Our Dream Staycation Destination: Cornwall

 

At this time of year, we'd normally find ourselves on a transatlantic flight to Washington state - spending lazy afternoons on my parents' sun-drenched deck eating fruit-stand strawberries, strolling along the Tacoma waterfront in the early evening, and taking weekend trips to the stunning San Juan Islands. I'd been so looking forward to bringing our eldest back to my hometown, now that he's old enough to understand a little more about the world around him, and the twins are at an age (7 months) where they'd be content just being outdoors - primarily what the Pacific Northwest is famous for. 

With our international travel plans scrapped for this year due to the global pandemic, we're wistful for a restorative coastal break (well, as restorative as you can get with 3 kids under 3!), keeping in mind all the safety precautions we need to take at this time. The obvious choice for this? Cornwall: sun (mostly!), sea, and pretty coastal villages selling ice-cream and fresh seafood at dusk.

I've always been drawn to the coast because of my upbringing in the Puget Sound, but Cornwall is truly special - a glittering jewel in the south of England. The first time we visited was over a decade (!) ago now: John surprised me with a trip to Looe. We arrived after a 7-hour car journey, in the dark, and all I could make out from the window of our charming bed and breakfast was a blur of twinkling lights, which gave way to a sparkling blue sea and cloudless sky come morning. When we were much older, and before our eldest was born, we stayed in St. Ives, memorably hiking part of the Southwest Coastal Path in a pair of Stan Smiths (me!) and visiting the beautiful Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden. 

I have memories of the train slowly pulling into St. Ives and the sight of Porthminster unfurling before us - trees giving away to sand giving away to the tide. I remember thinking I'd been dropped into some sort of paradise as I shielded my eyes from the sun and made our way down the length of the platform. That night, we walked along the same beach before sitting down to dinner at Porthminster Cafe, clinking glasses of crisp white wine as the sun set beyond the picture-frame windows surrounding us.

Although the Southwest Coast is a far cry from the Pacific Ocean and the conifers that surround its shores, Cornwall remains one of my favorite places to visit in England - a place I can't wait to show my children. We're currently browsing for accommodation in Cornwall and thinking of all the ways we can travel safely in line with current government guidelines (e.g. only traveling together as a family in the car; making very few, short stops on the journey; washing and sanitizing our hands, and practicing safe social distancing measures at our destination).

The way we travel certainly looks very different in 2020, but the ability to revisit our favorite destinations here in the UK safely and responsibly isn't impossible. And that, my friends, is the light at the end of the tunnel.

This post was written in collaboration with Hotels.com. All opinions are my own.

A (Baby-Free!) Spanish Feasting Brunch at Aqua Nueva

My best friend likes to say that we live our lives 'in parallel': when I studied abroad in England, she studied abroad in Spain. There, she dated a Juan while I dated John. A few years after I moved to London, my ultimate dream came true and she moved to the city too. We got engaged on the same weekend. And then: our babies were born four months apart. See? 

Sandwiched somewhere between the years above, when I was studying for a Master's degree in Renaissance Literature at York, Udita moved to Huelva, Spain - a little town outside Seville - and taught English to schoolchildren there. John and I flew to Jerez to visit her over Easter weekend and I have vibrant memories of waking groggily to the sounds of a Semana Santa procession; of drinking freshly squeezed orange juice with the scent of jasmine hanging heavily in the air; of shyly ordering a Shandy Cruzcampo at the bar in a terrible attempt at Spanish. Of an everlasting friendship that would ensure distances across oceans, continents, and life changes. 

So, Saturday, we found ourselves at Aqua Nueva on Argyll Street near Oxford Circus, excitedly eyeing the new Saturday Spanish Feasting Brunch menu. 

Neither of us had a drop of alcohol when we were nursing our babies and the temptation of Cava, wine, AND sangria on the menu was all too real. 

We tucked into crispy slices of pan con tomate and delightful little spheres of croquettes, before sharing a bitter leaf avocado salad between us - all the while laughing at our own inside jokes. 

Because that's what brunch is REALLY for, after all: a relaxed, easy way to share food and memories with best friends. 

The tortilla arrived at our table and I was excited - a traditional Spanish recipe I try so hard to get right (and always get so wrong: too egg-y or too potato-y or too bland). This tortilla was delicious: dense yet refined; light, yet packed with flavor. I would have liked more, but then there wouldn't have been room for the seafood paella, which I made the unfortunate mistake of letting go cold as I took it outside to photograph. 

