Week 53 - Paris and a prayer

Thursday and I am on the train to Paris. Not that the early part of the week was dull in London. In fact, far from it. Masterpiece is a buzz of stand allocation puzzles, with the pieces moving rapidly over the board and finally beginning to settle. This coming year is shaping up really well with the vast majority of our current exhibitors finding their places and a few new ones being slotted into their new homes. Also my friends in Madrid have found some treasures so I am off there next weekend. Finally Mrs Sungoose had her annual jewel fest at our house and, whilst I lurked in the basement plying visitors with Aperol spritz, followed by Daiquiris and finishing off with espresso martinis, she sold and sold and sold in the rest of our Stockwell schloss.

But here I am on the train speeding with the rising day back to Paris. From the Gare du Nord, Giles (from Mallett) and I walk purposefully down to the Drouot. Most of the sales view on Thursday and sell on Friday, so the obvious day to view is Thursday. One has time to consider, reflect and then bid. However, in a cruel and eccentric twist, the rooms have a rule that display cases cannot be opened on Thursday, only on the morning of the sale. I am used to it, and if you really kick up a fuss, they will open them, but you do have to be fierce and insist. It is very French, but when you succeed in buying you really have a sense of having won!

We quickly cover the ground and head on. It is always a race against time on these days as lunch closes everywhere and you therefore have to disembark from the train swiftly and get cracking. In at 10.30, finished for lunch at 12.30. After lunch you can carry on, as most shops open after 2.30pm and stay open until 7pm. Giles hates stopping, he chaffs and rails against the enforced pause. His Spartan workaholic spirit is both appalled and shocked by the frustration that lunch imposes. But, with a plate of food and a glass of sparkling water, his mood improves as I sip at my rosé and devour my onglet with onions and chips. The onglet is a much maligned cut. It is a strip that comes from between the cow's 12th and 13th rib near the liver and kidneys. It thus has a not unsurprising offal quality, lending terrific flavour and texture, and is a haiku on Frenchness. Americans love it too and dub it hanger steak.

Shopping recommences and we pass by the auction house Tajan in the rue des Mathurins. The building is Art Deco and is a pleasure to visit even if the items on view are often not particularly scintillating. It is not slick and done up, but has a charming, slightly run down feel, which makes the whole ambience seem much more authentic.

Then on to Pelham Galleries, not really, but sort of. It is not called Pelham but it de facto is. The business is housed in the old Etienne Levy shop in the rue de Varenne and has been for some years. The area used to teem with dealers but now he is practically the only one left. The shop has been recently refurbished and looks very well, full of the boss, Alan's, usual originality and fantasy in buying. He is a great enthusiast and though we did not see him, rather Dennis his assistant, we were impressed by the musical debris surrounding a beautiful Viennese piano he had just bought. He had clearly just been playing it, as sheet music was everywhere. It was rather wonderful to see this work of art in full flood, alive almost, not just as a cold object awaiting sale.

The day concluded after much walking, hopping on and off buses and journeys down into the labyrinthine complex of the Metro; we quaffed Champagne at a Christmas drinks party taking place across several galleries in the Carré Rive Gauche (the grid of antique shops that starts on the Quai Voltaire and finishes at the Boulevard Saint-Germain). Finally, we withdrew to Le Bistro de Paris in the rue de Lille. The decor is everything that one hopes to find; mirrors, gold and pendant naturalistic electric lights surround marble-topped tables and cafe chairs. Waiters flow in and out of swinging doors carrying silver trays, all wearing aprons over black suits. In short we are in Paris. Oysters (fines de claires), veal sweetbreads and dark wine from Provence follow and then sleep shortly afterwards.

Giles disappears back to London and I settle into a weekend in Paris. I visit the Musée d'Orsay to see the Hungarian art, a show that demonstrates the intimate links between 1900s Paris and the artistic communities of Vienna and Budapest. The show runs until January. Then I speed up to Clignancourt and the flea market that still thrives. Usually I go first thing in the morning and find most of the kiosks shut. This Saturday, I went at midday and I found a heaving throng. The aisles were rammed and the voices of American decorators, followed by their teams, were audible in all corners of the market.

Sunday morning and the sky was bright blue. The streets were mainly empty and quiet and the city seemed peaceful and resting. I wandered over to the Place Saint-Sulpice and, at the Café de la Mairie, settled down to people-watching, cups of coffee and a croque-monsieur made with Poilâne bread. The café is beyond unpretentious, it is dynamically basic. The brown, plastic, simulated leather chairs counterpoint with the dirty, plastic, aluminium-rimmed tables. The staff wander around with a sense of gloom and spill things constantly. From the counter, there was a persistent drip of milk to the floor. But the coffee is perfect and the croque made from this brand of robust rye-enriched sourdough is a revelation. It is worth it all and some more to crunch and chew your way through this classic but innovatively created dish.

Afterwards, I wander over to the church. Saint-Sulpice proclaims itself the second-largest church in Paris. It reminds me of Heston Blumenthal, who was once asked how his restaurant, The Fat Duck, ranked in the world. His reply was that he was 'in the top two'. Not 'number two', but 'in the top two'. However you read it, the answer is not number 1. Poor Saint-Sulpice is in the top two.

Wandering around inside, the air was smoky, thick and aromatic with incense and I felt a real sense of the significance of the day and time. Visitors to the church get excited by the gnomon, a great word referring to an 18th century sundial for measuring the equinoxes and thereby Easter. It featured in Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. They also marvel at the wonderful 18th century fonts by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle and the intense frescos by Delacroix. But I was drawn to a small chapel at the back. In it stands a white marble statue of St Joseph. Graffiti is all over Paris, from the railways to Serge Gainsbough's house, and the artistic graffiti by Banksy and Invader. Here in this dark scented chapel the white marble has been bedecked with writing. I drew closer and saw on St Joseph's knee, in cursive script, a plea: 'Help me', it said, 'I have an incurable disease'. The writing ends with a smudge. Elizabeth's name is visible. I imagine the smudging hand placed on the recently applied black letters. I see a head bowed, a desperate request for help read aloud to the Saint. I found this hope, offered amid hopelessness, unbearably touching. I left and lit a candle for Elizabeth. Someone I will never meet, but for whom I hope some succour came. I walked out back into the bright blue, grateful for all I have.

Week 52 - The Cycle of Life

Cycling along by Waterloo Station I am overtaken by another cyclist. Sadly this is an all too frequent event as I am not very aggressive and have a tendency to day-dream while rolling along. He is riding a 'fixie', a bike like mine that has no gears, and he is weaving slightly erratically over the road. To brake he either rests his Doc Martin right boot on the ground or semi-jumps off. The ultimate fixie has no brakes, and you lock the back wheel thereby forcing the bike to skid to a halt. To achieve this the peddles are fixed, so that you cannot free wheel. I chase after the bike and catch him. Gerard is French and is in construction, his bright orange hard hat is hooked over the narrow handle bars. He speaks perfect English but with a comedy twang like Inspector Clouseau or the policeman from the 1980's TV show 'Allo Allo! He was rushing off to the cycling protest 'Die In', at the Transport for London headquarters in Southwark. I hear later a thousand people turned up. Six cyclists have been killed on the London roads in the last fortnight. He has been cycling in London on a bike with no brakes for eight years. He observes no irony. He gave up skid braking after his knees began to fail, and developed his patent Doc Martin brakes. He buys second hand boots and he gets through three pairs a year. He whizzed off into the South London night, I did not need to ask why he had not simply installed brakes. The answer I knew. The fixie is the ultimate in independence- he had built his own bike and his own style of stopping. To conform would have been to 'sell out'.

The London roads are dangerous and potholes seem to proliferate, but the city is wide-open to the careful cyclist, and nowhere is too far away. I spent the week crossing bridges, from the West End up to north London and down to my part of the south. In my sad, simple brain I always think of London being high up in the north part and basically tippling down to the south. This mental canard could not be more wrong. The city rolls and curves and there are high and low points all over the place, thus cycling is never boring. In addition to mobility you can add smell. The city has different smells in different weathers, seasons, and times of day. Right now, in the cold, with all the lights from Christmas decorations swagging the streets, an almost-burning electrical smell dominates. It is a wonderfully evocative aroma. The river smells too, and crossing it first thing in the morning offers a different smell to last thing at night. The roads have mood changes too- there are times of gentleness, times of fraught hurry and times of simple process, when the cars just go from 'a to b'.

Tuesday is often gallery opening night and on this one I visited a trio. Mallett had collaborated with Jules Wright and the Wapping project, and presented on all floors was a mixed show of photography, cathedrals, Japanese temples and intense saturated-colour reportage images of Iran, set amid the panelling and red carpets. The juxtaposition of the images and the furniture was challenging but very effective. This show runs until the 21st December. Then on to David Zwirner who has such a different space. In the period town house he has taken over in Grafton St, he has fashioned the archetypal white wall space. Residing there were white marble island cities and a vast, brightly-coloured palm tree, all by the artist Yutaka Sone. Born in 1965, he has furrowed the same path for the last twenty years and this is the first time these three islands have floated together. The palm tree is another thing altogether, a patchwork of bold colours and rough craftsmanship it seems the epitome of all the intense spirit of its country of fabrication, Mexico. The minimalism of the space and work coupled with the glamorous young folk sipping beer from green bottles made a stark contrast to my previous visit. Here in the absence of colour, the green of the beer bottles stood out like a deliberately conceived aspect of the show. This show runs until the 25th January. Then for my third I went to Thomas Williams'. His small elegant space on Bond St was playing host to a show called JAHANGUIR spaces. Surprisingly the artist is from Zurich, though the name conjures up a further flung locale. The work is bold and graphic, and there were two tall, thin sculptures standing perilously in the middle of the room. He is clearly a master craftsman, but I found that after I had glanced cursorily around the room I felt I had done it! I had reached my saturation point. Bad me!

Over the next few days for various unconnected reasons I found myself cycling around or through Holborn. This part of London contains our Masterpiece exhibitor Koopman in Hatton Garden, and is crammed full of wonderful and curious corners. The redevelopment of the Prudential Assurance building is a marvellous Alfred Waterhouse survival, the red brick fantasy echoes the Natural History museum, and is a lovely quiet corner to pause and let one's eyes cast around. There are modern disappointments but the touching memorial to the company's First World War dead is very affecting. To Leather Lane- it is a frantic lunchtime food market and impossible to cycle down, but seems a real slice of an older London. Then I passed the Russell Hotel- I had never been in and it is an amazing mix of the slightly sad modern with high Victorian magnificent grandeur. It is unrestrained adornment, marble and terracotta on every face, except for the bits modernity has 'restored'. It was built in 1898 and designed by the architect Charles Fitzroy Doll, whose name reputedly gave us the term "dolled up", his use of ornament was so legendary. The design was based on the Château de Madrid on the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. The hotel's restaurant, which is named after the architect, is said to be almost identical to the RMS Titanic's dining room, which was his work too. The furnishings have long gone now and it is an anonymous confection of faux leather and wood. A sad disappointment.

I continued my Holborn adventure drinking in the charming fake that is the Cittie of Yorke pub on Chancery Lane. There has been a pub there since 1430. It looks Dickensian and it is Grade II listed, but it is pretty spurious being a 1920's creation, more Disney than Dickens. However, it has loads of charm, and sitting discussing plans for life in a booth is a pretty bonny experience. By contrast, nearby in High Holborn is the Staple Inn, a real Tudor building that I had always thought was a Victorian fake. It is now home to actuaries. I don't know what to make of the chances of that (ha ha).

On the 1st of July 2007, smoking was banned in bars and restaurants. I dined joyfully that night in The Eagle on Farringdon Road. I lunched there again this week, not an anniversary but a happy return. The Eagle was arguably one of the first, if not the first gastro pub. I am happy to report it is still good. The cramped conditions are managed elegantly by the boss and I was quickly installed before boquerones, arancini of squash and gorgonzola, and a beetroot frittata. All of which were perfect, the first sharp and oily, but not too much, the second hot, spicy and joyfully tangy from the cheese, and the frittata was a sonnet of deep purple colour and aromatic crunch. Not from hunger at all, I then consumed a squid and potato casserole, the soft flesh of the squid was immersed in a tomato sea with the occasional iceberg of a crisp waxy potato to cling on to. Cunningly I ordered two glasses of rosé at once for myself, so as the last mouthful disappeared I had a sip of rosé left to hurry it on its way. I must visit Holborn more often.

Week 51 - The Train Set

Trains and their guardians, train stations, play a huge part in my life. They are playing an increasing role with the cost of petrol and the opportunity to simultaneously play with the internet. The car is super, you leave your house, you enter the warm cosy bubble and then you set off. You listen to music or the radio and you do so at any volume you choose. The appeal is obvious, but nevertheless I love trains. Yes, you have to take the tube or cycle and park like I do. So, thereby you add an extra journey there and back. But walking into one of the magnificent London railway stations is a soul-enriching treat. On Tuesday I head off to the country from the recreated Kings Cross St Pancras I know well from the Eurostar, but Kings Cross station side of it I rarely use. They have taken down the hideous cheap-looking huts that sat like an encampment outside the station. The bold sweep of the arches is now clear and its brick magnificence can be properly enjoyed. Inside they have created a ticket hall at the side of the station which has a marvellously anthropomorphic white tubular metal fan of struts supporting it. Almost art nouveau revived. Enriched with a cup of coffee, I head out. The train rocks, creaks and shuffles its way out, heading past the still active works. Fields soon appear, the houses become more spaced out and I am entering another world. You can muse, reflect and day dream on a journey like this, but before you can say or do much you are getting off at some random station.

Outside London is always colder and has fresher air. Shivering in badly-chosen thin clothes, I wander round one of the last few antique warehouses. My host has found a few things to offer me and he drinks instant coffee and chain smokes, occasionally fidgeting and running his hands over his bald head. I don't drink instant. Even so, I am doubly grateful for my eye-opening cup on the station platform. At the warehouse nothing quite works, and as he mostly shows his stuff to everyone before he shows me, there is not much point in me trying anything I see on my other trade friends. I hop back on the train and swiftly rattle back into London.

