The Chapelle des Templiers does not lie on a marked route to Santiago de la Compostela, though clear evidence suggests many pilgrims paused there on their long journeys through France. The little Romanesque church sits on a modest hill in the hamlet of Cressac Saint Genis. Without local advice you would be unlikely to make a detour there. Even if you did, you would be lucky to find it open*. It is an unforgettable gem. Our local advice came from Jane, the delightful English host at the house we had rented for an autumn break among the Cognac vineyards of southern Charentes. After two failed attempts to see inside we struck lucky. That Saturday happened to be one of two consecutive  Journées Européennes du Patrimoine, when the French, among others, were celebrating their enduring heritage, and a local expert on the chapel’s history was delighted to welcome us. It was the wall paintings that we wanted to see. They are extraordinary. The Templiers in the church’s name were the Knights Templar, an order set up to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land. The large work on the north wall includes a representation of the Battle of al-Buqaia, which took place in 1163, on the Syrian plain between the mighty castle called the Krak des Chevaliers and the city of Homs. Completed within a few years of the Templars’ victory, it depicts them, mounted and pale faced, pursuing the defeated Saracens. In the1950s the mural was removed from the wall, stuck to sheets using a technique designed to safeguard the Pompeii frescoes, and taken to Paris for restoration. It went on show in the capital for ten years before returning home. It was, I suppose, the closest you could get to photo journalism in the Middle Ages. You leave it with a vivid sense of another world brought to life. The rented house, also on a hill top and reached by single track road, was in a former grange, an enclosed group of farm buildings. (A historian in Angoulême believed parts of the complex could be 1000 years old). The timber structure, had been thoughtfully modernised, with two bedrooms, a large bathroom and well equipped kitchen/diner. It had a walled garden with a large walnut tree. Upstairs was a large sitting room, with views of a landscape undulating westward.  Save for the ranks of vines, the surrounding countryside bore an arid look after a summer of fierce heat. The nearest village with shops was Blanzac, about 4km away, with a one way system that took at least three days to master. It boasted yet another fine church, on a little square with a boulangerie (bakery), patisserie and an excellent restaurant. A prix fixe lunch there, eaten al fresco, cost €16 at the time of writing .. Dinner – the place was packed – was more expensive but even then our total bill, with wine, worked out at only around £70 for two. I had vowed never to rent from an English owner again after an unfortunate experience involving an unreturned deposit. Jane however, who moved there with her partner some 20 years ago, was quite different. When booking I asked, in an email, whether there was a French TOPO walking guide to the region in the house. “No”, she replied immediately, “but there will be when Amazon delivers it tomorrow”. Impressive, as was the large selection of other books on hand and the excellent fibre internet connection. Provided your French is up to it, TOPO Guides are invaluable. We used the TOPO Guide to take a hike with long stretch by the Charentes river. Distance and heat are just about the only factors which make walking here could strenuous. Most routes are flat and involve only gentle uphill sections. We parked at a Mairie, where locals came to buy baguettes from one of the vending machines that have sprung up with the widespread closure of those small boulangeries that once served almost every small community in France and whose irresistible smell was such a joy of holidaying there. The guide directed us to the waterside through avenues of maize and followed the river on a tree shaded track.  After a picnic lunch resting on an idyllically positioned bench we veered away from the bank towards the photogenic village of Graves, vines at its feet, another small Romanesque church perched above. But though mid-September had brought cool mornings, afternoon temperatures still soared into the high twenties, so we consulted the guide’s map and shamelessly cut the circuit short. There were plenty of places we could have driven to: Angoulême, with its ramparts and central market or Cognac (name self explanatory. Another time. We did make it to Jonzac on the river Saugne, dominated by its Chateau, its former Carmelite convent cloister now part of a cultural centre, its medieval Rue de Champagnac, laid out as a zigzag to aid defence. But mostly we were content to explore without much driving. Even the little village of Champagne-Vigny, a walk though fields from the house, had its own Romanesque church. There are everywhere in this corner of the country, built of limestone, like the elegant 12th century St Jacques at Conzac, again in the middle of nowhere. They leave you wondering at the medieval power of the church. Where did all the funds for them come from? And how many pilgrims stopped at them? Judging from a pilaster at Cressac Saint Genis, deeply worn by the hands of penitents fearful of the fiery pit, their numbers must have been staggering. This article was first posted on Silver Travel Advisor *Your best chance of accessing the Chapelle des Tempiers would be to inquire at the Hotel de Ville in Blanzac.