With generous helpings of saffron, this paella deserved to be enjoyed outside on Aqua Nueva's beautiful roof terrace, but the weather that day unfortunately didn't play ball, so we heaped portions onto our plates indoors instead. 

The much-anticipated dessert was a plate of light and airy pistachio churros, served with a tangy mango and passion fruit sauce - not too heavy, which was perfect for us as we slinked off afterwards to check out the homeware and kids' sections of H&M just a stone's throw away, taking advantage of this very rare baby-free opportunity. 

I can't think of a better way to spend a lazy Saturday morning: brunch at Aqua Nueva, followed by a mini shopping spree on Oxford Street. 

We were guests of Aqua Nueva. All opinions are my own. The Spanish Feasting Brunch is available at Aqua Nueva every Saturday from 12:00 pm - 4:00 pm and is priced at £35 per person. (Information correct at the time of publication, but please call ahead if you want to confirm!).

Am Sick; Will Travel

We just returned from a two-and-a-half week trip to Hong Kong and Japan ... and it was nothing short of amazing. The sights; reconnecting with family; the food (!!!) - we had a phenomenal time and some jaw-dropping moments.

Except.

All three of us were sick at some point - and I don't mean a little sniffle kind of sick, I mean a high temperature/food poisoning/hacking cough/ear infection kind of sick. 

John was sick for the entire trip (he had four different colds and food poisoning) and had three full days of meetings in Singapore, Hong Kong, and Japan. Our baby was recovering from a upper respiratory infection on our way to Hong Kong, then got the dreaded "spluttering virus" (as John and I called it) followed by an ear infection towards the end of our trip in Japan. I developed a stomach bug on my birthday and was treated to the spluttering virus straight afterwards. 

I'd like to say it didn't affect our trip, but it did. Walking around Tokyo with a fever and a sick baby wasn't fun - when I wasn't attempting to syringe Calpol and Nurofen into his mouth (the UK equivalent of baby Tylenol and ibuprofen), I was either running to the bathroom or shivering with chills and aches. And poor John spent at least a day in bed, but gamely soldiered on and completed all sorts of hikes and even a canoeing excursion (which, I don't know how he completed, feeling as bad as he did!).

One night in Tokyo, it was clear that our baby was super uncomfortable and pulling at his ears ... we contacted our Airbnb host and asked if he knew of any nearby hospitals that would take us, but he couldn't really help, so we called six hospitals, one by one. Out of these six, only two receptionists spoke English and one insisted that we needed an "agent" in order to pay for any treatment (they meant medical insurance, which we had, but something was indeed, lost in translation!). The other, thankfully, was able to give me a number for an English-speaking medical assistance hotline and a very helpful man found a baby clinic less than a 10-minute walk away from our Airbnb, where were able to see a pediatrician who prescribed antibiotics for the ear infection and an expectorant for the cough.

But, my goodness - those two hours we spent calling around the hospitals were so stressful! It felt like we were getting nowhere and meanwhile, our little one was becoming increasingly distressed as his temperature climbed.

I know that tending to sick babies on vacation is part of being a parent (it felt like a rite of passage!) but I was surprised at the deeper, underlying lesson I learned about being sick while travelling: that, instead of "pushing through" the discomfort of being ill, it's okay to accept that you might have to spend a day or two in bed, no matter how much you want to go out and explore the exciting place you're in. Even though there were so many things I didn't want to miss out on in Tokyo, I realized I wouldn't have enjoyed them when I was feeling so sick (and, more importantly, that it wasn't worth making my child feel worse by traipsing around - though he was cozily sleeping in the sling 100% of the time!).

Have you ever been sick on vacation? How did you deal? Let me know!

The End of Summer

It was the kind of end to summer that felt unreal.

The kind where we sat out on the deck and ate watermelon chunks so cold and sweet, they hurt my teeth. The kind where crickets began to sing as the sun descended into the horizon, like an orchestra reacting to dipped lights in the theater.

It was the kind of end that saw us driving miles to Anacortes, stopping at Five Guys for milkshakes and burgers along the way. We packed our car onto a ferry to Friday Harbor; drivers turning their side-mirrors in before meandering up the metal stairs in search of stale pretzels and views of the Puget Sound. Some just slept.