My next station is Paddington which has equally recently been refurbished. It is a terrific sweep of multiple iron-glazed arches like a giant conservatory or green house. The new Great Western rolling stock looks wonderful lined up obediently on their tracks, seemingly eager to carry their passengers to exciting destinations such as Exeter St Davids, or Swansea. There is a homely romance to all this. When waiting for a train at the Gare de Lyon it's easy to be seduced by the fabulous 'Train Bleu' or the myriad holiday destinations in the warm south that beckon and tempt. But the UK offerings are just as good- a lovely cup of tea rather than a glass of champagne. Both have their appeal and their moment for perfection. From Paddington I visit a giltwood console table. My experience of the table is not one of love, in fact my conviction was that it was not even old. But my host here took me to his local pub where we sat in a corner and ate. We talked too, the usual moaning about no-one coming to visit and the trade shrinking. I suspect I could bore for England on that subject, having heard it from so many mouths. The conversation moved on to more positive subjects as we drank from beakers a pale blush rosé from Faugères and consumed our warm potted shrimps. Peppery, with a smooth salty tone, they were the perfect beginning. I remembered making potted shrimps in vast quantities one New Year in Norfolk. This is an easy dish but for thirty or so people it was a mission. Luckily I was only the sous-chef, following instruction from my original and elegant temporary boss from English Heritage. Eating self-potted shrimps, especially ones fashioned in such a manner, is a particularly happy memory. Back in the pub the mood improved still further as our pheasant pie arrived at the table. With its fatty crunchy nut brown pastry pouring over its sides our hearts sang, as the first few mouthfuls silenced us. The light but massively flavoursome juices joined forces with equally succulent flesh, and helped on with the pastry we found ourselves suddenly thinking that the antiques business still had hope and with hard work and conviction we would survive and even flourish. An intense little espresso ushered me back on the train and back to the metropolis.

Portobello is my destination for this Saturday morning. I used to visit often, but now I do so rarely. It is an obvious and much discussed truth that the street has changed. Most of the dealers from whom I bought antiques 20 years ago have left or retired. But it survives and great things do still appear, probably every week! Gradually everything is being pushed down the hill. The Admiral Vernon Arcade still throbs and is crowded. Despite the absence of much in the way of art, the street does not care. Quite frankly, walking along after 9.30am requires patience and dogged determination. Portobello is for tourists and a smattering of die-hard dealers and collectors. But I am going to see a specific object that someone has put aside for me. Sadly I don't like it. I feel really guilty, as I had said that if he ever found such a thing I would be sure to acquire it. Like all ones worst clients, I turned down the sure-fire certain sale (in his mind). But all was not lost, because I had breakfast at the Electric House. The post-fire redesigned interior is soft, plush and welcoming and my coffee was pungent and hot. Full English is the greatest culinary contribution that Britain has ever made. Despite being the epitome of formulaic, it still offers, counter intuitively, infinite variety. In this iteration- the chunky and stumpy salt and sweet bacon, the beef tomato grilled with pepper and herbs, the plump perfect brown sausages, the weeping field mushroom, the fried eggs with pert bright orange yolks, rounded off with sourdough toast, crunchy, chewy and warm with butter- all work hard as a team to make my world seem happy in its orbit.

Week 50 - Running to Paris

I began the week with jewellery and the doctor and finished in Paris. A year ago I was called by my local surgery to have a health review. I did not go; I did not want to go. So, the doctor rang me and said that if I did not make an appointment and attend I would be struck off their list of patients. I then proceeded to give the poor person calling a complete earful about the nanny state, interference and the waste of taxpayers' money. I completely lost it, and was roundly rebuked for my trouble both at home and at the other end of the line. Now a year later I was sitting in the office of the very woman I had given such an earful to on the phone. We had never met, and until now she had just been the bodiless recipient of my ire and frustration. As we sat diagonally opposite each other it dawned on both of us exactly who I was. My embarrassment grew and grew. I passed an awkward 10 minutes grovelingly apologising and then left reflecting that I had been to more of a confessional than the doctor.

From there I rushed to the West End to meet with a jeweller who wants to exhibit at Masterpiece London 2014. It is remarkable how successful the show has been for this sector of the market. It has been robust from the start and though naturally a couple of dealers have left we are annually inundated with applications from all over the world. This one did require a personal visit and whilst sitting down looking at a lifetime's achievement and a dazzling array of imaginative and delectable offerings I felt sad that we could not accommodate everyone. But, the fair is about harmony and balance and presenting the best of as many disciplines as we can. Therefore we have a cap and we cannot keep adding to the roster as the show would turn into a jewellery show and not the international comprehensive compendium of scholarship and delight we want it to be.

Off to Pimlico - one of the biggest characters and personalities in Pimlico is the mercurial Will Fisher. He has turned his business Jamb into a thriving concern in English furniture and fireplaces. We have only recently started doing a bit of business together but he has been around for ever. He has an uncanny ability to know what people want and this he achieves by being incredible effusive and charming. He has a wild Tintin-esque swirl of hair and charges around getting things and being everywhere. He has turned his shops on the road into a small country house. I dropped a couple of unusual 17th century ivory hearth brushes I had found and was bewitched by the mise en scène he has created. It is the antique dealing equivalent of supermarkets baking bread - a marvellous ploy. The aura of fresh and new is engendered there, and here in his shop the feeling is that everything comes untouched and honestly to market. It is a very successful formula. Pimlico is full of such individuals. The street has retained energy and a buzz. Buying here is fun.

The first contracts have gone out for Masterpiece and I raced off to Paris to help finalise some of our Parisian dealers' plans. It is a truth that until you sit in front of people they find it hard to concentrate. So, I speed around, bobbing from the carré to the rive gauche encouraging and nuancing each appointment into agreement. I pass by a shop in the rue de Beaune called Gueneau. It is closing down. I feel sad for another trading loss. I hope the old man has not died but I just don't know. He was one of the institutions. He has been there for at least a generation and was never in his shop before 2.30 and often not open at all - it was usually the best policy to pop in to the cafe on the corner where he might have been sipping on an aperitif. Tall, gangly and slightly stooped by age he always had something new on show in the window. He bought across the board and you were as likely to see a piece of Islamic armour as you were to see a Louis XIV tortoiseshell casket. He once had a monumental lathe turned ivory model locomotive in his window. Every dealer in Paris passed by his small shop regularly because there was sure to be some excitement there to feast the eyes on. His pricing too was unpredictable and you needed to always ask because you never knew when an object would be reasonably or astonishingly priced. It is a sad passing and like with a friend passing, I remember the good times we have had together, I recall the wonderful things I have bought from him. Sadly not enough but happy memories none the less.

Paris is endlessly full of surprises and yet I always follow the same path, trudging up and down the same few streets. I find that I rarely stray into the unknown. With a nearly free day following the frantic shuffling I decide to head off into the unknown. I had been to the Marais many times but I thought to wander over there and take pot luck on somewhere to eat. After a longish walk I found myself in this delightful quarter of Paris. We are so used to the grammar of the Haussmann boulevards that we sometimes overlook this area where the 15th and 16th centuries still hold sway. Lunch followed in a delightful small restaurant called Chez Robert and Louise. The smoky open fire ovens and low key atmosphere put me in mind of the period of the local buildings as did the presence of dogs, in particular a charming young black coated puppy that gallivanted around charming and pestering everyone. All combined, it gave the whole a brilliantly period tone. They served robust food too and I feasted on a perfect plate of fried wild mushrooms, thick, coarse, very salty bacon and a mound of scrambled duck eggs, sprinkled with chives, accompanied by soft, yeasty, grain-filled sourdough bread. I had never had duck eggs before and they were an intense combination of strongly scented egg, smooth and creamy, with the most delicate suggestion of a bite. This called for something strong to accompany it and I found a Primitivo from Salento that seemed to fit the bill with its dark colour, ripe berry fruit and spicy finish. I felt as if I had passed back in time to a more wild and robust era. Paris had become the countryside with open fields, Jacob sheep and grazing cattle. I could hear, in my mind, men shooting in the distance and see mist rolling across woodland and fields. As I paid up and headed off to the Gare du Nord I thanked Paris for offering up another treat and time travel too.

Week 49 - Road trip to Namur

You have got to love a road trip. The car, the road, the intense conversations, and people sleeping while you drive. There is a wonderful sense of pastoral care as you drive in darkness and all the other occupants are sound asleep. I don't know why, but I love it.

7 am and we are off to Namur. Stockwell is rammed and no cars are moving. It seems as if we are going to be frustrated and we might as well call the whole trip off from five seconds into the journey! Eventually, Justin from Mallett Antiques is in the car, Francesca, the 'baby giraffe' is curled up in the back, wrapped in a fake fur blanket and snoozing against a fake fur over-scale cushion. She loves these things and no trip can be undertaken without these crucial comforters. Gradually and grindingly we escape the thrall of London and make it to Folkestone. The euro shuttle is painless and we find ourselves driving up the drive to see Paul de Grande. He is one of the trade legends. He has had his ups and downs but he has been in the business for over fifty years. He is grey-haired and totally charming. He is probably the best salesman of his generation. He knows me well- I first came here around 1990. He jokes and gossips but knows everything about his stock and manages in the most subtle way to share his enthusiasm for each item. His glasses somehow managing to enhance his amused twinkle, rather than mask it. We buy well but modestly, and head on to Namur.

Heavy traffic and torrential rain put us a bit behind schedule but we make it to the fair about an hour after the opening. Justin kindly parks as we rush in. Almost immediately we run into Mo Mohtashemi, the brother of Amir. These guys work like they are under execution orders. There is nowhere on the planet you can go where you won't run into one of them. The stand they put up at Masterpiece is always restrained, elegant and modern. But there is nothing restrained about them. They manifest and celebrate an ambition and a love of their works of art that is quite humbling. Mo tells me that he does one hundred thousand miles a year in his car looking for treasures. We visit the stand of Henri Vanhoenaker- he is young and easy-going, and takes life ostensibly at a leisurely pace. So not true! Despite appearances or manner he too is a robo-dealer. He is constantly on the road searching for the next great thing. He deals in Empire and neo-classical work, and he always puts on a great show. We are here as his guests, so we are particularly keen to look hard at what he has brought. Sadly nothing this time, but he is on great form and has done good business, so we don't feel too guilty.

The next stop is Brussels and back to my favourite restaurant Vismet. Brick walls, open kitchen, and basic tables and chairs belie the genius of this place. They love food, and whilst the food is simple they buy incredibly well and handle their food with love and reverence. We drink a Rully which is warm in colour but crisply cold with baby ice shards clinging to its body, rich in character without being heavy. Zeeland oysters with their intense freshness and bright salty character, then Barbue or Brill, a meaty but subtle fish, not much eaten in the UK but popular in Europe. It is like a meaty Sole or subtle Turbot, grilled and accompanied by a light, unassertive, sharp béarnaise-style sauce. Heaven, especially when rounded off with a crunchy topped, smooth and intensely creamy crème caramel.

We race off early the next day, a bag of refined oven-fresh pastries from Charli, the genius baker beside St Catherine's Square warming our way. Accompanied by a bag of saliva-generating cèpes and chanterelles from Champigros next door, we are heading to Wim Berden in Roermond, who is also a legend and a survivor. He has a massive shop in a private house, beside some equally massive warehouses in the same street. He is a big man, not fat, but large in scale. He has fair hair and has a tendency to lumber rather than walk. He is quiet, he does not chat, but that does not make him dull or difficult. He loves works of art, and he is equally tireless in his searches. From him we press on to visit our beloved Bill and Cornelia. They now live in a retirement home and don't buy quite as much as they used to. I suspect they may both be nearly eighty, but I think Francesca would kill me if we did not visit them. Their life and habit is to sit with a bottle of wine, of an evening, and go through catalogues. They buy as a passion and a love rather than as a business. They are immensely charming and time disappears in their company. Their main room is where the best stuff is, then a spare bedroom and finally a cupboard. Somehow we always end up buying from each of their "showrooms". Sadly and reluctantly we bid farewell and head back to Brussels.

Justin leaves us early to head back to London for a wedding. Nick, a member of the Mallett dealing diaspora and someone who has had a gruesome couple of years with changing jobs and a tricky end to a relationship. He has cleverly found love in the arms of a glamorous Russian, and Justin is off to help him celebrate. It is a not a happy ending, but a happy beginning of a new chapter. We all wish him well. Francesca and I head off into town to cover the flea market and the market in Les Sablons, the historic antique district of Brussels. Like in all big cities, the dealers have withdrawn from the main streets and now present their wares just nearby or round a corner. In a prominent side-street is Tom Desmet. He has recently made his son Tobias a partner and he is a young man full of energy and sparkle. He has worked for others over the last few years, including our Masterpiece exhibitors the Tomasso Brothers, and he has a cunning sense of both the past and the future. He is also very charming- many of the art world girls have had crushes on him. We pass by in the street and he asks us in for coffee. We arrive fifteen minutes later and he has delicious well-made espressos and delightful cakes from Pierre Marcolini, the 'enfant terrible' of chocolatiers from Brussels, but increasingly a global brand. Sitting beside sculpture and other artworks, we ruminate on the future. Tobias is full of enthusiasm and is the elegant counterpoint to the older survivors and warriors of the local trade. Folk such as he will give this business its next incarnation, and it is great to observe.

Following a canter round the rest of the district, we head off to see another old friend Joost in Haaltert. He greets us in a warm way, and over our umpteenth coffee we discuss dealers past and present. The final run to the coast follows, and Francesca buries herself in her fake fur nest and I have a quiet but thoughtful final hundred miles. We reach London seemingly before we have left, and the road trip is over. One thousand miles in three days- not hard or arduous, but I sleep like a log, whatever that means.

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Week 48 - An Auction House 'after hours'.

