a bohemian feel too it with little handicraft shops, artists studios and inviting bars like the Très Macacos – the three monkeys.

Past the quayside market and the stacks of lobster nets, road bends to a famed restaurant – Suoeste. In a former salt warehouse augmented with a glass fronted veranda, it looks out over the river and the Portimão skyline. As we take our seats, the waiter brings over a huge tray laden with one each of all the fish available tonight – three species of bream, sea bass, sole, giant shimp – all gleaming fresh from the sea.
Three of us share a big sole, which is whisked outside where two old boys gut and grill by the harbour, throwing the waste into the water to the delight of the gulls wheeling overhead.
While waiting, we are served a Portimão speciality of carrots pickled with cumin, then plate of whole shrimp fried with garlic and squirted with lemon – lovely.
This place is not much fun for non-pescavores. The best they had on offer was omelette and chips.
The fish arrived whole with a smoky charcoal whiff, super fresh and grilled to perfection. Served with boiled new potatoes and an excellent salad. To drink we had a bottle of Soalheiro vinho verde, crisp and clean.
Deserts arrived with the sun already down and the lights of the city twinkling across the water. A succulent fig tart and carob tart topped with a fine, almond crust like Italian amaretti – both were interesting takes on Algarve classics.
All in all the food and setting were difficult to fault, but the service could definitely have been improved. The sole arrived when we were still eating our prawns and one bowl soup just never came. It's also a bit overpriced at 150 euro for four. Excellent coffee and medronho though.

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Thursday, April 20:
Overcast skies ruled out beach or pool this morning, so the day was spend mainly in town. The Casa de Isabel tea rooms, first in Portimao, then with a branch in Lagos, was a pioneer in reviving regional cakes. The Lagos version lies a block inland from the river is now called cafe Vasco da Gama. It has the same somewhat unfinished attempt to establish old world charm, but the cakes remain as good as ever – egg and almond confections taken from old conventl recipies like touchinho de ceu – bacon from heaven, or the deep dark, chocolately tarta de alfaroba.
An afternoon run takes in the wonderful Praia de Pinhao beach, which is hardly ever crowded, soft gold sand, rocks and coves to explore, calm waters sheltered from the wind and within an easy walk to town.
Dinner at home. Spring lamb cooked with fresh peas and a big handful of coriander, followed by just in season local melon.

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Friday, April 21:
Marisqueira Rui is a temple dedicated to Portuguese seafood situated oddly enough in the Algarve's biggest inland town _ the old Arab capital Silves, a 20 minute drive from the coast.
In a down town pedestrian street, Rui's has litte to distinguish it from the outside apart from the lines of wood-be dinners waiting for a table of summer nights.
What attracts them is certainly not the drab interior with its cork covered walls. The draw is some of the best shellfish in the region, and in particular one dish – arroz de marisco – shellfish rice.
This is Portugal's answer to paella and like the Spanish dish, the quality varies greatly. Rui's is rightly reputed to be one of the best in the land.
What you get is an earthenware pot filled with rice slopping in a tomato and coriander sauce and brimming with crustations and molluscs.
Ours had shrimp, spiny lobster, bits of spider crab, clams, crayfish, razor clams. It is a monumental dish when done well.
Diners not going for the rice, tend to go for a simple mix of shellfish and the room reverberates with the sounds of hammers bashing away at crab claws and salty lips sucking the innards our of leathery goose barnacles. The rice takes a while to prepare, so take care not to fill up on the hot roles and garlic mayonnaise that they bring to ease the wait.
Quite why anybody would want to eat meat here is beyond me, but there are some landlubber alternatives _ several featuring Alentejo black pork.
A good range of fresh fruit and the usual carob or almond desserts. With a good bottle of Marques de Borba white. it all came in at a very reasonable 60euro for four.
Silves itself is a historic riverside city, dominated by its hilltop castle which resonates with old legends of Moorish maidens and dashing crusaders.
The gently sloping land between the mountains and the coast is the called the Barrocal. It's mostly pasture and meadow land planted with citrus groves, vines, almond trees that blossom white in February and wild flowers that coat the ground with colour in springtime.