California's wildfires brought a haze to the island that made everything grey and muted. Even the sun. I squinted and looked up, but didn't see blue for days. It was the end of the summer, but could it be the end of the world?

Because if it was, we were enjoying the best of the best: orca sightings just a few feet from where we stood; dolphins teasing us with their fins at sunset; seals doggy paddling to shore. Oysters so creamy, they tasted like nuggets of sweet butter; sandwiches that cost a fortune but were worth every penny. Birthday cake ice cream and spot shrimp and seafood Cobb salad with Ranch dressing and excellent table service.

Mornings spent watching the sun rise outside with a coffee in hand and a baby asleep in my lap, both of us wrapped in a blanket. Afternoons spent casting fishing lines into the water over and over again without success and crabs caught instead. Evenings spent marooned in front of the TV watching Jurassic Park and Disney films.

And because it was the kind of end to summer where I looked up one day and saw a baby I'd never met before - one who rolled from his back to front before looking to me for praise and approval - and I saw parents who looked older and a dad who just looked more tired ... because it was that kind of end, my heart seemed to escape its place in my chest and shoot through my throat, because it had nowhere else to go.

It hurt.

A lot.

But it was also exciting, and lovely, and bittersweet.

And it was the kind of end I wouldn't forget.

An Ode to French Butter (And Other Consumable Souvenirs)

We recently returned from a trip to France and as soon as we got home, I eagerly unzipped our suitcase and unwrapped my most valuable souvenir: a bar of Le Beurre Normand butter, still solid and intact despite not making it into my baby bottle cool bag (I realized it probably wouldn't have passed the liquid restriction, and I needed to bring the cool bag with me on the plane). Nothing fancy - I'd only bought it at Casino (the French supermarket, not to be confused with gambling on the French Riveria) - but still, so, so good.

Butter in France tastes different: creamier, richer, and all that more ... milky. I love it. I ate it every day while I was there, generously slathering it on pieces of crusty baguette we'd bought from the local boulangerie (John's eyes widened at every dollop I pasted on there, but I took no notice). I'm pretty sure I polished off a 250 gram bar in about 3 days, which can't be healthy, but, when in France ... *shrugs* I mean, don't get me started on the fresh vegetables ... I'd bring back a suitcase full of the produce aisle, if I could. Those tomatoes! Le sigh.

This morning, I crept downstairs while the baby was still sleeping and toasted two slices of brioche, before scraping a sliver of my precious beurre Normand onto each, and watching with quiet delight as they melted.

I've been really into buying consumables as souvenirs lately - they taste great, and don't take up any room once, well, consumed (which must be a relief to John, as I am constantly nagged about my "clutter" in the house - but that's for another blog post). Olive oil pressed on site at the beautiful masseria we stayed at a few years ago in Sicily is a standout favorite, as is the orange blossom honey John's dad brought back from Spain, which is nearly finished (I love spreading a thin layer on hot buttered toast).

What are some consumable souvenirs you've brought back from your travels? I'd love to know!

Full Circle

I waved off my parents this morning after a two-week visit and my heart is torn.

It was one of the most surreal moments of my life so far: introducing my son to his grandparents; hearing myself refer to them as "Por Por" and "Gung Gung", having only ever associated those names with my mother's parents.

And as I handed him over to be held, he fixed them with a look so certain that it shook me: pure recognition. As if to say, "What took you so long?"

How did he know?

Over the next two weeks, I watched as they doted on him: my dad humming the University of Oregon fight song ("Go Ducks, go!") as he marched him to sleep, my mom coaxing him to smile and gurgle (which he did, and seemingly only at her encouragement - no one else's) - and I felt sad that we would have to say goodbye so soon.

They babysat while I sneaked off for an hour's blissful postnatal massage; watched him as I attended a hospital appointment in Surrey, my mom texting me to say, "He's fine! Take your time! Window shop if you want, get some retail therapy." I bought a soy hot chocolate at Costa in Waterloo station, watching dizzily as commuters rushed past me - remembering that part of my life that's still in there, somewhere.

I took the tube home and asked my dad - an architect - to sketch our house, as a keepsake.

Our first home.

I passed him on the landing in the mornings as I carried the baby down the stairs and glimpsed him working, intently, in his sketchbook.

After he left, I stared at the drawings and took in the pencil strokes until tears threatened to dampen the pages: each blade of grass in the garden, and a faithful rendering of our Audi A3 parked in front.