The young men in sharp suits with slicked back hair and thick glossy ties are out in force. Sotheby's is packed. Upstairs on the 10th floor the Giacometti fills the space, as does the Warhol. But these stellar attractions are not the only ones. All the iconic names, from the Impressionists through to the Modern Masters, line the walls like supermodels ready to be taken home by the next generation of plutocrat collectors.

I had taken the subway from 42nd Street up to 79th Street by the Natural History Museum. On the train, a passionate evangelist was berating us passengers for our sins and predicting our imminent destruction. I was bizarrely grateful for my online Spanish course, as I understood quite a lot more about my impending doom than I would have a done a few months ago. It had been raining as I boarded the train but it was a wonderful warm blue sky when I descended but a few minutes later. A hop on the cross-town bus, and I was by the Mallett emporium on Madison Avenue. My erstwhile colleague of over 20 years, Henry, was in residence and he has put together a great small show of fine English furniture. We chat, drink coffee, and walk through the collection. It is quiet in the shop and we are able to have a calm moment to reflect on the surprise that we find ourselves still fascinated, intrigued and charmed by the subject of English furniture.

After a fond farewell, I walk over to Sotheby's and the buzz and hubbub of a well oiled machine. From the 10th floor I go down and see a show by the French designers Les Lallane that is a true 'Alice in Wonderland' moment, as concrete sheep and giant apples vie for attention with Lily-pad garden chairs amid aromatic leaves and astroturf. From there, on to the Alexandre Reza jewels which shimmer and glisten in a magical way that allows one to almost forget the white hot values, and admire the sheer brilliance of both the craftsmanship and the imagination. Finally I saw a few highlights of other sales, including some that I had seen in Hong Kong, and I head off for lunch.

MOMA has a bar-bistro and a restaurant beside it. I meet with our Chairman, Philip, and unexpectedly also Melissa from Christie's. The plan is to have a quick lunch and then head off to the Rockefeller centre to enjoy the shiny staff at Christie's and their assembled Impressionist and Modern masterpieces. Philip is on great form, and Melissa is a revelation. We have known of each other for over 20 years and she is the maestro behind their English furniture sales. She is elegant, tall, well-dressed and apart from being the ultimate professional, I discover she is extremely funny.

Banksy is all the rage in NY at the moment as he has blazed through the city graffittying hither and thither and stirring up a hornet's nest of opinion about what art is. The outgoing Mayor has ultimately spoken that all graffiti should be removed, but Banksy's celebrity means that people are trying to preserve the work. Complex indeed. Outside MOMA, cunning vendors are putting Banksy style stencils over used subway maps, and selling them for 20 dollars. The obvious fierce debate rages at our table and we amuse ourselves all the way through to cheese. The only detour on the way was a nostalgic tour of our varied experiences of eating white truffles- that fabulous, pungently aromatic Italian treasure that arrives briefly in our local delis about this time of year. We discover that we have all had key experiences in a now closed restaurant in Pimlico in London which was called La Fontana. Back in 1985 my mother was so pleased and delighted that I had found a job that she took me out for dinner there on the evening of my first day of work. I was wearing the new shoes, the new suit, and had taken off the new coat that had generously accompanied my new job, rewarding me with the princely salary of £6,000 a year. We had truffles shaved onto our delicately oiled fettucine, and I was a 'goner' for life. The taste and wonder of that moment in my mouth as I told the story and as I write it now. Suddenly we discover that it is 5pm, and Christie's will be shut. At this point my secret unexpected saviour steps up. Melissa will show me around.

Whilst Philip amuses himself doing early Christmas shopping and looking for a white truffle for his supper, we enter Christie's. It is virtually empty. The usual hum now a soft tread as the guards are almost the sole occupants. A few waiters skitter around with trays- clearly there is going to be a party later on. We walk though the ground floor. As with Sotheby's, there is a cavalcade of masters. But we have them to ourselves. Bronzes, terracotta works, oils, works on paper all are there to admire or dislike in total privacy. It felt like our own private collection. Then we went out to the lobby and down the ramp to gallery six to see the Francis Bacon triptych. It is huge, the colours are amazing and it is an obvious masterpiece- an introspective work by and of an artist, playing with contexts of religion, renaissance painting and an analysis of the nature of figurative painting. I am sure it will make a record price.

In the same room is a massive Koons balloon dog. It is vast and dominates the space. It is also very shiny and we quickly discover that is like a fairground hall of mirrors. The curves distort and shift our reflections in myriad and increasingly hilarious ways. We while away a frivolous few minutes taking silly pictures of ourselves in the reflections. Then I notice the small abstract canvas hanging round a corner. It is, of course, a Jackson Pollock. Painted in 1949, it is an extraordinary work. The sweeps, swirls and dribbles of paint speak of such passion and intensity that you can almost sense the breath of the artist on your neck as you stand before it. I just stand and stare, and I pass through some magical field imagining the harsh world of 1949, the Second World War and the paranoia about communism dominating contemporary minds, and I feel humble in front of this work of genius. I am not emotional in front of art- I don't leap for joy or fall into a heap of tears, but I felt a lump in my throat out of respect for the endeavour and wonder for this 'thing' and I had to move on to avoid being embarrassing. I bade a hasty but fond farewell to my saviour, and headed off into the twilight.

The clocks go back in the USA tonight and the Marathon is being run. I am off home to London in the morning and I worry that I will miss my plane. But all is well, and squished into an economy seat beside a man writing a report about a bank who manoeuvres around the largest laptop I have ever seen, I watch movies all the way back to London.

Week 47 - The Arts Caravan Moves to NY

I am in New York, and yes, I am visiting another art fair- this one is the International Fine Art and Antique Dealers Show, New York. We are in Park Avenue at the 7th regiment Armory, that wonderful fusion of the martial with the apogee of American Art Nouveau. The Tiffany rooms are one the great sweeps of design on the planet. This is the big season in the 'The Big Apple', and everyone is now here. There are the major 'fall' sales going up at Christie's and Sotheby's in a week or so, where the signature lots of the season will be sold. Christie's have secured for sale the Francis Bacon triptych, 'Three Studies of Lucian Freud' dating back to 1969, and Sotheby's have Andy Warhol's 1963 'Silver Car Crash (Double Disaster)'. It will be a true clash of the titans.

At the Armory fair there are a few dealers who had stands in Hong Kong, then London and now here in Manhattan, and they are a tough, hard-bitten crew indeed. They take no prisoners. Like old school rodeo stars, their myriad tumbles have given them world weariness, but also a strength and resilience. They retain their sense of enthusiasm for another ride- a 'back in the saddle!' approach. They smile and are as enthusiastic as ever.

The fair itself is dark and serious with the traditional line of aisles with brightly lit treasures on show. The famous doors are as heavy as ever and as you heave and force your way in, you feel on familiar ground. The opening is splendid and glittering. The dealers are elegant, suited and tied, and talk in hushed tones about their offerings. The clients look around and kiss their friends and quaff and consume as enthusiastically as possible. The mood is jovial, friendly, even collegiate.

Afterwards, I dine with a museum friend and he has ordered in a veritable sea of sushi. Sadly we toy with our food, sated by fair goodies. We drift off home tired and full of the impressive grandeur of another show in the Armory. The next day Nazy, Masterpiece Chief Executive and I go down to one of our Masterpiece exhibitors Leila Heller. She is promoting the work of dandy photographer, Ike Ude. There is a gallery talk and lunch at the relatively new Americano hotel round the corner. The group is passionate, eclectic and engaged. The artist is definitely peculiar, but in a good way. We admire the eccentricity of his vision and then dine. I sit next to an amazing authoress who is delving into the complexities of Iranian women and their history. She has memories of both the Shah and his aftermath. I have rarely met anyone who expressed such a sober, calm and patient attitude to the perceived need for change.

The day ended with a dinner just off Canal Street in a new restaurant with my ex-colleague and now successful dealer in mid-century design, Nick, and his amazing wife. She is re-defining photography and teaching a class. The restaurant is buzzing. It has only been open a fortnight and all the staff are as keen as mustard to help us have a good time. The day could not have been a more stark counterpoint to the previous. Not simply youth versus age or even knowledge versus learning but actually more a difference of approach. The day was full of optimism for the unknown, the adventure ahead. It is not a question of commitment or scholarship. It is not a question of price or business process. It is fundamentally a question of optimism.

In Chelsea, the mood is very intense, amid the 'bruhaha', the bars, the restaurants and at the highline you have all the big contemporary galleries. People come to look and they come to buy. Chelsea has a confidence that Uptown lacks. Every gallery in Chelsea has a polished concrete floor, white walls which don't quite touch the floor. Lights sparkle and glass windows are expansive.

However there is a very surprising sense of conventionality compared to Uptown. The art in Chelsea is varied but the framework is formulaic. Uptown, by contrast, the variety and colours are hugely diverse. No two stands look the same. Russian marble consoles from the late 18th century sit alongside Impressionist paintings, which in turn sit beside fabulous jewels or silver. If originality and interest are what you are seeking, then search no further. The reality is that the galleries in Chelsea are rammed, and the Armory is not.

We decide to take a trip to Brooklyn and visit Prime Meats in Court Street. After taking the rumbling, infrequent train walk down the low-rise leafy streets to arrive in a corner restaurant which could almost be an English pub. We are welcomed heartily despite being nearly a half an hour late, and we dive into what they call 'bloody Maria's butch', which I know as a 'Mexican Mary'. Fabulous, fruity, spicy Bloody Marys, but made with tequila as the lighter fluid. A great start. Then burgers, with fat crunchy bacon that tastes of pork rather the crispy saltiness one usually finds, and soft, tender pickles which have an aroma of herbs and spices as well as traditional vinegar. We finish with a cliché, cheesecake. This is a really classic cheesecake that sticks to your teeth and has a crunchy salty sweet biscuit base. All accompanied by New York State sweet white wine that scintillated with a burnt raisin taste that enhanced the cheesecake beyond measure.

After lunch, we wander the area, taking in the extraordinary difference between the local scene and the intense bustle half an hour away on the train. We stopped by a junk shop and one of our group bought a little cast iron stand with a marble top, which he was going to use as a table in his apartment. The sun was warm and the streets wide. We felt as if we were having a weekend away in the Cotswolds. Admittedly it was a slightly dystopia-like view. Looking down side streets there were terrible sights of industrial wastelands. However, the parallel streets of Court and Smith were charming and full of interest.

We sped back to the city to meet with a friend from Sotheby's. He is such a delight. Eager, enthusiastic, prone to tears in front of art, he is the kind of person who makes others fall for the art world. Despite having been worn ragged by constant work, his eyes still widen with his passion for it all. We eat at the Trump Hotel, the Jean Georges, where a civilised fusion of peekytoe crab and a smoked salmon carpaccio helped by a few glasses of not-too-cold Sancerre end the week for us.

Week 46 - Deep Frieze

The heavy wagons of the contemporary art world have rumbled into London. Christies and Sotheby's have punched sales up, with the evenings offering each around 50 lots and totals reaching over £20 million, backed up by day sales of about £10 million. By way of contrast, and to give an idea of the importance of this market there were decorative arts sales last week in New York which both brought in just over $2 million, or to keep it in the same currency about £1.3 million. PAD has emerged from the LAPADA chrysalis in Berkeley Square, and Regent's Park plays host to the leviathan Frieze fairs. Frieze Masters is the bigger draw for me, but the main show is equally, if not more, astonishing. There are a lot of people and there is a lot of money in town.

Faced with so much to see and do, I began the week drinking champagne. The stupid o'clock Eurostar. Getting to the train for 5 am required a cycle ride to St Pancras at 4.30 am. Luckily it was not raining and the brisk cycle through a quiet London was a joy. I have never enjoyed the Elephant and Castle double roundabouts so much. They flew past. Up over London Bridge, the Thames looking sluggish and moody- I peddled onwards to the station. I chained up my bike, full of energy and raring to go. Seemingly an instant later and before most Londoners get to work, the train deposits me at the gare du Nord. A brief walk follows, to the charming but impressive gare de L'Est. I meet up with my wine-making friend and his 'chef de cave', and we are on our way to Reims, everyone in good spirits for the oenological adventure ahead.

Since Ruinart became the champagne sponsors for Masterpiece, I have grown from being a fan to being an ardent devotee. This year at the fair I became addicted to the rosé
champagne. They make two, Ruinart and Dom Ruinart. My advice to all is to avoid the Dom. It is so astonishingly delicious you will penury yourself! The standard champagnes have a Dom too, and that is equally ridiculous. Last year, Nicola and I were invited to the château for lunch and a tasting. They plied us and entertained us, and we staggered back to London delighted and unsteady. This time, the two Frederics, the president Dufour and the chef de cave Panaiotis, had agreed to do the same for my friend. His wine making business in Hungary Sauska wines is up and coming, and he is just beginning to make 'Methode champenoise'. He is not using Pinot noir and Chardonnay, however. He is making wines from the Hungarian local grapes Furmint and Harslevelu. He is doing something incredibly hard, but as rewarding as it is challenging. We are being given an hour with Frederic P, and he is amazing, kindly sacrificing time from the harvest. He is an eager, direct, highly-focused wine obsessive. Spare and trim of form, he wastes no time and spells out the handling, nitrogen, pressing and fermentation processes at Ruinart in exquisite detail. It becomes apparent that though the great champagne house are physically close, for obvious reasons, their wine making philosophies are radically different. At each stage, from planting to bottling, there is room for debate and difference. The professionals discussed and I sat quietly sipping Dom Ruinart. I could not share any wisdom but I could swallow. They all spat it out, I consumed as heroically as was dignified.

Lunch at the magnificent les Crayeres hotel brought another masterclass. The food was as elegant as the surroundings, and my grilled kidneys with morelles mushrooms were distractingly good. But the magical thing was listening, as Frederic D gave my friend advice on how to market the wine. It was equally clear, true and as passionately expressed as that of his namesake. The day concluded as we headed off to the station, but not before we had time to sit and reflect on the fact that Ruinart is clearly in fantastic shape, with two very strong hands at the wheel.