Clinging to one hillside is Alte, considered by many to be the Algarve's most beautiful inland village. Pristine white houses cluster astride a torrent that tumbles towards the coast. There is a skyline of the lacy, pointed Algarve chimneys. Although there's a handful of souvenir shops catering for bus trips from the seaside resorts in high summer, the village is no tourist trap and was almost devoid of outsiders on this spring day, apart from a few picnickers out by the cascades upstream.

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Saturday, April 22:
Lousy weather, caught up in a downpour. We seek refuge in some cafés, the rather dingy Gil Eanes, in the square of the same name and the more attractive Oceano, with it mosaics of tiles, tropical fish tank and good cakes. It's the nicest café in the centre of town.
For dinner, we let the kids choose and ended up in Café do Cais, in the Marina. An “international” menu that includes some Asian-influenced dishes as well as a few Portuguese classics. The clientèle is overwhelmingly foreign. The kids were a bit disappointed because the menu that attracted them with burgers and salads turned out to be only for lunch. Dinner was more posh – lots of fish and steaks and prices that were almost double the lunch options.
To be honest, things were not so bad. There was a fine view of the stormy sunset over Lagos, cool loungey music and rather neat upscale, beach-bar décor. An original selection of nibbles to start – roast red peppers, olives, Spanish queso manchego and a dip of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, piri-piri and course salt.

Despite the international dishes on offer, we go that for that Algarve gastronomic icon amêijoas na cataplana. This involves a unique Algarve implement, a shiny brass dish that is half-wok, half-pressure cooker. Into this go clams, presunto ham, strips of pork, chouriço, tomatoes, garlic and green pepper. It was rich and tasty and completely authentic- apart from the addition of a bowl of rice – which is not really the done thing. The kids went for steaks, one with mustard sauce, the other with Roquefort – all of which appeared to be in order.
The desserts had a very un-Portuguese feel – lemon baveroise, chocolate fudge cake.
This is not really my sort of place, but it made a change. With half a bottle of the house white _ a reasonable low-budget Alentejo tipple, plus coffee and medronho (not for the kids). It came to 90 euro for four.

Practicalities:

Getting There:
We went Faro with Ryanair, for just over 200 euro a head. The Algarve's international airport is also served by other budget airlines, charters and traditional carriers. TAP Air Portugal has direct flights to several European capitals.

Getting Around:
Local car hire YOR Car was a cheap alternative to the big companies. We paid 204 euro for 11 days in a Hyundai Getz with air conditioning and a CD player.
There is also a train link from Faro to Lagos, which is slow, but offers views along the coast for those not in a hurry.

Restaurants:
Adega da Marina
Avenida dos Descobrimentos, 35,
Lagos.
Tel: +351 - 282 764 284.

São Roque
Urbanização de São Roque – Meia-praia,
Lagos,
Tel +351 – 282 792-101.

Vila Lisa
Mexilhoeira Grande,
Tel +351 – 282 968-478.

Sueste
Rua da Ribeira, 91,
Ferragudo,
Tel +351 – 282 461-592.

Marisqueira Rui
Rua Comendador Vilarinho, 27
Silves
Tel +351 – 282 442-682.

Reading:
Books set in the Algarve are rare, even in Portuguese. One that is translated into English is The Migrant Painter of Birds, a family saga by award winning author Lidia Jorge.
For a darker look into Portuguese thinking try the works of Nobel winner Jose Saramago. His earlier works like Baltasar and Blimunda, or The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, offer a magical look at Portuguese history. Later novels such as Blindness or The Double are bleaker views of modern society.

Soundtrack:
The Art of Amalia offers a good introduction to the late queen of fado and includes the original track Coimbra, which became April in Portugal in the English version.
For a more modern take on fado, try the albums of Madredeus. The group is from Lisbon but have performed some wonderfully atmospheric concerts in the open air auditorium beside Lagos' medieval walls.