And so, I've come full circle: mirroring my parents' trajectory of living abroad, starting a family abroad, and waving goodbye - back and forth, back and forth. A 9 or 10-hour journey (depending on the tail wind) back and forth, across the ocean and another country, transversing time, memories, love, continents. Little toes that seem to grow by the day. Smiles that become increasingly forthcoming. Chubby fists that extend overhead; arms outstretched and wanting.

Waiting.

If I thought that being an expat was hard, being an expat with a kid is much, much harder.

Travel Link-Up: How The &*%$ Do I Travel With A Baby?

This month's travel link-up topic is "Travel Challenges" - and it couldn't be more timely. We're heading to a friend's wedding in Antibes later this month and I just ... I mean ... how the &*%$ do I travel with a baby?

"It's the best time to travel!" they say. "All they [babies] do is sleep!" they say. (Mine doesn't - at least, not during the day, which is better than not sleeping at night, I suppose!)

I thought I had enough worries travelling on my own, but now I have things to think about like diapers, bottles, strollers, pacifiers and ... how do I get him to the airport in a cab (answer: we'll book a cab with a car seat). Through security (dreading this in particular)? On the plane (answer: probably in a wearable carrier)? I've been told to nurse him during takeoff and landing to help his little ears adjust to cabin pressure, but I can totally picture myself fumbling and him crying and both of us being a mess together on the plane!

In short ... HELP!

But on a lighter note, I'm looking forward to staying in the very Instagrammable Airbnb John found in Cannes (a pool! Pretty tiles!) and seeing my friend get married in the beautiful French countryside.

And I'm glad the flight to Nice will be short as it'll be "practice" for our longer flights to the US and Hong Kong later this year to see relatives, but I'm having serious anxiety - not to mention the fact that he'll have had his second round of vaccinations a few days before, so will probably be a little ratty on the plane.

If you have kids, or have travelled with kids or small babies before, do you have any tips? As I said before, HELP!

This month's Travel Link-Up is hosted by Emma, Angie, Polly and Binny. Head over to their blogs to read more about their travel challenges!

New Year's Resolution: Shop Small

Over the past year, I've undertaken several wardrobe culls and participated in this eye-opening review of our finances - both of which have made me take a more critical view of how I shop and where I shop.

If you follow me on Instagram, you'll know that I love fashion, trends, and accessories, and that they form an important part of who I am - there's no point in denying that. But in order to keep a closer eye on my spending and to invest in quality items that will last a long while, I've drastically reduced my fast-shopping purchases and, instead, focused on buying quality, artisanal pieces ... after giving them a lot of thought.

One of my favorite destinations for accessories-browsing is Postcards Home. Their global-outlook on homeware, stationery, accessories and kids' products are especially appealing as they remind me of our travels. And because they work directly with independent designers and illustrators, each item is unique.

I've had a lot of compliments on my Sari Bead Necklace from the House of Wandering Silk - a social business based in New Delhi, India that partners with handpicked NGOs, cooperatives, women's groups and artisans to produce beautiful, ethical products.

These sari bead necklaces are made from small wooden prayer beads which are then wrapped in vintage silk sari remnants - how cool is that? No two necklaces are alike. Since my wardrobe color palette is pretty bland (think lots of black, grey, and, um, greige), this necklace always manages to stand out.

What are your favorite independent shops to buy from? Have you discovered any new ones lately? Let me know!

Huge thanks to Lucy Coleman, founder of Postcards Home, friend, and beautiful business-woman extraordinaire for sending me this gorgeous Sari Bead Necklace. Without a doubt, all opinions are my own. Shop the rest of the collection of  Postcards Home here. Thank you for supporting the brands that support Angloyankophile. 

Travel Link-Up: Je Reviens

If 2017 was all about discovering new lands (Iceland and Morocco, to name a couple), then I think 2018 will be focused on returning to the places we loved most. Every time John and I fall in love with a new destination, we invariably say, "I can't wait to come back." But we never do.

So, I'd like to make 2018 a year of "returns":

A return to the vineyards of Bordeaux, perhaps; the memories of sand whipping 'round my ankles at the Dune du Pilat and people-watching in outdoor cafes still imprinted on my mind.

Or a return to Iceland, where we'll attempt to chase the Northern Lights once again - this time, hopefully, with more success - and an irresistible visit to the milky thermal waters of the Blue Lagoon.