PAD is elegant and stately, with wide aisles surreally punctuated here and there with massive trees. The interior is a total contrast to the claustrophic atmosphere that was here but a few short weeks before. The dealers seem chirpy and though the aisles were far from crowded on the day I went, there was a mood of confidence. There was a lot of serious art and the French were there in force. But the most amusing stand was that of Tim Jeffries of Hamilton Gallery. He had constructed a bondage chamber in one side of his stand, with raunchy photographs enhanced by chains and black leather. He had won the stand prize and not surprisingly as it was witty, challenging and showed off the art well.

Frieze Masters was amazing. The dealers had pulled out all the stops. The international trade had gathered in this sober festival of grey to bring great work. True it was basic, true the restaurants are squashed in at the back, but the overall effect is one of a gathering of excellence. The dealers looked eager and optimistic and I think enough business was done. I sat down briefly beside Mathew, the owner and founder, and congratulated him. He seemed exhausted but well, and so he should be- the fair is, once again, the talk of the town.

Sunday I had set aside for the main Frieze, but it began badly, with the unpleasant discovery that our side passage had been broken into and four precious bicycles had been stolen. My almost new Toni Bevilaqua, both my sons bikes, and, weirdly, an old dog of a bike that my wife occasionally rides. Astonishingly my Van Moof was left behind, and the reason became clear later on. The police arrived and took my pathetically pointless statement. Then we looked at the door, which had a massive foot print by the lock. Forensics came up from Croydon and took a print of it, Nike apparently, easy to tell from the tread. I had not chipped or 'frame registered' any of the bikes, so bye bye! I felt really sad for all us, including the bikes. It is sort of like virgins being sold off to be slaves. Their next owners will treat them roughly and they will probably end up in some degraded state. My poor bikes!

But, my motto has always been," every loss is a shopping opportunity in disguise". So we head off into town to buy a bicycle. Several shops later we find ourselves further depressed. There is nothing out there we like and the knowledge of the shop assistants is both lamentably small or they are unpleasantly pushy. We repair to Villandry in Great Portland Street, ostensibly to have a quick lunch before heading into the Frieze maelstrom, having failed on the bike-front. Lunch is delightful. Villandry is consistently good, stylish, good service, great, not-imaginative food. A glass of crisp cold Prosecco, dressed crab and a delicious burger with bacon, and the world is beginning to look right again. But the heavens have opened. Rain is falling in torrential proportions. We naughtily head for the car, but are stopped by a small bike shop call Velorution. The owner is wise and grey haired and the shop is elegant and the bikes are beautiful and well explained. Despite the downpour my sons and I try out several and finally fall for an all black beast of a bike, the Leader 725, built around the ethos of the New York couriers. It is light, well-balanced and very fast. They set it up for us, increasing the ratio of the single gear. Downstairs in the workshop there are two identical bikes, just bought by a legend of English football for himself and his son. There are only two hundred and fifty of these bikes in the UK. He tells there is an unexpected boon to buying a rare bike. Thieves don't take them as they are too easily traced. Hence the survival of my Van Moof. aha! We end the day excited by the whole bike experience and heartened against the sadness of our loss.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 45 - Poached eggs and cold feet

Some weeks start on Sunday, some on Monday, and every now and again you encounter a rogue week. This was one of those. Last week obdurately hung on until Tuesday night when I landed back in London from Hong Kong. The swiftness with which the fair was wrapped up and disappeared was fleet, bordering on astonishing. Hardly had the last stragglers meandered away when pouring out from behind a flimsy curtain flowed an army of packers. With them came labourers who immediately began stripping of the carpet. The hall became weird as the sticky back carpet was peeled away like some huge plaster from the skin. The concrete squealed and screamed like a disgruntled child. Our treasures were carefully labelled and wrapped in packing swaddling and we disappeared. I left them with my mobile number and an instruction to only call if there was a breakage. No calls ensued! The next day I pootled about, drove to the airport and flew back to London in a haze of movies. I think I watched six films!

My week began on Wednesday. A few months ago I went to Spitalfields market accompanying Mrs Sungoose on an early morning costume jewellery hunt. Whilst she truffled around, like a greedy magpie entranced and attracted to all the shiny things, I wandered around increasingly cold and disgruntled. After a while I spotted a dealer selling scientific instruments. Glimmering and flickering in purple sat an enormous Tesla orb. I have been a fan of Nikola Tesla since childhood; he was the acme of the mad scientist. He invented AC (alternating current) and he invented many other things too, electric roads and stuff. But his real failure was that he believed and worked for the common good and he hoped to improve the lot of mankind. His ideas were taken up by some but he ended his life in poverty and obscurity in a New York hotel obsessed by numbers, pigeons and bedevilled with crippling OCD. I recommend anyone to look him up- a truly fascinating man. I am proud to have stood at Tesla corner in New York. This orb was huge, quite a multiple of the ones you see in trinket and toy shops. I bought it for my former employers- they hated it and made me buy it. I have just sold it at the Battersea fair and so I am back at Spitalfields hoping for lightning to strike twice (literally, the orb is controlled lightening). It doesn't yield one, but I am just as cold as the last time I was here, so there is consistency there. We arrive at about 8am and the stall holders are unpacking. It is a far cry from Avignon, but there is an echo. The market itself takes place in the Foster and Partners structure, rebuilt in the remnants of the old market. There has been a market here since the mid 17th century, and you can feel the ghosts of bygone traders even though their bones are a memory.

After a while I give up and head off for breakfast in the coffee shop and restaurant that stands beside the market in Brushfield Street.

A few months ago it was called the English Restaurant. Now it has enigmatically rebranded itself as Bar and Restaurant, a British variant on the ever popular American concept "no name bar". It gives the impression of having been in situ since time immemorial. Though the building itself looks 18th century, I assume the place is pretty new. But at this early hour they know the way to deliver me warmth and content. A perfect coffee- seven grams of coffee, pressed down to exquisite compactness, and then hot water squeezed through. An eye-openingly fresh and berry-rich flavour. Not a jot of bitterness, not an iota of sourness, or that evil scent of burnt that ruins many an espresso. The thick pale brown crema gives, as its name implies, a creamy quality to the whole cup thereby proving, once again, the total lack of need for milk in this ambrosiac beverage.

Two pert poached eggs with almost orange yolks sit coquettishly on a short stack of sourdough. An embarrassingly short space of total silence follows resulting in an empty plate and that all encompassing inner warmth that comes from the combination of a winter breakfast with hunger and culinary delight. Beside us sat a table laden with cakes, the temptation to stay and eat my way through the day in a celebration of greed and English food was powerful, but the office beckoned. No treasures, but I felt warm as I sped off to Liverpool Street tube.

Given that travel is an integral part of my life it surprises me to acknowledge that I have never been to Finsbury Park. After a tube ride of singular boredom and directness on the epically noisy Victoria line, we wend our way to our friends, Chris and Melissa. Chris has been cursed with debilitating arthritis for as long as I have known him. But he bears his burden with equanimity. His beautiful wife Melissa and he has fashioned an extraordinary alchemical relationship. They are totally unfettered, unrestricted and completely experimental in all they do, his arthritis a speed bump, not a limitation. He is quite peculiar-looking, sporting a hair-cut that resembles something from the Middle Ages- pendulous fair hair to chin length, with a curl inwards at the bottom. He has a liking for the fez and often wears the most individual clothes. His face is mobile and animated but also strangely unformed, like soft clay. You feel strong hands could remodel it. However, he and his family travel and trek widely, and he has written the definitive travel log for visitors to Tusheti (look it up). Domestically, he is a rare genius of passion and obsession. He tells me, whilst his family nod in exhausted agreement, that he has been working on a chicken casserole recipe for over 20 years. It began as a European dish, and has now absorbed influences from India, the Middle East and Morocco. We did not eat it, but I hope for an opportunity in future. We dine on, amongst other things, the best bruschetta I have ever had. A simple dish which simply requires everything to be perfect. I have never had the oil, garlic, spring onions, peeled tomatoes and sourdough in such immaculate proportion. Even the size of the charmingly, savagely chopped tomatoes sent a frisson down my spine. We finished and began the meal with alcohol he had made. A sparkling rosé to begin, that was aromatic with skin and fruit but delighted with a very subtle and seductive bubble. We finished with a potato vodka combined with a pear eau de vie (redolent of Hungarian Palinka). He is an obsessive and a perfectionist, so the bottles are considered as passionately as the contents. The ridiculously smooth crystal clear potato vodka bursts into life with the addition of slightly cloudy pear. Chris finished the meal telling us of his project to create his own perfect knife. He was going to harden the steel and carve and decorate the handle. Chris is a true renaissance man and it is hard to keep up with his creativity and his passion. Melissa cooked the perfect apple tart, and the combination of pastry and fruit was heaven, but Chris is a hard act to keep up with.

The week ended with rain and cold, watching my son Inigo row on the Thames. Barnes Bridge, no oil painting, was particularly grey, and as I stood around, stamping my feet to arrest the cold, waiting for the thirty-five seconds of action as he shot from under the bridge into the distance, I could not help but be grateful for my bright red Masterpiece umbrella.

Week 44 - Fine Art Asia

A seven hour time difference and an eleven hour flight can mess with your head. I am in Hong Kong and the boxy red taxi is speeding me to the Grand Hyatt Hotel. I'm in a state of confusion about what time it is and how hungry I am. My colleague, Nicola, is cool, calm and collected but I feel deeply baffled. I have been here before, a couple of years ago, but it is still as alien as anything. The voices have a lyrical cadence and the bright lights and tall buildings inspire a complex chain of reference. What I see is a hybrid of New York and Naples in Italy with a bit of the film Bladerunner thrown into the mix. I am overexcited and wiped out in equal measure.

We are on our way to the Fine Art Asia fair, which is on the fifth floor of the Hong Kong Convention centre. Two floors down the massive and numerous escalators, Sotheby's is in full swing preparing for their fandango of jewels, pictures, wines, ceramics, furniture and highlights from around the world. The convention centre is enormous and full of a myriad of events. Many events only last a day and we see tsunamis of people washing in and out. One day there is a deluge of small girls in ballet costumes, the next we see red shirted canon camera fans clogging each and every hall way, literally thousands of them. Cameras hanging off them like strange skin ailments and their logo emblazoned t-shirts worn like Boy Scouts.

The fair build is painless, amazingly the tapestry of periods and media fall together in good order. We breathe a sigh of relief as our catalogues arrive, and though I get hot and bothered, it all gets done. Nicola and I retire to the hotel. It is rather weird, I find that I am in a sort of art-dealing holiday resort. The Convention centre is connected without having to go outside of the Grand Hyatt or the Renaissance Hotel. At the 11th floor you can pass between the two hotels by a pool and a skyline view of the Kowloon. I can swish seamlessly from dealers, to Sotheby's staff, to clients and then back to bed and do the same in reverse. We sit in the lounge and drink a glass of Ruinart champagne. It is like being back at Masterpiece London. The only difference being that we are on the other side of the fence. Here we are the exhibitors, plying our wares and aspiring to make sales or meet clients for the future.

On the opening day we are introduced to Chantal, our translator. She is our sharpest interface with China, or rather Hong Kong. She can speak almost perfect English, Mandarin and Cantonese. She is modern and worldly-wise but in equal measure quiet, polite and deferential in a way I have never encountered in Europe. Life is tough in Hong Kong. Jobs are hard to come by and the cost of living is astronomical. She is an art student, as is her sister. Amazingly, she and her boyfriend dream of moving to Edinburgh to work and embrace nature. She is an ardent vegetarian and is appalled by the local passion for all meat and especially pork. She wants daily walks into the Scottish country side- that is her fantasy future. Her sister paints wonderfully subversive traditional Chinese scroll landscape paintings. For example she features a Hermes shop that looks like a temple, to satirise the corruption of Chinese culture. Chantal makes porcelain shoes that sit together as a parallel for the nuclear family.

Chatting on the stand to Chantal about her huge Samsung telephone, I demonstrate how flimsy and small my iphone is. As I turn it over in my hand I, somehow manage to flick it onto the floor. It lands theatrically a few feet away and the face is shattered. I internally weep at my foolishness, especially considering what my phone has been through over the last few months. The face is totally crazed and I realise that I will have to get busy to fix it. The next morning I head off on the metro, which is bright, airy clean and super efficient to the IFC shopping mall where a huge Apple store resides. I enter and a keen young sales assistant bowls up and with a broad smile and a charming tone informs me that there is absolutely no hope of getting any help or support from them. So, what do I do? I decided to head off to the market area around Wan Chai. A amazing district where live green crabs wrapped and bound in bamboo shoots sit cheek by jowl with knock off designer fashion, jade carvings and cut price cigarettes. I wander for an hour hoping to spot an eager trader sitting surrounded by a mound of telephone parts keen to restore my phone. But unfortunately nothing. Then I had an inspiration. I switched on web browser on my crazed face phone and searched for "iphone repairs" a moment later through the cracked ice, I espied 'Mac win' in Kowloon. My saviour, swiftly called, was elegantly named Mr Love. Hailing from India he had not learnt Chinese but was earning a good living fixing the cracked screens of the local ex pats. Miracle of Miracles, I had found love in Hong Kong! Two hours later on the 11th floor flat of the Imperial building in Canton St opposite the leviathan of trading Harbour City, I was lectured about the parlous state of my phone. He was so shocked/delighted by my Danube-doused phone that he took pictures of the rusty insides and changed my battery (apparently the battery was on the brink of exploding, an exaggeration that I enjoyed, but so pleased was he to see such a wretched battery that he was going to post it on an iphone repairs forum). I left to return to the fair with a phone boasting a clean interior, a new screen and a new battery. If it could, my phone would have looked smug.

Because of the time difference my contact with London and the Battersea fair was necessarily intermittent. But the team had done well, selling a few pieces and connecting with the friendly, dog-tastic crowd in a highly effective way. Mrs Sungoose and Francesca have pulled it off. It was both relieving and distressing to appreciate how superfluous I was.