Sofia, Bulgaria, April 2006

In his classic 1930s spy thriller "A Coffin for Dmitrios," Eric Ambler paints Sofia as a capital of Balkan intrigue, rife with political assassination, illicit drug deals and boites de nuits where unsuspecting visitors are lured by cheap champagne and Armenian dancing girls.

Sofia has moved on. Today the Bulgarian capital stands on the threshold of the European Union; its golden youth shop for Gucci shades and La Perla knickers among the designer temples that line Vitosha Bd. and the one-time communist backwater promotes itself as Europe hottest new nightlife destination.

Under the brash nouveau-riche facade, Sofia manages to retain a sense of the decadent charm of Ambler's city which has survived the intervening decades of war, Soviet-domination and the new capitalist excess. The master of suspense would have appreciated the "no firearms" signs on the doors of restaurants and the frisking by burly, cropped hair bouncers outside the more discerning nightclubs.

Stand at the top of Maria-Luiza Bd, and Sofia's turbulent history in the cultural confusion of Balkans is clear to see. On one side is the conical minaret of the mosque left behind after 500 years of Ottoman rule. Peaking over the roof of the central market is Europe's largest Sephardic synagogue, a testament to Bulgaria's efforts to save its Jewish community from the Nazis. Just up the road are the Byzantine domes of the old Sveta Nedeyla orthodox church.

The cultural diversity is reflected in Bulgarian cuisine where deep rooted Turkish traditions blend with Mediterranean and central European influences. Carnivores will delight in the quality of the grilled meat, but fresh salads, marinated vegetables and great yoghurt dips will recall the Aegean islands. Dill and pickled cucumbers mix with sweet peppers and fresh tomato. The olives are great. In the central market, the dense, blood-red salamis could come from Hungary, while next door gleaming slabbrinyriney white cheese and honey soaked pastries are more Athens or Istanbul.

Bulgaria finally broke free from Turkish rule in 1878 after Russia took its side in a bloody war against the declining Ottoman empire. That conflict led to construction of Sofia's best known landmark, the The Alexander Nevski cathedral. This neo-Byzantine pile rises up over the city in four tiers of domes, arches and gilded cupolas. It commemorates the fallen in the Russian-led armies that secured Bulgaria's independence. From the outside it's imposing sight, inside it is awe-inspiring. The vast vaulted space is dimly lit with few candles and low-voltage yellow bulbs just revealing the mural-covered walls. Devout Sofians on their way to work in the mornings will pop in for a quiet prayer. In the crypt lies the national icon collection.

A further reminder of Bulgaria's complicated history is the nearby Russian church. A fantasy of golden onion domes and colourful gilt facades. It was built in honour of Tsar Nicholas II just before the First World War, when Bulgaria sided with Germany against the Russians.

Around the cathedral is a fascinating jumble of market stalls selling a sometimes bizarre selection of potential souvenirs ranging from delicately woven cotton table covers and the rainbow shaded kilims to antique broaches, reproduction icons and Soviet era bric-a-brac _ Red Army vodka flasks seem to be particularly popular. One trader was offering selection of old violins and accordions.

Bulgaria's rush to join the West has thrown up some uncomfortable contrasts. The level of poverty can be shocking for a European capital, alongside signs of all too ostentatious new-found wealth for a sometimes dodgy few. Battered Trabants battle for parking space on the city's beleaguered pavements with huge black BMWs. Ragged gypsy kids scavenge through rubbish bins outside the chic designer stores. Tales of official corruption and organized crime are hair-raising.

The country's transition to European mainstream can catch visitors out. A German colleague forgot he was leaving the EU and arrived without his passport. He ended up spending 27 hours detained at the airport. It's also best to be on your guard against the currency traders aiming to buy euros in the street or taxi touts at the airport. A British friend paid 40 leva (20 euro) to get into town, more than four times the normal rate charged by the official yellow cabs lined up outside departures.
Another tip: try to learn a bit of the Cyrillic alphabet. It could help enormously helpful just to follow street signs so you can find your way around. For example, it's much easier to find Khan Asparuh street, if you know the sign you're looking for is: yл. Xaн Acnapyx.