A return to Hong Kong is definitely on the cards - my visit earlier this year a mere taster of reunions and adventures to come.

And I loved our recent visit to Mayrhofen so much, I'm tempted to spend next winter in the Alps as well - whether that's French, Swiss or Austrian.

At some point, I'd love to return to the New Forest (although, who am I kidding - what I really mean is that I'd like to go back to this hotel) and be enchanted by the ponies once again.

Cornwall is a favorite of ours, and I know I'll be longing for these coastlines in the not-too-distant future - perhaps when it's nice and warm.

Finally, John and I were so besotted with Sri Lanka when we went in 2015, it's bound to be on our list, although India is calling to me too, after last year's whirlwind trip to Bangalore - this time, Rajasthan is my dream destination (and, you know, if someone wants to invite me to a wedding so I can wear a sari again, that would be great - thanks).

Where are you headed to in 2018? I'd love to know!

This post is part of January's Travel Link-Up, hosted by Emma, Angie, and Polly. Head over to their blogs to read more about their travel wishlists!

10 Things To Do On a Ski Holiday ... If You Don't Ski

This morning, I waved my husband and his friends goodbye before settling in to finish my mint tea and warm croissant at our hotel breakfast table.

"Guten Morgen!", the waitress trilled as she came by to clear our plates. "And what are your plans for today?" she asked eagerly.

"Well," I said, scooping up the last bit of strawberry jam with my finger. "I think I might go to the 10 o'clock yoga class. Then I might have a swim. Then I'll read, probably. Then I'll take the gondola up to the top of the mountain and meet the others for lunch."

"It sounds wunderschoen!" she exclaimed, smiling as she whisked away an empty mug.

You see, I'm Day 5 into what might be the best holiday I've ever had: a ski holiday in the Austrian Alps, minus the skiing.

It's not that I haven't tried: I took lessons, struggled down a few baby slopes - literally struggling past babies - before calling it quits and accepting that skiing (or snowboarding, as the case may be) and I just don't get along.

Which is fine, except that my husband loves - I mean, LOVES - to snowboard. Past years have seen him take off on a week-long holidays with friends, but he's admitted that it just isn't the same without me (aww!).

Cue this year: we booked a lovely hotel in Mayrhofen, just an hour's coach ride from Innsbruck, complete with a well-equipped spa and a cute little town buzzing with cafes and shops less than a minute's walk from the front door.

I was skeptical, but sold.

And now I think I might be in heaven.

So, here are 10 things to do on a ski holiday - even if you don't ski:

1. Spa

Duh. This one happens to have a beautiful pool that is empty in the morning (because everyone else is trying to hit the slopes before the ski school descends) and most of the early afternoon, plus several saunas, steam rooms, and a generously-sized hydrotherapy hot pool, plus an extensive menu of treatments. Am pondering a neck and leg massage for tomorrow. Hmm.

2. Have a hot chocolate in town

I was told that Kostner Heimat had the best hot chocolate in Mayrhofen, so I decided to sit outside one morning (with the assistance of a heater aimed directly at my head and sheepskin-lined chairs and blankets) with a heisse schokolade mit whipped cream (naturlich!) while watching the snow fall. I nearly cried, it was so delicious.

3. Read

I downloaded 5 books to my Kindle before I left - an appropriate mix of Christmas-themed 'chick lit' (I do hate that term) and literary fiction (I'm half-way through The Power by Naomi Alderman and am addicted!). When I'm not lolling about in bed, I take my Kindle with me to the spa or the lobby, where I spend a few luxurious hours reading - entirely undisturbed. It's bliss.

4. Nap

No explanation necessary. Nap as much as I want, whenever I want. With no alarm to set - ever.

5. Meet the others for lunch at the top

A couple of days, I took the gondola/lift up to the top of the peak to meet John and our friends for lunch. I hadn't quite anticipated just how high or steep the first gondola would be, and I was in one on my own, so by the time the doors closed, I didn't have time to panic, but just focused on my phone, while sneaking the occasional peek to my left and right (which offered beautiful views, btw).

6. Gym

The treadmills here have Netflix. If that's not enough motivation to work out for a full hour or however long an episode of Riverdale or whatever it was I've been binging on lately - then, I don't know what is.