The fair is coming to an end. The last day is Monday, and we have run out of catalogues, with a day to go. Over two thousand have been given out and our small but elegant confection of masterpieces have been photographed, examined, discussed and generally lionised. It is beyond doubt that the local crowd were fascinated and eager to learn. Chantal stands with a stack in her hands and each visitor has a copy presented to them. She looks sad when they turn down the free offer. I ask her if she is okay, she boldly answers that "it is their loss!" she can cope with the rejection. So she says, but her face tells a different story, each denial is a whiplash.

I have just had dinner with the Dutch Chinese art dealers the Vandervens, at the Four Seasons hotel. They are a husband and wife team, second generation in the business and full of energy and passion for the business. The fancy three Michelin star Chinese restaurant Lung Keen Heen cossets and coaxes dish after dish into you. Deep fried black dumplings, lobster in egg white soup, chopped beef in lettuce wraps, and ending the meal a stack of interestingly textured, delicately flavoured jellies and sweetmeats, accompanied by a wine aromatically flavoured with Osmanthus and goji berries, with a soft pink colour. A true taste novelty. There is a wedding reception taking place in the hotel and the corridors hum with happy noises and glamorous locals in silks and black tie. The view out across the bay glitters against the black sky. The whole city delights, and it is hard to focus on the company or the food. The senses are all assailed and delighted.

Week 43 - 6000 miles apart

Battersea Park in South London is approximately 6000 miles from The Convention Centre in Hong Kong. Cunningly, I have arranged to be in both places at once. There is a shocking counterpoint. At Fine Art Asia, the arts fair which begins next week in Hong Kong, Masterpiece is mounting a selling exhibition of European arts, taking a timeline of creativity from the very ancient to the near contemporary (a Cycladic white marble figure to bronzes by Henry Moore and Alberto and Diego Giacometti). The sweep of the many centuries are nodded to as we canter across 2500 years in 70 square metres, with 18 objects in 5 days. Each piece is a real master work, by a master artist.

I spent the week discussing prices with the various dealers. It is one thing to embrace the marked price as a sort of elegant concept. The dark reality is engaging with what they would actually accept as a final sale price, given aggression and determination from a buyer. The range goes from several million to low six figure sums, and in each case there is a scale; a happiness point, an acceptance, a grudging agreement and a 'get lost'!

In Battersea, Sungoose is showing over the same few days a squint at neo-classical design from mainly the 20th century, and nothing over £7,500. A slight contrast, to say the least. My assistant and Mrs Sungoose are running the stand. For all my professional life, I have been buying with a view that others will do the selling. At Mallett Antiques, the team was such that it was quite a rarity to even have a chance to sell something I had actually bought. Now, of course, things have changed beyond measure. It is down to me, and I won't be there! If Sungoose sells, well then it is, obviously, "hurrahs" all round, but if business does not happen, then do I blame them? Or blame myself? Or life, or the slack nature of the trade? I am mentally preparing.

I went in to the fair this morning to finish the stand and already there are the now-familiar barks of the dogs. Small, fluffy intensely pampered hounds sprinkle the fair like audible confetti. I sometimes wonder whether there is an inner connoisseur in each of these canine brains. I doubt it, but they give the appearance of examining both the new and the familiar with a turn of the head and a sort of tolerant patience which belies their numbskull natures. I am now familiar with my space. Francesca has painted it beautifully and Orlando, our calm, fair-haired porter, delivers everything efficiently and swiftly. Francesca has a great boyfriend who has helped paint and he also has a buddy helping him. I am six foot tall but so is Francesca, and her boyfriend Chris and his sidekick are much taller. I feel like a shrimp looking up at their chins. They are young and healthy, with a wonderful youthful glow to all three of them. The world is potential and adventure for them and it is quite inspiring and enthusing as we engage in the opening skirmish of this fair. The pieces they like, I find I like more. It is as if another generation has endorsed them.

On Friday night I went to dinner with an amazing couple, Marcus and Monica. They are furniture designers, but not in a traditional sense. They are nomads nominally based in New York. They look at all we see and use and redefine it using history and ergonomics, but filtered through a lens of technology and modern materials. I have rarely been around two people who I thought could generate a world of game-changing design. Marcus drills down into a subject so deeply that you think he would have got lost down the metaphorical rabbit hole. But he pops up, in an unanticipated spot and has ideas sparking out of his head like an effulgent Roman candle. We ate at The Punchbowl by Farm Street. This friendly, dark London pub had been owned by the film director Guy Ritchie for some time, but I think he recently sold it. The food is nothing and nor are the wines, but it has the strange aura of a crucible. You sit close, and conversation is encouraged. I am sure many an idea was germinated here and many a plot hatched. We left on that wonderful high inspired by nothing more than minds and ideas.

By contrast, but locally, the LAPADA fair opened this week. It is in a great location and they get a great crowd. However, despite the trees and the flush of impending autumn, the fair feels dark and claustrophobic. Too much black and too narrow corridors. There are treasures on display and many of my friends have stands, but the energy is not there. I spend an hour wandering and get lost a few times. It is very hard to pin down exactly where to go and how to manage the traffic. On Sunday the fair will end, and PAD will begin their build, to coincide with Frieze. It is amazing to think of these two very different fairs which share the same structure. The challenge for us all who sell history is to make it relevant and though the fair looks smart, it does not seem to have that contemporary engagement we all seek.

The thrill of the week was a jump over to Milan to meet a spectre. There is a glass worker, designer and dealer based there who for many years has been a silent participant in many dealers' lives. He is now in his seventies and was born into the apogee of 20th-century design in glass, represented by Carlo Mollino, Gio Ponti and Ettore Sotsass. Almost every piece of glass we look at today which isn't Scandinavian is either these guys' work, or a version of it. Everything! And my friend was part of it. Like the Woody Allen 'Zelig' character, he is ubiquitous but unnoticed. He has fashioned and manipulated glass for over 50 years, and his current output seems not the oeuvre of an old man but a youngster, an enfant terrible, trying to make his name. He looks at the books and new materials and comes up with truly insane ideas in coloured and polished glass. His workshop sits alongside one of the canals or 'navigli' which surprise visitors in Milan. It is sadly not the case, but the Milanese love to tell you that they were designed by Leonardo da Vinci for the Sforza family to facilitate the building of Milan cathedral. The truth is that Milan is blessed with a network of magnificent canals which are gradually being saved and restored. The story is better than the more complex and multi-century reality.

To reinforce the point, it is peculiarly inspiring to step along the canal and sit in a cafe drinking an exquisite, intense, minute espresso, flanked by contemporary glass and 15th-Century architecture.

I have commissioned a pair of square red glass mirrors which have ridged sides that reflect in disconcerting and baffling ways. They distort the images, twisting the light and confusing one's sense of the dimensions. I hope they will amaze and delight others as they do me.

Week 42 - The Wish Tree

I am lucky enough to travel frequently to Paris and I am used to the tube to St Pancras followed by the journey on the Eurostar. However I very rarely step outside that comfort zone of familiarity. This Monday, having slipped back to London for a meeting I crossed Paris on the elegantly quiet rubber wheeled metro and found myself at the Gare de Lyon. This station is dedicated to warm summer locations and the painted murals that adorn the walls celebrate in schematic but atmospheric ways the many destinations that await the eager traveller. They are so evocative of the turn of the 1900's. The crowning glory of the station is 'Le Train Bleu' one of the most glamorous restaurants in the world. Shining with brass and glass, with leather and velvet softening the sound, the painted walls and cavorting stucco encourage and endorse the excitement of train travel. The restaurant is more like an opera house or a room in a chateau. I did not have time to eat but I pushed past the rather worrying presence of guard at the door who was sporting a short black machine gun, and had a quick wander around and a swift cup of coffee.

The train arrived in Montpellier and my new best friend, the taxi driver Olivier, was waiting for me. A few years ago he moved his family from Paris and now lives in the small village of Lauret where he controls the taxi market. From the hurly burly and anonymity of Paris he is now like a ministering vicar bustling around running errands and whistling passengers around the neighbourhood. He is a modestly sized man, of medium everything and exudes an aura of cheerful bonhomie. He chatters away, regaling me with tales of dishes he has cooked. There is a local farmer who leaves the occasional chunk of beef by his back door, or another neighbour who deposits chickens from time to time. There is a local barter system for which his contribution is a ride to the city. He is very keen on having a fig sauce with all the meat he cooks, partly because it is delicious but partly because he has a glut from his garden fig tree. He spoke for a full five minutes about buying and eating the perfect peach, waxing effulgently on each aspect of its colour, texture and juice and even price. Underlying each anecdote is the assertion of how much better everything is in Montpellier than Paris. Indeed, it is hard not to succumb to the charms of the south. London and Paris were rainy and cold with a sharp autumnal bite to the air. In the south the sun is bright and the air just about still holds summer in its grip.

Back at the hotel, the Auberge de Cedre, I sit in the now empty dining room and drink a glass of wine with some cheese. This lovely hotel has the atmosphere of a rambling farm house, guest rooms are all over the place in a sort of scatter shot way, the public rooms meander into each other like the tributaries of a lazy river. The floors are cracked tiles for which being level is a distant memory. But below this ramshackle superfice there is a beautifully run hotel. Francoise does front of house and the engine of the kitchen is run by her husband Lutz. The food is simple but well constructed and sourced and feels like the best of proficient but not fancy home cooking. The wine here is the thing and they have a long list of local wine producers and their output, with a lean towards the organic. We drank a Muscat sec which was a lovely rich honey colour and was dry but with an echo of fruit and sweetness. A creamy soft goat's cheese spread onto rough sourdough. It was an exquisite end to a long but lazy day.

At 8 am I return to the Brocante trenches. Montpellier 'parc des expositions' opens its gates and we all flood in. The next morning Avignon does the same. The days pass in parallel. I punctuate the day by heaving objects and pieces of furniture over to the shippers. I have given all my stuff to Alan Franklin who carefully pack and note down each crumbling treasure that is brought before them. A dog sits quietly and patiently beside them like an old retainer that has seen and done it all many times. Walking out on the second day I am haunted by a Louis xv giltwood console table I saw earlier. It was too much money and I have spent all the money that I took. It is a cash only economy at these fairs. I am with a couple of friends and we are all heading off for lunch. I pat my pockets disconsolately and realise that I really want that table. My pals sweetly open their wallets and I rush back in with our combined funds. The table is still there and I open negotiations. 10 minutes later I am back with Alan Franklin with the table. It cost exactly all the money I had. I sat back in my car with exactly zero Euros left. Now I have to wait a fortnight for the table to arrive. I hope I still like its carving and proportions. We have a celebratory lunch in on the way to the airport and I impressed by one thing. The toilet has a piano in it! A first for me.

On Sunday I went with museum friends to Sussex to visit Uppark and Petworth. They are both National trust properties and conveniently only a half hour apart. My pal is giving a talk in NY about the relationship between English Regency sculptors and the Baroque. Whilst many English artists at the time went to Italy to study antiquity they seem to have been simultaneously infected by a love of Bernini and his contemporaries, and why not? Especially because the artists they admired were following the same educational route as themselves. I joined up to the Trust as it seemed both sensible, as I was visiting two houses, and a good deal. The contents of both houses are famously remarkable. The sweep of rooms and their contents dazzle and amaze. Petworth in particular has treasure after treasure. We spent a great deal of time in the sculpture gallery admiring both the antiquities and the works by Flaxman, Westmacott, Cardew and Rossi. Especially the magnificent boxer, Rossi's "Athleta Britannicus" He typifies the way artists were able to be totally contemporary but reference both ancient and baroque themes. This powerful work exudes British confidence as much as anything else. Implying in its manner and effect that England can take on the world. All these wonders installed by the 3rd lord Egremont when he built the gallery in 1827. But, and this is a big but, we were shocked by the terrible lack of information; both houses don't have guide books available. We noticed at Uppark in particular where everyone talks in every room about the fire. (Which was terrible but the house speaks itself eloquently about its architecture and contents). Many of the pictures and pieces of furniture don't have any labels. One guide, when asked about a pair of chairs, knew nothing (no room notes even) advised us aggressively to go and buy a guide! And then was unrepentant when informed that there wasn't one available. In fairness and counterpoint, we did encounter a wonderful volunteer beside a curious hybrid of an 18th century bed, who could not have been more helpful, obliging and informative, through her we engaged in a close examination of some seemingly unique embroidered damask.

As you leave Uppark there is a 'wish tree'. We were all sorely tempted to put up a wish for scholarship rather than 'amusing' tea towels and branded chocolate.

Week 41 - Avignon and the fairs in the south of France

I am on the bridge at Avignon but I am not dancing. Curiously it turns out that the famous nursery rhyme relates to bacchanalian shenanigans that took place 'sous' le pont d'Avignon rather than 'sur'. Allegedly, an uproarious tavern was known to shake the foundations of decency in this temporary home of the popes for a number of decades during the 14th century.

The idea of wild dancing counterpointing with papal morality is of great interest to me, especially the thought that the dance has passed into nursery time lore whilst the papal occupation in France has become a bit of a footnote. The bridge is a wonderful fragment poking out from near the Papal palace in an expectant rather than broken way. I have always known and sung of being here with only one thing to do; now I am looking and reading, but not dancing: too shy to fulfil my destiny.