While Winter can be grim and summer an inferno, spring provides the best opportunity to enjoy Sofia's abundant greenery. Even the narrowest side street seems to be lined by trees, and stately horse chestnuts _ blooming in April _ cast their shade on the many broad avenues of the centre. Leafy squares and gardens abound. Open air cafes fill city parks, and restaurants and bars all seem to have verdant gardens hidden behind them. Above it all looms the Vitosha mountain range whose forest-covered slopes and snowy peaks rise up above the southern suburbs. There is first class skiing less than an hour's drive from the city centre.

Tucked away on a wooded hillside about 10 kilometres south of town is the Boyana church _ Sofia's hidden gem. The little Orthodox chapel is unassuming from the outside, but duck through the door and you find a treasure trove of medieval murals telling the story of St. Nicholas. The paintings date back to the 13th century, some are even older. A taxi out there cost about 8 leva (4 euros), but it might be worth asking the driver to wait, because finding a ride back could be difficult. It's a charming spot, the church is surrounded by a peaceful garden planted with towering 100-year old sequoias. The Church is locked and you have to ask the guide and the even older gatekeeper to let you in. I arrived just after opening time at 9.30 am. and had the place to myself _ a rare experience at a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Monkish Mixed Grill

Manastirska Magernitsa is a perfect introduction to Bulgarian food.
The "monastery cook house" at 67 Khan Asparuh street is an elegant yellow-painted 19th century town house set back from the street in a little garden.
Spread through several small rooms, the restaurant is chock-a-block with Bulgarian folk art. There was a throaty young woman belting out tunes accompanied by an accordion player, and bashful waitresses in folksy outfits. Despite all this, it just about stayed on the right side of kitch, and it was reassuring that most of the dinners were Bulgarian.
The menu was daunting, running to over 30 pages of traditional dishes rendered into unlikely English.
The owners have a mission to gather up old recipes from the Orthodox monasteries that are dotted around Bulgaria. Its slogan is: "161 Bulgarian monasteries, 161 Bulgarian recipes."
When the task of perusing them all became too much, the waitress suggested we followed her into a side room where haunches of lamb, veal and pork roasted over glowing embers. With a mixed grill and a selection of salads and appetizers we were set up.
First she brought soft, sesame-coated bread accompanied by a wooden bowl of spiced salt.
This is a traditional start to a meal and went down a treat with the first glasses of the red-fruit-packed "No Man's Land" wine _ from vineyards on what was once the barbed-wire covered Cold War frontier with Greece and Turkey.
The platter of starters included Shopska salad _ a Sofia dish involving tomatoes, cucumber, red pepper and onion and covered with a grated, hard _ pecorino like _ sheep's cheese.
There was garlicky marinated aubergine, and creamy balls of thick yoghurt, some mixed with soft cheese, others containing cucumber and still more garlic _ very satisfying, and surprisingly healthy.
The meat came in great juicy hunks. This was expert barbecuing. A selection of roast vegetables on the side, including a round of grilled beetroot which gave a refreshing slant on a much-maligned root.
Desserts include some more of that creamy yoghurt with nuts and honey and a rich carrot and lemon cake called "Grandma Teta's treat," (or something similar, my recollection of the latter stages of the meal are a bit hazy due to all that No Man's Land).
Great Turkish coffee and some fine Bulgarian brandy elaborately warmed at the table.
This was a very good meal _ the best I was to have during my stay, although be warned it's expensive by Sofia standards. http://www.magernitsa.com

The tranquillity out at Boyana contrasts with down town Sofia, which seems always to be abuzz with the locals' devotion to street life. Sofians love to pass the time over a coffee or beer and the city must have one of the highest ratios of cafes. Some are simple hole-in-the-wall places where passers-by gulp plastic cuts of espresso on the hoof, others belong to tacky chains, but there are an extraordinary number of agreeable places, either boasting hip design or some old world charm.

The triangle of narrow streets between the Vitosha, Graf Ignatiev, and Evlogi Georgiev boulevards seems to have the highest concentration of interesting bars, restaurants and boutiques.