7. Take a class

Our hotel offered a complimentary hatha yoga class this morning and - guess what - I was the only person who showed up, so I ended up getting a private lesson. On my way out, the pool looked so enticing, I ran upstairs to change into my swimsuit before jumping in - and yes, I had it all to myself.

8. Arrange a horse and carriage ride

Lots of ski resort towns have horse and carriage rides you can organize during your stay. We took a lovely little loop through town and next to the woods, after the snow had just fallen. It was fun and very romantic!

9. Go on a hike

I noticed quite a few trails for walking up on the mountain as well as in town, which looked fun. I took little strolls with John when I went to meet him for lunch at the top of the mountain - the snow made it an extra workout (especially when trudging uphill)!

10. Shop

There are some very sweet little boutiques here in Mayrhofen and we picked up a cute little ceramic decoration to take home as as souvenir last night. It's fun to browse the shops with the sheer intention of browsing - not necessarily buying.

Would I take a trip like this again? You betcha. We lucked out on the beautiful and well-equipped hotel, though, which has been a constant source of entertainment. And every time I felt a little stir crazy, I'd just take the ski lift up to the top for some wintry views (and apple strudel!).

Are you a skier/snowboarder? Or are you more into apres ski, like me? Let me know!  

Travel Link-Up: Top 5 Cities For Christmas Festivities

For the past two years, my family has made the 5,000-mile trip to celebrate Christmas with us here in England. Why? Well, I'm hoping that they want to see me (*insert angelic emoji here*), but really, I think they secretly love a European Christmas. Who wouldn't? Mulled wine enjoyed in pubs with roaring fires; Christmas carol services at the local church; frosty Christmas morning walks in the countryside; the tradition of pulling Christmas "crackers" filled with little knick-knacks and jokes ... Christmas in Europe feels so authentic.

So, here are a few of my favorite cities that turn up the dial on Christmas festivities - cities that are always on my list for a short (or long) December getaway:

Amsterdam

We visited Amsterdam last December with my family with no expectations - and were blown away. The canals were lit with glittering lights (making a night-time canal boat tour especially memorable), the Amsterdam Light Festival was in full swing, and - best of all - we saw impossibly tall Christmas trees peeking out from the top windows of Amsterdam's famous canal-side apartments ('How did they get up there?' we wondered). There were plenty of places to enjoy hot chocolate and pancakes (or Poffertjes) dusted with powdered sugar, and the boutiques in De 9 Straatjes ("the Nine Streets") were perfect for last-minute Christmas shopping. Aside from visiting in the summer, when the air is balmy and the streets take on a dream-like quality, with people dangling their legs over the side of the canals, Christmas-time is probably the other best time to make a trip to Amsterdam. 

Paris 

Paris feels magical at any time of the year. On our recent visit in August, it felt like the city was winking at me the entire time! But it takes on an especially swoonworthy-quality at Christmas. Sure, it's packed, but strolling along the Seine with a furry hood pulled up over your head with a café au lait in hand and pushing past the crowds to get that shot of that tree at Galeries Lafayette makes a Christmas-time visit worth it. I especially love to browse the arcades in Paris around this time of year - the lights from the glow of the shops always make it look so enticing. 

Cologne

What could be more authentic than a German Christmas market in ... Germany? During our same visit to Amsterdam last year, we took a day-trip to Cologne to browse the famous German markets (and to sip gluhwein and eat bratwurst, naturally). The stalls were adorable, but my favorite part of the market was being served hot chocolate in keepsake mugs that you can either return (they take a deposit when you buy your drink) or purchase to keep as a souvenir! 
 

Bruges

Cobbled streets, horse-drawn carriages, and more Christmas trees than you can shake a stick at ... Bruges is ... well, it's a Christmas town. I spent most of my time there buying and eating all the chocolate, but cozy drinks by the fire and dinners in warm, candle-lit restaurants followed by evening walks in the bracing cold were equally fun ways to pass the time.

London 

Finally, my home city (it's so weird but exciting to say that!) is a fantastic place to visit for Christmas: from crafty Christmas markets to festive decorations on every street, London definitely has its gladrags on in December (lights and decorations go up as early as mid-November). I love Covent Garden at this time of year, but West London feels incredibly festive as well. One of my favorite things to do - no matter how busy and crazily frantic it gets - is to stop by Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly and Liberty in Oxford Circus, to gawp at the beautiful ornaments and delicious Christmas hampers/cakes for sale.


What's your favorite city to spend Christmas in? I'd love to know!