I have been in Avignon for a few days in advance of that five times annually triple Brocantes at Beziers, Montpellier, and Avignon. In addition you have the permanent Brocantes at Isle sur la Sorgue, which kindly and generously lends a purpose to the off day between fairs. Each fair begins at 8 am which means even the most diehard enthusiast has to head off to lunch by 12, or at a push 1 pm. That fevered rush, the manic careering from one stand to another inevitably gives way to coffee in a flimsy plastic cup and a scarily garlicky sausage: coated in sweet but vinegary mustard, in a rough-hewn slab of baguette. Hands are shaken, grunts and pleasantries exchanged. At midday the regulars are now holding packages and downing rosé champagne from local vigneronnes with the gusto of the condemned. The afternoon ushers in the sybaritic pleasures of Provence cuisine and wine. Yes, like champing hounds the dealers hover and slaver by the gates at 8 am. They then finish and have to wait until the next narcotic hit. Before this 'volte face' no friends are made. I ran into a dealer from Norfolk who pointed out as he passed that he was "overtaking you on the inside!" What can you do? Everyone is eager to share the observation of an egregious fake but they remain silent about a killer purchase that will change their month (or even their year) - unless of course they think they might sell it to you! Thus the phrase, "Meissen Elephants, those are rather your sort of thing aren't they, I might have a pair to offer you." So the scene shifts to the myriad restaurants and bars and the conversations continue well into the wee small hours.

However, I have been here for nearly a week and the twin appeals of the Roman age and the medieval vie for my attention. This area of the south has a profusion of large and ancient buildings in a remarkable state of conservation. The secret to their survival seems counter intuitively to have been pretty much in constant use. Those structures that fell into disuse were pillaged as a free stone supply and disappeared into the cityscapes only to survive as random blocks to be spotted by enthusiasts. The concomitant of survival seems to be that all the structures have been covered in tattoos.

The most prolifically graffitied thing I have ever witnessed is the Pont Du Gard, a massive and nearly perfect Roman aqueduct. Rather brilliantly, the guide notes give the construction dates about 40 to 60 AD and the cost of building: 30 Million sesterces. I assume this is a lot. The water flowed at an astonishing rate into the city of Nimes for almost 500 years but was then blocked due to poor maintenance. However it has remained as a strategic route and over the centuries warlords charged travellers for safe passage. Waiting was often lengthy and the walls are bedecked with names from across the centuries. In the end tourism arrived and brought even more enthusiastic graffiti. The earliest inscription I spotted was from the late 18th century, but naughty visitors have added their names to the bridge for nearly two millennia.

We then have the charming city of Orange that has both an amphitheatre and a triumphal arch - the show offs! In the Amphitheatre Augustus looks down, full figure from above with his arm raised; there is no doubting who paid the bills here! On to Nimes to enjoy the complete surviving colosseum and a perfect crisp white temple, which looks like it made from cut sugar. The temple is called, rather unromantically, 'the square house', "la maison caree'.

In the first century BCE the Romans clearly sunk a lot of cash into the south of France. It must have been pretty rebellious to have warranted such splendid and lavish civic expense. The weather is bright and blue, the wind is zephyrous, and as we sit in the amphitheatre watching the German, Greek, and Spanish tour groups pass we try to imagine bawdy comedy, profound tragedy and the hubbub of the toga wearing crowd. With such an amazingly preserved setting the leap of faith required is far from taxing.

When staying in a hotel food takes on a disproportionate importance. There is nothing else to do. So I browse through Trip Advisor and the Michelin guide, and calculate where we should eat. Ironically there is one restaurant in Avignon that has managed to divide these two advisors. It is an art nouveau restaurant on the first floor in the main street. Michelin raves about it, they write at length about the historic setting and the traditional Provencal cuisine that is both an essay on, and a reinvention of all that the area stands for. By contrast Trip Advisor loathes the place for its surly service and trenchantly unobliging staff. The food for them is stuffy, boring and takes too long to arrive. This apparent contradiction finds resolution in that there is really no conflict between the two interpretations. It is the difference between being supremely French and appealing to a more international audience. I chicken out, however, intimidated by the fear of a rough waitress. Instead we go to a restaurant called L'Essentiel. We dine in a stone courtyard and immerse ourselves in the warmth of the night, and the intensity of local flavours. An intense beginning with poached egg, wild mushrooms and shaves of truffle nestling in a bed of Brandade, accompanied by an aromatic Champagne that had a rich colour, full body and a fresh tingle of minerality, Mayot-Lagoguey. A dish I will remember for a while. This was followed by duck breast with smashed black olives and a bouquet of tarragon. To round off the meal: an extravaganza of three different sorts of chocolate pudding - a crispy crunchy one, a smooth creamy one and one oozing raspberry liqueur. A decadent catalogue of delights.

I do adore food and I particularly adore unusual but happy combinations of ingredients. Each mouthful should delight, and educate in equal measure. Alongside great food comes great service. At Masterpiece the Caprice group provide in our pop up spaces a lesson in service. The visitors are always stressed and in a rush, but we get only compliments for the way they are looked after.

We went to the Isle sur la Sorgue to search for an elusive treasure. We walked up and down slightly disconsolately as nothing emerged that tempted us. I had never been before and the town is a waterside treat of bright colours, pretty shops and restaurants. The atmosphere bodes well but we found nothing. We had been recommended to lunch at the Jardin du Quai and as we entered that oasis, inauspiciously just by the major road artery into the town and the railway station, we were struck by the cunningly and artfully arranged garden. Beautiful staff ushered us to a shady arbour where we were looked after with a consummate professionalism that was a great comfort. Our every need was attended to with speed, grace and a smile. The food was good too, but my abiding memory is of the perfection of service. We left on a cloud of content, so mellow were we that we wandered into a shop we had not seen before, promptly made a few small purchases, which even when we got back to the hotel we did not regret. A perfect end to a perfect meal.

Tomorrow we have the big fair at Montpellier followed by Avignon itself.

Week 40 - Love

Love is great, especially to look at or watch. Being involved yourself can be a bit stressful, but to observe, it is awesome. I am having lunch with an art dealer I have known since we were at university. Medium height, fair hair and a slightly nervous demeanour, he exudes love. I won't say his name because he is a very private person, always has been. When I talk about stuff, I tend to be focussed on the opportunity, or to be more blunt the money. He is different, with the artists he manages and the art he trades, he is connected, in a way I can simply only aspire to. We are lunching at Little House, a restaurant in Mayfair, talking about a possible project for Masterpiece, his business partner is at the table too. The last time we met was by chance over breakfast during Art Basel. Whilst we ate muesli a dead cow floated upside down past the window. A memorable breakfast. His partner is one of those women who are so beautiful that it is impossible to maintain eye contact. I become like a wax model in a furnace, I disappear! It becomes a sort of challenge to see how long I can look for. I think I managed at most 2 or 3 seconds. She is rapier sharp too; when an idea is mooted you can almost hear a crackle of energy as she thinks it through. They are very exciting pair to be around. He has found a new artist to work on and develop, but it is not the financial maths of the equation that appeals to him. He has a quasi spiritual connection, this is the love thing. He has to care and care a lot for him to engage. Many people talk to me about the quality and number of the visitors to Masterpiece. They want an analysis of the demographic, how much money they have and where they come from. Not him, he wants to know if we get the kind of people who will come prepared for the emotional adventure of encountering his artist. I don't mean that ironically, it is really true. For him it is like introducing your new lover to your friends and family, they have to like them too. We talk and eat. They order chicken. It is called flatiron chicken. A sort of squished grilled chicken breast. They are both skinny and beautiful, so they don't eat carb's. I order fish and chips. The way people both eat and remain skinny can take two paths at the table. One path is to eat some and leave some. The other is to murder the food, make a terrible mess of what is on your plate to give the impression of activity. My two diners take a path each. Obviously no wine, no pudding, starter, bread or coffee. It is the cheapest lunch I have had in ages. As I sip my coffee following their departure and flip through the book of the artist we were discussing I cannot help but feel inspired. The energy and passion these two have for what they do is amazing. If anyone says the contemporary art world is cold blooded commerce then they should spend time talking to this team.

I went to see the Sou Fujimoto pavilion at the serpentine gallery. Fortnum's have taken over the café and we sat beneath the white lattice structure eating colourful macaroons. How this sweet almond biscuit sandwich has taken over the world is a total wonder and mystery, they seem to be ubiquitous It all seemed strangely symbolic. The grass was green and the sky was an extraordinary blue. The coffee was pale brown with a thick and aromatic crema. The pavilion has been up for a while and comes down in October. Whenever I wear anything white I can guarantee to get a stain on it almost before I leave the house, probably tomato, or something with an equally strong colour. This is sadly true as well for the pavilion. The clear plastic disks that punctuate the space have become a dirty brown and scuffs and stains render the structure more reminiscent of an aged children's climbing frame rather than an exploration of space. Maybe it is meant to?

There are lots of other permanent sculptures around and the massive Henry Moore arch looks amazing standing like a colossus amid scrub, looking up from the river to the gallery. The patchy grass and weeds enhance rather than diminish its stature. I then went over to remind myself of the Norwegian boulder. A massive block of Cambrian granite, it was shipped over and installed in 1978. It is a thank you to the British for their support during the Second World War.

It is both magnificent and slightly comic as I imagine the ceremony and grandeur of the rock installation and simultaneously recall that the 70's were the decade of the 'pet rock'. This memorial thereby anthropomorphises in my mind and speaks with an ancient Norwegian accent. I wonder how many visit this stone? It is definitely worth the detour next time you visit the Serpentine. We walk back past the soon to open Zaha Hadid designed Sackler Serpentine extension in and beside the old "Magazine". It is a typical fluid organic structure and a fascinating juxtaposition to the severe symmetry and classicism of The Magazine which was built in 1805, in the style of a Palladian villa, as a gunpowder depot for the army in the event of (and I quote) "foreign invasion or popular uprising" . This was the time of Napoleon and he was planning the first Channel tunnel. Albert Mathieu, a French railway engineer drew and presented plans in 1802. This munitions store was still in use, apparently, up to the 1950's. The work looks almost completed; I can't wait to look round inside.

Back to Love, we ended the week at a friends' civil partnership ceremony. We gathered on the newly constructed portico outside the long room at the Oval cricket ground. We have been friends for an astonishing twenty years and we have seen his relationships wax and wane. But a couple of years ago he found old fashioned proper romance and love. He is a lovely guy, simple, hardworking and fond of a quiet pint in the pub with his mates. Somehow here in this room, which in a small way represents the acme of traditional England, our friend in a small, unassuming way became a pioneer- a beacon of the new modern age. Two men declaring their affection and commitment forever, not hidden away but under the lights and eyes of cricketing ancestors in their whites. I felt we were in a better world. He said himself with tears in his eyes and his partner holding his hand; "I never thought that when I was at school I would be able to declare my love in public with you all today." we all cheered and toasted their union. A great end to the week.

Week 39 - the end of Summer and the beginning of work

The week is a week of transition. The summer is concluding, and we cling on to its last embers, enjoying the sun and the occasional shower. This is England after all. We know that the real graft begins again next week. The Masterpiece London office is still pretty quiet, but the buzz is beginning. Many more calls are received each day to enquire about stands next year. Details of museums and fairs that we need to visit are crystallising. The mood is one of building up rather than unwinding.

I begin the week getting aboard the Flybe flight to Jersey. Our Chairman Philip has a house there, and we needed to gather before our first board meeting of the season to plan our Museum strategy and our needs for the vetting next year. We are continually looking for ways to enhance and improve the range and diversity of the skills and the nationalities we draw in to Masterpiece. Masterpiece is quintessentially a London event, but the drive has always been, and continues to be, to avoid any hint of parochiality. Jersey is a surprisingly beautiful and hilly island. I did not know what to expect, but it was much, much more theatrical to fly over than I anticipated. Having flown through blue skies, we managed to find a cloud of fog to land in. Two minutes outside the fog-bound airport, we were back in blue skies.

Philip has a beautiful house with lush surrounding gardens. We drink coffee and talk the talk. It is unexpectedly exciting making plans. Chicago, San Francisco, Austin, the names all carry a frisson of thrill. The museums that reside in these fair cities coupled with the local cultures and architecture lend a sense of delight and expectation to the prospects ahead. Before long we are heading off to St Helier; our twenty-minute drive is apparently an epic by Jersey standards. The Green Island Restaurant looks out to sea. The tide is huge and goes out while we lunch, revealing jagged rocks between sweeping pinky grey fields of sand. It is very striking and impressive, and a massive draw for local surfers, but a nightmare for people who want to sail. The restaurant sits in the corner of the beach car park in a small, walled terrace of white plastic tables and chairs. The host is congenial and relaxed, and though there is a menu he asks us what we would like to eat. It is more like being at someone's home than a public place. I choose fish cakes with a Thai chilli sauce, and follow it with lobster that has just been boiled. Philip has scallops with chorizo and squid, followed by lobster as well. The sun shines and the Pouilly Fume is light, crisp and flavoursome. The fish cakes are a delight, small aromatic and flecked with fresh coriander. They are followed by a culinary masterpiece. The lobster was perfect- ridiculously fresh and juicy. It was milky white and had the texture of prawn, a delicate rewarding bite that gave the flesh that slight pause in the mouth that was rewarded with an essence of the sea. There was salad and chips as well, but they were, frankly, irrelevant. I got the meat out of the claws without breaking it, which is always both satisfying and feels like a good augur. The last mouthful was accompanied, cunningly, by the last sip of wine. The Green Island Restaurant is not the only good seafood restaurant on Jersey, but I would challenge anyone to find a better one. Though completely basic, it was that most perfect of combinations great food, wine and service. I hope Philip asks me back.

In a possibly unhealthy and obsessive way, I love my telephone. My Iphone issues have been legion over the last few weeks, Danube swimming and all that followed! However, my love is undimmed. Having recovered my drowned phone and it springing Lazarus-like back to life, it went on to crush my hopes. It could do everything a smart phone can do, except make and receive calls- something of a frustration. However, a few days later, I find myself sitting on the sofa at home answering emails when, beside me, my limping Iphone crackles and, with a burst of noise, returns to life. It is like something out of a film as I swear I see a blue flash, before it makes its first call in many weeks. I feel like my phone has been in a coma and has returned to the community unscathed. A minor triumph for my patience.