Self guided hiking holidays have been launched by Corsican Places – including itineraries on the rugged GR20 route, one of Europe’s toughest. Working with local experts, the tour operator is offering eight options – from leisurely or moderate to challenging or tough. Moderate choices include seven nights on the island with four days of walking (and an optional fifth) in its north west corner. Luggage is transferred between hotels en route (3 nights half board and 4 b&b). Seven and 14 night holidays – for fit, experienced hikers- are available on the famous GR20, which runs between the north and south along the island’s mountainous spine – and involves scrambling in some places. Hikers need to carry their own back packs and equipment. The longer option covers 13 of the trail’s 16 sections. The shorter take in six day treks on either the north or south of the route. Accommodation options, with meals, include camping, refuges, and shepherds' cabins Prices start at £1745 a head for the moderate walking trip, and £1770 for the one week GR20 trek. All prices include including flights, transfers and route notes.

Manchester is to get a new hotel The four star Malmaison is set to open on 1 February close to Deansgate, the mile long thoroughfare that runs between the cathedral and Beetham Tower. Many of its 70 rooms and suites will offer views to the neogothic Albert Square and the magnificent Town Hall, with its grand staircases, mosaics celebrating “King Cotton”, and its busts and statues of local notables such as scientists John Dalton and James Joule, anti Corn Law campaigners Richard Cobden and John Bright, and conductor Sir John Barbirolli, who helped keep the city’s Hallé Orchestra alive in 1943, when most of its younger musicians were in the forces. Interiors at the Malmaison Deansgate Manchester will themselves reflect the city’s industrial and artistic past. The prpert will have two restaurants, one with a bar and terrace at rooftop level. Prices  will start at £120, room only, and £152.20 for bed and breakfast.

Upmarket tour operator Abercrombie & Kent is to launch what it claims will be the “finest new craft on the Nile”. The boutique boat, which is scheduled to enter service late next year and is still to be named, will have 32 cabins. With floor to ceiling windows and balconies above the water they will, the firm says “far surpass the typical standards for luxury Egyptian river cruises”. Two suites will have hot tubs on private decks. The vessel will carry Egyptologists to provide insights into the region’s history. A&K already operates four boutique boats on the Nile.

A package combining French tuition with a ski snowboard lift pass is on offer from the Alpine French School in Morzine. The resort is a gateway to the sprawling Portes diu Soleil piste complex which straddles the Franco-Swiss border. A week’s group language lessons, plus a pass covering theentirei area, costs from €551 / £473 pp.