This post is part of December's Travel Link-Up, hosted by Emma, Angie, Polly, and Zoe. Head over to their blogs for more posts about the festive holiday season!

Lime Wood Hotel & Spa, New Forest

I woke before John - before dawn, in fact - at 5:45, when it was still pitch black outside. But with the clocks changing overnight, it felt like 6:45, and, being an early riser, I began to fidget under the sheets - the down duvet crinkling around me like a weightless cloud of feathers.

It was dark, sure, but as I tiptoed to our room's window facing Lime Wood's grand drive and peered out onto the scenic lawn, I contemplated going out for a walk - by myself - in the nearby woods. A thought which surprised me since, just a few years ago, you couldn't convince me to put on a pair of hiking boots, let alone go for a walk in a muddy wood on my own.

But 24 hours at Lime Wood had already placed a strange hold over me: call it magic, but I longed for a walk in the cold, bracing air to clear my head, after embarking on one shortly after our arrival the day before. I wanted to see the magical New Forest ponies once again, who - like a line of chorus dancers - eyed us curiously, before trotting past in a semi-choreographed line of their own accord, tossing their manes as they did so.

When John opened his eyes, I was hovering over him like a crazed stalker: "Can we go for a walk now?" I asked, practically lacing up my boots already. He rubbed his eyes and smiled at my new-found enthusiasm for convening with nature. "Sure."

But just then, there was a knock at the door, and a uniformed man bearing a large and heavy tray cluttered with fresh pots of tea, fruit juices, homemade granola, New Forest yogurt, and a basket full of warm pastries deposited the said tray onto our bed and we sat, tucked up in the duvet once again, watching the sun rise while dropping crumbs on the pillows.

Satiated, we finally embarked on that walk: sneaking down the staircase before other guests had risen like a pair of teens creeping out to make mischief, making our way through the boot room which held a rainbow-hued collection of Hunter wellies neatly stacked under a reclaimed wooden table, and unlocking the gate to the woodland - my boots making squelchy sounds from the mud underfoot.

Back at the hotel, sheepishly returned with muddy boots in hand and wasted no time in slinking directly to Herb House spa, where we indulged in hour-long Bamford massage treatments before soaking in the hydrotherapy pool as powerful jets of water pummelled our aching shoulders; the soles of our feet. At one point, I sat flipping through a water-damaged issue of Grazia that someone had left behind, warming my feet and seat on the long, U-shaped heated marble bench, and declared, "I'm happy," to John, who had thrown a towel over his shoulder en route to the steam room.

"Good," he said, and disappeared into the mist.

Later that afternoon, we peeked into every drawing room and discovered the library: a cozy little snug with a large bay window and working fireplace (which John set to lighting straight away, after asking permission) filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves heaving with art books. We ordered spicy Bloody Marys and refreshing herb-infused lemonades, nibbling on peanuts and speaking only to mutter exclamations over enticing holidays advertised in the paper we both shared.

The food, though highly anticipated, erred on the side of disappointment for us. As huge fans of Angela Hartnett's Murano in London, we expected to be similarly excited by the fare served at Hartnett Holder & Co, Lime Wood's main restaurant (the other restaurant, Raw & Cured, offers a healthy, raw-food-focused menu at Herb House spa). But our crab linguine was overseasoned yet lacking in flavor; the chicken schnitzel nothing to write home about; and the seaweed-encrusted duck a strange (and unnervingly sweet) concoction. However: the crispy bacon sandwich at breakfast was out-of-this-world delicious and the charcuterie board deserved the highest praise.

Despite this, I'd happily return to Lime Wood - again and again. The rooms, the service, the activities - that spa - make it the ultimate treat for adults (although it was lovely to see that children were welcome too).

We're already plotting our next trip there - magical ponies and all.

Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, Paris

Pushing open the door to Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, a grand house-turned-hotel tucked away on a pretty, sun-dappled street of the Marais, I was distracted by a small, wiry ball of black fur regally descending from a back office somewhere as if he himself were the proprietor of the hotel. He paused a short distance away from my feet, tail wagging, looking up with serious eyes, as if to say, "Welcome" or, since we were in Paris, "Bienvenue".