My phone is teaching me Spanish. In idle moments, in transit or when there is not enough time to read, I fill the time with a language learning app called Duolingo. In a few weeks I have acquired some understanding of the language. In addition, I have been having chats with our cleaner who speaks Spanish and not much English. I have been able to find out about her family in Colombia and her 18 month-old son, Christian. I know it is lame of me not to know all this stuff anyway, but she has fun laughing at my stumbling, and I am learning. Trying to fathom the minds of the people who wrote the programme is, however, another challenge. It is American, and the pronunciation is all geared towards saying 's's' like 's's' and not like 'th's', which is what I recall from school. There are some sentences which I find both intriguing and amusing- "setenta hombres comen pollo" ('seventy men eat chicken'), for example. Or the even more fascinating "es un doble agente" ('he is a double agent'). When do they think these phrases might inform or enlighten? Perhaps in conversations with Cuban spies infiltrating Miami and eating a lot of chicken, in large all-male gatherings? Baffling, I am sure you'll agree.

I got two telephone calls this week that resulted in two pieces of furniture now residing in my sitting room. Furniture should be both functional and beautiful, as William Morris said, but it also has to be something you can engage with. I have spent some hours looking and stroking these pieces. One is walnut, the other mahogany. You need to feel, smell and touch wood to get a true sense of its age, history and calibre. When I bought for Mallett often pieces would come and go before I had time to truly absorb them. Now I can really engage and I find the intensity so much more rewarding. One piece is almost certainly from the Chippendale workshops, and is quintessentially English. The cabinetry, the timber and the proportions all speak of excellence and attention to detail. No screw, no joint, no veneer is unconsidered. The other piece is in the manner of Linnell, and carries an English sense of French furniture. This one is all curves and carving, but concluding with a sense of balance, symmetry and harmony. Both pieces are very English but they speak in different ways, and they are a joy to explore. Next week they may go, but I learn something each time I come into the room, and that is very rewarding.

Week 38 - Norfolk

Ben is quite a character. 6 ft 6 and weighing virtually nothing, he bears his thinning swept back hair and his bold beaky nose as if he were a supermodel. Which indeed he was back in the day, flying off to Japan to strut the cat walk bedecked in Yamamoto and surrounded by equally skinny girls. He is now the foremost exponent in the UK and possibly the world of fine lapidary work, having passed through zoology at Oxford and a business importing rock crystal and ebony from Madagascar. He is truly a one off. Having returned from foreign parts he joins me in my kitchen to prepare me for the onslaught ahead. I have rashly offered to advise him over the negotiations for a new railway arch workshop, on his current street in Brixton. We drink coffee, he is nervous, I am tired. The coffee is warm and mid brown and comes from Caravan in Exmouth market. It is smooth and aromatic and leaves the mouth with a slight hint of herbs and spices. It is the last cup and I am sorry to see it go. We plan and then head off in his heroically residual Nissan Prairie. It is pale blue with a dusting of rust, almost like a subsidiary finish. All the joins are now taped over with duck tape. The passenger window is sheet plastic with a hole gashed into it. It is best to hold the door when travelling as it is inclined to open at random, as if trying to escape itself. We arrive and meet the agent, who attends with a body guard. Poor man has turned grey with all the stress and violence of his few months with Network Rail. The banter between him and the 'muscle' is friendly but wary. We all discuss the arch's merits and then move on. The dilemma is how to extract crime and malicious damage from a street where no one else wants to be. The struggle is real and yet the solution requires an entrepreneurship that a mere cog in a bigger machine is not able to bring to bear. Poor Ben has many further months of inertia ahead.

The big thrill of the week is that I am heading up to Norfolk on Friday to see my nieces and sister. A Bank holiday weekend of beach, crab and sleep beckons. But not before a celebratory lunch with Fabian from Marie Curie. Their party at Masterpiece raised a staggering £840,000. Although my role in that was merely introductory and supportive, he sweetly wanted to thank me. We headed off to Brunswick House in Vauxhall. This magnificent 18th century building now sits like an ageing aunt among the young, nestled as it is to the side and at the feet of the vast St George's Wharf apartment blocks. In principle it is a reclamation yard slash antique shop. However, that side of business seems rather sluggish whilst the bar and restaurant side goes from strength to strength. We chatted amiably and he conveyed very eloquently his passion for Marie Curie care and how he came to be in charge of fund raising. He is slight, blonde and full of febrile energy. He sails and climbs mountains while caring for his wife, children and charity. He told me of a cycle race he is about to undertake from London to Oxford. I am slightly jealous, but only slightly. When you have had the success they did at the fair, it is daunting but challenging to repeat it. We shall see in the next month or so what they propose. The amazing thing now is how many charitable organisations are keen to take on the task of holding a drinks party for 1500 people! The food is robust British with a nod to offal. I have delicious sweet breads but I thought his grilled trout was small and overcooked a grim experience which becomes bone management rather than a culinary exercise. The 'mains' were unmemorable, the only other highlight being the very pale rose, which we quaffed with sobriety but delight.

Off to Norfolk, and we discover that our dear friend Luke is over from the USA and is down visiting friends in Kings Lynn. He comes over for tea and reveals that he has just been to Houghton Revisited, and that despite the hype it is possible to simply roll up and buy tickets.

The next morning we arrive at the house as the gates open. Having got there a fraction early and driven round the perimeter of the estate. Thereby enjoying the fabulous pigs in their seemingly wartime mizzen hut homes and equally admired the staggering view of the facade from the tree lined 'drive'.

The house is miraculous and always is, retaining so much of its original furnishings. The grounds now have superb modern monumental sculpture which reminded me of Masterpiece and spurred me to aspire to better next year. The walled garden is a joy of wild and tame planting with wit and clever architecture woven into its fabric of wooden follies. But the hanging of the pictures sold to Catherine the Great is one of the great cultural triumphs of our age. One is genuinely transported back to the first period of the house. A superb fusion of early 18th design and architecture with mid 17th century romantic pictures arranged with harmony, but not tediously so. We wandered around for quite some time revelling and marvelling in the lush generosity of it all. I have to admit that I was, as always primarily informed and drawn to the furnishings. But, the paintings brought the rooms to life in a way they never had before. The beds (of which there are three) each tell their own stories. A majestic chinoiserie piece, an intimate Chinese one and an incredible lush green velvet example, backed with an enormous voluptuous shell, that shrieks of love and passion surrounded as it is by images of romance. I suddenly have an image of the hedonist first prime minister, Walpole partying late into the night at his palace in Norfolk.

Norfolk however crammed with Stately homes it may be is also the home of the finest crab in Britain (open to debate perhaps, but it is good). My lovely sister cooked up a small poem of a pasta dish. Using crab from her own shop, the Walsingham Farms shop, she prepared the spicy crab with linguine from the river cafe cook book. Parsley, red chilli, lavish quantities of crab, olive oil and the secret ingredient lemon juice. It is not really a secret but the trick is to be both brave in quantity and not drown it. It requires both courage and sensitivity. She totally pulled it off. Washed down with Pinot Grigio blushed with cassis, the day ended in a fully rounded way with all my senses being pampered. Thank you Norfolk.

Week 37 - A wedding in Hungary

Exiting Budapest airport from terminal 2b the wrong way down a one-way street was not a good start to the weekend. However amid the blare of angry and surprised motorists the car backed up and we sped off in the right direction feeling the heavy weight of embarrassment on our shoulders. Two brisk hours later and with the Sat Nav completely foxed by the new motorway we were heading south from Budapest and arrived in Villany where the prenuptial dinner of Stefanie and Peter was to be held at the winery. Reflecting on the months leading up to this point, and the intervening ten days since I swam with my phone and we dressed the house at Zebergeny,I remember the months of shopping, shipping, restoring and more shipping which have at last come to a crunch moment. The wedding and all the inherent brouhaha are upon us.

We pull in and park. The buildings are modern and sleek, built of stone in the traditional manner. We are immediately greeted with wine and the ultimate snack; grilled white sourdough bread, sour cream and a lavish coating of truffle shavings. The pale brown leaves looking for all the world like the debris from sharpening a pencil. But the taste is far from woody. The oil on the bread converses elegantly with the sourness and freshness of the cream and the whole pays copious homage to its noble leader and purpose the truffle. As I sit on the terrace looking out at the bright sunshine which rolls across hills of neat vine rows, I cannot think of anything to complain about. A glass or two later and we are swept off up the hill by Laci (Lazlo) who runs the vineyard. He is a graduate, some (but not many) years back, of the oenology course in Budapest. But in truth he is the scion of a local wine maker. But not a grand one, his father never bottled wine. He grew vines, made wine and sold it in his own two bars. Barrels mounted on shelves, glasses and robust bread, fat and salami. That was his father's life through the communist era. He lived, worked and flourished away from the rules and regulations of totalitarian life. He had recently retired and spends his days mainly sailing on Lake Balaton. His life continues to be simple and unadorned. Laci is full of respect and admiration for his father and yet he is also ambitious to achieve something extraordinary with the wines he is making. He is young, academic but hugely physical and enthusiastic. His clothes are a testament to his energy being covered in bits and pieces of grapes, vines and soil. He is an intense dark haired Hungarian who speaks with frustration, annoyance but deep love of the local terroir and the issues of taming and making wine from the local trouble maker grape Kadarka. The grape ripens erratically, has thin skin and irregular quantities of juice. But when handled judiciously it creates an intense dark wine which reminds me of the black volcanic wines of southern Italy. He moves on and we admire the friendly merlot. It is a regular, well behaved, reliable grape. He claims to greatly prefer it. I am not sure. His sensible side obviously drives him to avoid the Kadarka, but it is in his soul, part of his DNA.

An amazing supper follows, sublimely transcended by a pre supper snack of roughly chopped roast chicken doused in a light gravy fashioned from a reduction of over 30kg of chicken bones, and then enriched with salty butter and white wine. This light snack is then further embellished with more truffle shavings. We eat, we talk, we drink and a reverent calm falls over the company. We all know we are beginning a minor marathon and this is but the appetiser.

The following morning disappears as we spend a long time looking for my wife's telephone. She is convinced we left it on the plane. We cancel the sim, we tell the insurance company, we ring the airline. Having achieved all this, she finds it in a pair of trousers. We repeat the whole previous exercise in reverse. So much for the morning.

We head off to Zebergeny. The drive is beautiful and calm. Wide open fields gradually give way to low hills and finally after Budapest we get into woods and proper high landscapes. We arrive to greet a military operation of tents, waiters and gardeners and everyone is in a high state of anxiety. The brides dress is hanging in her room. A vision in white supplied by Vivienne Westwood that the bride and Mrs Sungoose have been working on over several rushed visits to London. Szolnay pottery has been unpacked and is being placed around the house. I wander around, not really doing much but, answering questions and making decisions that no one else is prepared to. It all seems to be rolling into place. The family retire and we install ourselves into the local hotel. Dedicated, it seems to the heroic efforts by the owners to making wild boar and deer extinct locally. I have never seen so many trophies adorning the walls of anywhere. They are set against a vivid orange that won't take second place.

The day arrives and we are all ready. The troops gather at the charming village 1900s painted Catholic Church. It is full full full, the aisles charged with the standing guests. The bride arrives, the service takes place. They are married. They weave through the crowds and ride back to the house in a horse and carriage. Then we have the blessing. They are married again in English this time to cater for the other half of the party. At this point the mayhem properly starts as a band from New York who play southern Dixie style music burst the solemnity with a passion. The bassist playing an instrument fashioned from string, a white bucket and a sawn off broom handle. He plays it with a ragged black leather driving glove. This serenade is counterpointed by the Hungarian gypsy band, who are wonderful. However, our friend Ernst quietly goes up and slips them a ridiculously large tip. Despite being an average age of at least 60, they proceed to go nuts. They play insanely well and though taking the occasional break they delight us all until about 2am.

To talk of wine, tears, food, dancing and speeches is to diminish an evening/ night of some of its splendour. But candid, intense and tireless is the Hungarian way. No prisoners are taken. And though we bailed at 3 there were still folk partying hard and occasionally in the pool until way, way past dawn. The particular detail of a Hungarian wedding is the bride changes her dress after midnight from white to red. No metaphor there! And she then must dance with every man at the party. This is quite an effort for a bride who has been married twice that day and has been partying already for 8 hours. But Stefanie did it and we all applauded and shouted as mightily as we could.

We head back to London the next day, back to reality, and plans for the Masterpiece show of European Treasures at Fine Art Asia. Hong Kong has never felt so far away.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 36 - August workers

There is a strange unnerving sense of inertia in the air. Everyone seems to be anticipating a holiday or is away on one. Those that remain at work appear rather forlorn and left out. At school for sports we were always lined up, captains would be chosen then they would choose their teams. As each person got the nod you stood there silently squirming, hoping neither to be last nor forced into an unwilling group. August workers are a bit like this, a strange unhappy residue.

It was really hard going to the office on Tuesday. I dragged myself to Hatfields, the restoration experts, in the morning to usher in the latest purchases and encourage their restoration. There, the boss Anna is away, on a stay-cation, the foreman is away, so is one of the polishers and two of the cabinet makers. It feels like the 'Marie-Celeste". The wind whistles along the corridors as voices echo in the silence. Lights are out all over the building. Sarah, who we all call the Princess of Nebraska, is in charge and though she is the picture of efficiency there is no one left to instruct. I cycle up west to the Masterpiece offices, the roads are quiet and yet the pavements are full. The crowds are out in force to see the changing of the guard march down the Mall. Heads bob and all that can be seen is a strange forest of novelty flags above the heads of the crowd carried by various tour guides. London is a strange place devoid of inhabitants and charged with visitors who block my cycle path. The office is similarly empty. I make a few calls and then head out to lunch with Red Finer at Little House. He is one of two brothers who are the loyal sons and team for Peter who runs the world's leading arms and armour business. He is a rather dashing figure, both he and his brother favour flowing swept back locks. I picture them as young knights earning their spurs for the King, their father. They both display a stirring blend of filial and professional loyalty. He, Peter, is a lucky father to have such boys. Red tells me he is off shortly to California on a restaurant tour; he is going to eat his way up route 1 from LA to San Francisco via Big Sur. I am green with envy. He has managed to secure chefs kitchen stops in iconic eateries all the way. We order Gavi wine, and it rewards as ever with scent and crispness. He has the Dover sole and naturally eats it on the bone not wanting to miss all the curious corners of meat that so reward the forager. In a sort of school dinner's manner I order the pasta. From Hungary I have been missing plain pasta and it is delicious and comforting in equal measure. Conversation flows and we cover a lot of ground analysing and replaying some of the highs and lows of this year's Masterpiece. He shares his hopes for next year and some broader ideas. His views are sound and interesting; he is a true trader having been in the business approaching 20 years. We part, and I head back to the now empty office. I am not twiddling my thumbs but it is strange to be surrounded by silence.