Art'Otel

To overnight, the Art'Otel on Gladstone street just off Vitosha is a good choice right among the bars and restaurants of the district and a short walk to most of the cultural highlights. It's spanking new and the rooms, though small, are comfortable and relatively stylish. Over 60 TV channels to chose from, well-stocked minibar, and smiling staff. Breakfast includes a selection of local cheeses and cold meats, great yoghurt with a choice of four different types of honey, a big stodgy apple and walnut cake, baked apples and the warm, white-cheese filled pastry called Banitsa which is a national nibble. Pity about the bland industrial orange juice, lukewarm coffee and lousy tea, but all-in-all worth the 95 euro a night. www.artotel.biz.

The bars serve some interesting takes on beer snacks. In one called Divaka, they had none of the very drinkable local lagers, but the Staropraman came with broccoli in a garlic and dill sauce and deep fried red peppers stuffed with feta-like white cheese. In another place, our beers were accompanied with a plate of better-fried fresh cepes. It's a long way from pork scratchings.

Coffee culture is big in Bulgaria. One place at the top-end of Vitosha asked if I wanted my espresso from Illy, Lavazza or Segafredo beans! If your trip takes you to the thoroughly ugly National Palace of Culture _ a 70s style Communist throwback once named after the wife of dictator Todor Zhivkov _ you might want to escape to the nearby ChillOut Cafe which is a trendy haven for the city's young and beautiful, and serves a tasty snack of pancakes stuffed with chicken, bacon, pickled cucumber, dill and garlic sauce. www.chilloutbg.com.

Mahaloto

Bulgaria has produced wine since the ancient Thracians and is proud of the fact that the newly independent state in the 1870s introduced laws governing wine production even before it passed the constitution. To try them you can do worse than the Mahaloto restaurant on the corner of Vasil Levski Bd. and Garf Ignatiev Bd. This cosy, brick-lined basement, decorated with saucy French underwear adds from the 1920, is renowned its selection of wines, notably the powerful reds for which Bulgaria is justly famous. We tasted quite a few here before settling on a Merlot produced by the famed Todoroff winery in the south.
The atmosphere is intimate and jazzy, with Cesaria Evora and some other
gently Latin grooves on the sound system. The menu mixes "international"
standards and Bulgarian grills and has some vegetarian choices.
There are good salads to start _ I had a plate of grilled aubergines, peppers and courgettes in some light olive oil. Then pork in a creamy dill and garlic sauce with mushrooms.
Deserts were forgettable, but the coffee and rakia _ a Balkan fruit eau-de-vie rather than the anise-flavoured Turkish raki _ were good. A three course meal with a bottle of wine each (!) came to about 40 leva (20 euro) a head.

And so to Sofia's notorious nightlife. We ended up in Tiffany's, a club just off Vitosha Bd. This had been recommended by some locals as THE happening place. After getting cleared by security and dodging through the SUV's double parked on he pavement, we find ourselves in a vast lounge packed with muscular lads in skin tight Armani T-shirts and bevies of scantily clad beauties sipping mohitos to a thumping techno beat. I'm not sure if any of the girls were Armenian, but taking my lead from Ambler's hero it seemed best to play safe, so after downing a bottle of over-warm Becks I turned and headed out into the night.

Reading

Apart from "A Coffin for Dimitrios" where the plot lingers a while in Sofia on its way from Istanbul to Paris, Eric Ambler set another of his thrillers in the Bulgarian capital _ "Judgement on Deltchev."
Malcolm Bradbury's "Rates of Exchange" and Julian Barnes' "The
Porcupine" take Communist Sofia as their inspiration.
Books by Bulgarian writers are hard to come by in English. One entertaining work is "Natural Novel" by Georgi Gospodinov, a tale of intellectual angst in modern Sofia. Another is the 19th century national epic "Under the Yoke," by Ivan Vazov which is set amid the struggle to throw off Turkish rule.

Getting started

Pictures from recent trips. From the top: Bologna, Ghent; Innsbruck, Munich; Taormina, Antwerp.