"That's Bobby," said the receptionist, laughing, as I bent down to ruffle him behind the ears. He moved quickly, from me to Udita, eager to greet us both, yet completely soundless - too polite for even a whimper or a bark. (Later during our stay, I'd wonder aloud about Bobby's whereabouts when we returned to the hotel and Udita would joke, "Probably in his office, reading the Financial Times.")

The hotel itself is positioned about a five-minute walk away from Hotel de Ville metro station - a straight shot down Rue de Rivoli, followed by a swift left turn onto Rue Vieille-du-Temple, it's ideal for wandering to the Notre Dame, picnic-ing in the Tuileries, spending an afternoon at the Louvre, or soaking up culture at Centre Pompidou.

Its bright blue facade appears in many Instagram feeds - indeed, I glanced down from our balcony on several occasions to catch passersby standing opposite, poised with iPhone or DSLR in hand.

The hotel has nineteen rooms; small, but perfectly formed (though, by Parisian standards, I found ours on the second floor to be quite spacious!). Within minutes of making Bobby's acquaintance, we were given our room key - no passports to be photocopied, no credit card details to be taken in advance - and allowed to show ourselves to our room, where, upon opening the door, Udita and I collapsed in fits of giggles on the twin beds and shouted, "What is this life?" as we flung open the balcony doors and peered out onto the distinctly Parisian streets below.

Decorated in the 18th-century style, the owner, Monsieur Alain Bigeard, has taken great pains to source antique furniture and the finest quality fabrics to adorn the hotel. The paintings that hang in the rooms and reception area are all original oil paintings, and the framed sheet music extracted from first editions. Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais is, of course, named after Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais, who - amongst many other things - was a playwright and musician who authored the Figaro plays, the second of which (The Marriage of Figaro), Mozart based his opera.

We met Alain the next morning, after we'd finished our decadent breakfast and were preparing to head out for our early morning wander around the Marais. In his charming, easy way, he explained the history of the hotel, and I pressed for details on where he sourced all his fabulous antique furniture and art. Waking in the hotel feels, at times, like a cross between waking in a fairytale and a museum - drowsy from a late afternoon nap, I momentarily forgot where I was, and thought I'd been transported to the 18th-century, half-wanting to reach for my powdered wig. Alain's fine attention to detail is a testament to the hotel's ability to evoke this magical feeling.

I'd read previous reviews of Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais' legendary breakfasts (which can either be taken downstairs in the basement or brought up to your room - naturally, we opted for the latter), but nothing quite prepared me for the spread that arrived within minutes of me requesting it from reception (advance notice is not necessary - you simply call when you're hungry!). Nestled in a impossibly French-country chic basket tray was a pot of fresh tea, a pitcher of coffee with warmed milk, jars of pate, kiwis, soft boiled eggs perched in porcelain egg cups, tiny pots of jam, honey, and marmalade, freshly-squeezed orange juice, cheese, and - the piece de resistance - a basket of warm croissants, crusty baguettes, and pain au chocolats. I nearly wept (and definitely swooned when I took my first bite of jam-smothered croissant).

The people at Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais are as pleasing as the attractive decor - the polite, nearly apologetic way staff tend to phrase requests ("We have a habit of keeping room keys at the desk whilst you're out!"), the warmth and personal attention ("Bonjour, good morning! Breakfast to your room? It would be our pleasure!"), and the eagerness to help ("Can we book you a taxi? Or help you with directions to the restaurant?") - all make staying at the hotel a delightful experience; the exact opposite of the cold, sniffy stereotypes that first-time visitors to Paris typically fear (particularly those whose French skills are limited to ordering a maximum of three pastries from a boulangerie).

In fact, it would be the ideal place to stay if you're a first-time visitor: easy to get to, located in a beautiful, but central neighborhood, and wonderfully welcoming. I know my parents love Paris (my dad in particular!) so I can't wait to take them back to Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais on their return to Europe.

On our last morning at Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, we had no time for the glorious breakfast spread, instead stuffing the last of our belongings and newly-purchased candles into our bags and creeping downstairs at an unsociable hour, wistfully hoping for one last glimpse of Bobby, before stepping out onto the quiet Marais street to await our taxi to Gare du Nord. The sun hadn't yet risen, but a fresh copy of The New York Times and Le Monde had been swapped for yesterday's old news in reception, and we were bade farewell as warmly as we'd been greeted.

Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, I'll be back. For sure.

Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais, 12 Rue Vieille du Temple, 75004, Paris, France. We stayed at Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais at a press rate; all opinions are my own.