The next morning I make a brief appearance at the office and fill in a few forms for Hong Kong. Make some calls to dealers encouraging them to participate. But this is as nothing in comparison to "The trial of the week". Last week I took my phone for a swim in the Danube. It turns out iphones cannot swim. The poor creature died in my damp hands and then I left it somewhere drying out and that was the last I saw of it. It must have been sent to the great mobile hunting grounds in the sky. On my return I contacted the insurance company and had to decide whether to claim for losing my phone or killing it. I plump for loss. Several calls later I am promised a claim form, however the end of the week is approaching and nothing has arrived. In tandem I am trying to get a new SIM card out of Vodafone. Visits to stores offer up SIM cards like confetti but they have to be activated. "'data protection' don't you realise Mr Woodham-smith, I am doing this for your benefit!" or so says the operator at Vodafone. Luckily I still have my trusty IPod touch and with the joy that is wifi I am still connected, though intermittently.

I am off down to Rye to meet with Nazy and Oscar, from Apollo Magazine. Nazy has given up a few hours of her holiday to plan the latest offering of the Masterpiece London magazine. The train is empty and sparklingly clean, a quick change at Ashford and we are in the medieval market town of Rye. A short walk to The George and a terrace table in the English sun welcomes us. I have more pasta, this time in a slightly unsatisfactory watery sauce. It looks great but flatters to deceive. The worst part is that I keep thinking I am going to flick sauce over my fellow eaters and of course myself. Each mouthful is perilous as the dangling tails of the pasta threaten to bespatter all around. I nervously finish and then tackle a reassuringly dry chocolate foam of a cake with ice cream. Sadly, though clean, this is disappointing too, as it sits in a rather unfortunate brown smear, which allows far too much of my imagination to engage. Lunch and discussion over, we speed back to London. Oscar is off on holiday and I head back to the office, for more telephone chasing and insurance aggravation.

The week ends with a visit to the theatre. We precede the performance with an early evening supper at Harbour city in Gerrard St. our favourite Chinese restaurant in Soho. The joy of Chinese cuisine before the theatre is the speed - it all comes together and you eat as if food is going out of fashion. The dishes are particularly good though. It is not just a case of convenience. The soft shell crab in chilli and garlic is a dish to make the heart sing and it is followed swiftly by exquisite deep fried tofu filled with crab meat. We heave ourselves up from our chairs giddy and laden with food and stagger off to "the book of the Mormon". The whole family are South Park fans and we anticipate unparalleled iconoclasm. The show is fun and the art deco Prince of Wales theatre has been beautifully restored. The actors jump about and sing with passion and enthusiasm and there are some delightfully shocking thoughts and words. However, the overall whole is charming rather than shocking and no one could take offence. I really enjoyed it but for unexpected reasons.

Week 35 - Hungry in Hungary

When you meet a Hungarian the first thing they will tell you is that they like to eat and drink. That is certainly true, but also only half the story. Generosity is a by-word. Having struggled manfully through our first few meals on our Hungary trip, we were surprised to learn that if you eat everything you have presented before you, the perception is that your host has not provided enough. It is considered polite to leave a generous helping behind, thereby complimenting your host on their copious provision. The same is true of the offering of wine. If you finish the bottle another will be provided, ad infinitum. It is a scary country for those in need of moderation!

I have been in Zebergeny, a village on the Danube about an hour outside Budapest, for a week. I am here with the whole family and two of their friends. We did the ghastly Ryanair and then a huge hire car, because we are six in all, plus luggage. In scalding heat we headed into the city in order to buy delicacies in the fabulous late 19th Century Central Market Hall (in Hungarian, Nagycsarnok) with its striking green and yellow Zsolnay tiled roofs. It is the hottest day in Budapest for a hundred years. Everyone is wilting and lack lustre. The idea of buying Mangalitsa (the wonderful cuddly looking hairy indigenous pig) salami and slices of deep fried fat (a local snack delicacy) and various other embellishments, seems a terrible trial. After the desultory purchase of some local honey, we head off to the country. Our party has now increased in number, with the addition of an old friend, her daughter and her friend. After sight of a road accident where we see an upturned car, a damaged truck and several bemused looking occupants meandering about, we arrive at the house a group of nine, only to discover there are only three bedrooms. Such worries are put to one side as we pour into the pool - sanity and calm return as our bodies recover their temperature balance.

This is a busman's holiday as with only 10 days to go before our client's daughter's wedding, the house we are decorating needs to be finished. In addition, I am gathering the last few exhibits for the Masterpiece "European Treasures" show at Fine Art Asia in Hong Kong this autumn. Everything has to go to the printers and the plans need to be finalised before the end of July. I am ringing various dealers around the world and am discussing stand designs with Stabilo in Eindhoven - whilst here in Hungary we have furniture movers, painters, carpenters and electricians buzzing about.

In Zebergeny we have one incredible asset - Ildiko, or Ildy as she is known. My friend Lucinda, who is here for only four days, manages to create a new version of what seems to me to be a very simple name every time she speaks to her. I was, almost, impressed by her vocal versatility. The only variant of the necessary letters she never employed was her actual name. So it goes! Ildy lives nearby and is our intermediary and our whip cracker. She explains and cajoles, she bullies and encourages. Ever smiling and even offering the occasional wink, she gets the men into gear and achieves, with a recalcitrant workforce, wonders of delivery. She is dark haired, brown eyed and has a honied suntan from the local weather, and has endless energy. She runs a local hostel where the Hungarian overweight come to receive motivational training. They arrive beaten by their size and leave positive and encouraged to lose weight. She juggles her new arrivals along with keeping the men busy here at the house. Her asset, ex-partner and father of their charming nine year son Bence (needless to say Lucinda could only manage Ben), is Gyozo, pronounced Yerza. He is an astonishing cook. He has produced for us a short resume of the best in Hungarian cuisine. We have had Mangalitsa steaks, fried with the garnish of a cut wheel of fat, deep fried trout on a bed of herb rich potatoes, goulash (of course), barbecued spatchcock chicken on a bed of paprika-doused roast vegetables, and finally the most fabulous fried foie gras folded into a fluffy bed of shredded deep fried onions, accompanied by small hillocks of herb rice. Each meal is presented with delightful, charming solemnity. The food is prepared and fashioned with total commitment and though far from minimal it still achieves a startling sense of freshness. But that is not all. Breakfast can be a feast too - we had scrambled eggs with thick salty slivers of bacon topped with a sprinkle of paprika, and wonderful platters of cut fruit. Even the toast is a treat - it is fashioned from dark rye and nut bread, warmed and spread with salty butter and the local, slightly sour, jams.

Everything is washed down with copious cups of deep, dark, black coffee. But here, of all places, wine rules. From dawn until way past dusk everyone, and I mean everyone, has a glass of wine on the go. The Sauska wineries in Tokaj and Villanyi produce a wine for every taste and every hour - sparking whites and reds, light wines, rosé, a fleet of whites and reds, some to be drunk cool, some freezing cold, others warm. Any nuance of mood can generate the taste for a wine that suits. Finally there is the Hungarian Palinka, a sort of eau de vie that comes in plum, apricot and pear flavours. The tradition is to have some before a meal as it is said to 'line' the stomach. Line it with alcohol, as I see it.

Zebergeny is a community and a small one at that. Everyone knows everyone and the centre of life is the Mokus (squirrel) bar by the town square, one tourist shop, a church, a Co-op supermarket and the wooden kiosk selling cylindrical doughnuts in a myriad of flavours. By an amazing coincidence our gardener in London is Hungarian and his favourite bar in the whole of Hungary is Mokus. Sitting upstairs under a canopy we nibble on nuts whilst some drink the distinctive fruit flavoured, low-alcohol beer, Arany Aszok. In the distance we can hear the band playing in the square. We have fortuitously found ourselves in Zebergeny at the time of the annual festival. The crowds are thronging to hear traditional brass band music followed by a folk band.

As we wander towards the music, I realise that we could be anywhere and equally this is very local indeed. The summer fete in an English village is not so different, and yet here we are in the Hungarian countryside where the experience is so much harsher. With the current pan-European economic crisis coupled with the struggle to rebuild technological infrastructure after 60-odd years of communism, it is tough for the people. But there is no sense of anything other than an enthusiasm and energy to grow and progress. Despite the sense that this is a developing country we must not forget that the Austro-Hungarian Empire was one of the most sophisticated and complex socio-economic societies the planet has ever known. Though these villages may seem to have been left behind, they are not strangers to being at the cutting edge of all things progressive.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 34 - Work review and a visit to Spain

On Tuesday morning I had my first ever job review. I am quite antique and it was rather a strange moment. Once, some years ago, I had my bank account reviewed. I was called into my branch and a young man at least half my age riffled through pages and pages of my bank statements. I sat there in silence waiting for him to speak, eventually he did so. In his view I ate out too often and was wasting too much money. I should be saving more and putting money away in various investments all of which he could help with, for a fee. Gratefully I declined his services. I left the bank fuming at the arrogance and impertinence of his all too sensible advice. As far as reviews go that was it, up until now.

I sat in the arts club in Dover Street pondering my failures and achievements over the past year. When I was young we met the bosses at Christmas, we were summoned to the office library where we were given our pay rises and an occasional bonus for the year. As a garnish there were a few comments of a chiding or encouraging nature and that was it. You were expected to say thank you and accept your offering with deference and respect. Times changed and when I was in charge of Mallett Bourdon House, still many years ago now, we did have reviews but I was never being reviewed myself. This felt very different. It was quite new and refreshing, sort of like writing your own end of term report. "Little Thomas has done well this term but he could work harder on his French" that sort of thing. The review ended and I had to acknowledge that the process was rather therapeutic.

The following day I made an almighty mess up and have bought a client a clock in Spain but not the right one, same maker wrong clock! I flew out to Madrid to try and remedy the situation. The usual early morning rise, the usual tube etc and I am in Madrid. It is really hot there, nearly 40 c. but the city is high up and the air is dry. These two factors combine to make the heat more than bearable, it is delightful. The city is dazzlingly bright and the heat is intense but it feels clean and crisp, a pleasure to be in. I meet my friend and he is on great form too. The clock I should have bought is in fact hugely more expensive so a swap is out. I quickly discover that there is nothing else in the shop to buy so we head off to look at other things. Just off the Gran Via there is a group of dealers and one in particular always has lovely things. They run their business from a stack of apartments. As you ascend the building via the staircase you are ushered into a number of flats, each one has a name on the door outside and is a complete apartment on the inside, however everything is for sale. The building starts with antiques on the ground floor and in a variant of logic you end up on the top floor with contemporary design. Having toured the entire building we are both exhausted and decide that we should have an early lunch. It is now 3pm, so only early for Spain.

Following a brisk walk we find that our favourite basement dive 'el puchero' is shut for the summer so we stand on a corner and cogitate. With a flash of imagination that is almost palpable Antonio has his eureka moment and suddenly I am chasing after him as he surges forward. A swirl of corners and streets later we pass through a glass door into a serene and cool environment. We are in La Manduca de Azagra in the Calle de Sagasta. With brick lined walls and subtle but not dim lighting; this is a superb place, a real discovery. Family run, this place hums with activity. They find us a table and bring cool water over in a way which is both normal and yet seems particularly caring or solicitous. Menus come and I discover that this place, though not vegetarian, is fascinated with vegetables. Spanish cuisine is famously meaty and so it is rare to find a place that focuses so intently on the growing, preparation and flavour of their produce. Everything they serve, they grow and the freshness is palpable. In a wholly good way you can taste the soil, it is almost akin to the concept of terroir in wine, I don't mean with gritty bits of earth grinding your teeth. I began with gazpacho. This is such a staple of Spanish cuisine, almost a cliche, you would normally not bother to order it but this was a dream of freshness, bursting with intense tomato flavour and enhanced by a generous dollop of sour cream mixed with salt cod. Every mouthful brought fresh pleasure. We ordered beans and celery and they came steamed with oil and salt. Boring, you might say, but not so, these were an essay in subtle but fulfilling flavour. We were also brought fried skinny green chillies that were mild but had a piquancy and bite that had you running back for more. I had, oddly, as a main course a red pepper dish that was peeled red peppers with paprika and chilli. It was again delightfully simple but irresistible. I don't know why this meal was so compelling. Maybe it was because we were hot and bothered; maybe because we were hungry, but maybe, and I prefer this reason, we were presented with passionately prepared traditional Spanish food with a genuinely imaginative and innovative twist.

Sadly the rest of the day passed without me resolving the clock crisis. I will just have to confess to my mistake and write off the loss. After my lunch the failure seems all the more bearable.

On Thursday we went to help my friend Louisa. She had sold her house in Primrose Hill and we were saying goodbye to the house. I have been going there since I was a baby, my mother and Louisa were best friends at university. She has been in the house since childhood and therefore every doorway and each step is suffused with memories. It is very hard and painful for her to leave. She is the patron of a fabulous charity that pays for further education for women in parts of the world where women are discouraged from doing so. So, it is classically Louisa to leave her house by hosting a 'bring and buy' sale for the charity. The garden is full of generous people and we raise enough money to educate a girl for two years. It is a fitting and optimistic farewell.