In Bilbao you never need to sit down for a full blown meal. Grazing is a way of life. Simply saunter from bar to bar, ordering a beer or a glass of wine and choosing a couple of pintxos in each. Pintxos are what the Basques call tapas. But while you may think of tapas mostly as hors d’oeuvres to a dinner that starts when most of us are contemplating bed, these little beauties can be the main event. And while in the rest of Spain you may still get tapas free, you invariably pay a small amount for each – though an entire evening The Huge choice can include the likes of potato and truffle gratin, cod with ted pepper and cheese, anchovies, calamari, pork knuckle, or artichoke tempura with crisp ham and sesame seeds. Most cost €5 or less, so (depending on your appetites) sampling them with drinks shouldn’t set you back more than about £30 - £40 for two. Each bar has its speciality. They may include bacalao or cod, perhaps cooked in pil pil sauce with garlic and hot little peppers, goat cheese with quince paste called membrillo, maybe artichoke tempura with crispy ham or pork knucklte - and various varieties of the tortilla. They say that if you sit in one place and fill up on them you stand out as a tourist. Locals eat one or two and move on. They seem to come and go in waves. Good places to look like locals include the Licenziado Poza in the new town, a few streets back from the Gran Via, Don Diego Lopez de Haro near the Dagrado Corazon monument. Slightly more touristy, though with a huge choice of bars, is the elegant, arcaded Plaza Nueva in the Old Town. And you shouldn’t leave without popping into the Café Iruna, with its wall tiles advertising sherry and anis, whose head barman remembers divers orders, directs staff and serves in a constant whirlwind of near operatic activity. While Pintxos are not exclusive to Bilbao, Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum is a focal point as unmistakable as the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. It was a master stroke in the city’s remarkable regeneration. Friends remember how grim it appeared it in the 1960s, when Franco was still using the aging heavy industries at its heart to prop up a failing, inward looking economy. As those industries struggled in the face of post-Franco competition, factories along the polluted River Nevion became rusting eyesores. The Guggenheim Foundation was looking for a new project, the Basque Nationalist Party wanted a symbol of the region’s emergence from the repression of dictatorship. Though in truth it was reported that no other city wanted the museum, Basque taxpayers were asked to cough up. It was a marriage made in heaven. It follows that the distinctive limestone and titanium structure, designed with an eye to the industries it helped replace, was more important than its contents. Which is not denigrate those contents, which include Richard Serra’s vast, enigmatic, free standing, weathered steel explorations of time and space. Outside are Jeff Koons’ wonderful Tulips and – on the riverside walkway where anyone can be photographed under its giant legs without paying an entrance fee - Louise Bourgeois’ giant spider, aka “Maman”. If the Guggenheim draws crowds – it gets around 1m visitors a year – you might just be on your own in the excellent Basque Museum (Euskal Museoa) It’s housed in an 18th century building which served as the region’s first Jesuit school but assumed its present role in the 1980s. It tells the story of the Basques – though doesn’t clear up the mystery of their origins – and contains a stunning selection of early photographs by Eulalia de Abaitua, who was born in 1853 and learned her art in Liverpool, where her husband had business premises. It includes part of a Tree of Guernica, under which village elders from across the Basque country’s Vizcaya (Biscay) region traditionally met, but when we visited I could spot no reference to the Condor legion’s notorious bombing raid. Bilbao is a lovely city in which to stroll. There are promenades on both banks of the river. Where there was once grime and decay there are now delightful gardens. But you rarely need to walk a more than a hundred metres without seeing somewhere to sit outside and drink a coffee. The underground – designed by Sir Norman Foster – or the smart, modern trams - are simple to navigate. You could take the former towards the sea, to marvel at the Vizcaya Bridge, first in the world to carry passengers and vehicles on a suspended gondola – and now a UNESCO World Heritage site. The latter stops outside the large Ribera market, testimony to the Basques’ love of fish in all its forms. Shoppers pause for pintxos there, too, maybe opting for percebes (goose Barnacles) which taste much better than they look. Of course you don’t have to graze. You could, perhaps, pushing the boat out at the excellent Michelin starred Zortziko whose menus start at €90 for six courses. That could include, for example, pigeon croquette through Iberian, pork shoulder with ravioli and “cabbage cheese”, and “creamy chestnut” with Earl Grey ice cream. As in the rest of Europe, prices have risen since our, pre-pandemic, visit. But doubtless Daniel Garcia’s cooking remains worth every cent. All the same, I couldn’t help calculating how many nights on the pintxos the bill would have bought. This articlle is a revised version of one that appeared at Silver Traver Advisor

A recent trip to Berlin prompted me to read Anja Hoyer's Beyond the Wall. Her book is a superb eye opener, confirming some of the worst aspects of life in the former East German but tackling many of the misconceptions, ranging from the well documented STASI surveillance of its citizenry to the pride among many of those living there in the creation of what became an economically challenged but in some ways a relatively successful Communist state. Exploring the former parts oif the German capital cut off from the west by the Wall, strolling along Bernau Strasse, where people were parted from neighbours and friends on either side of the road, invoked memories of other cities visited only since the country's reunification Among those cities were Weimar, some of whose artists during the ill fated, eponymous inter war Republic were despised as degenerate by Hitler and whose work may be seen in Berlin's wonderful Neue National Galerie - and Erfurt. Though relatively unsung in Britain, Erfurt surely ranks among Europe's loveliest cities. It is also the scene of one of the twentieth century's great ironies. In the narrow streets of its old centre the eye is continually drawn to medieval facades. The Krämerbrücke, lined on both sides with small craft shops, is the longest of its kind in Europe. On hot summer days, children splash in the shallow waters of the Gera, playing in the shadow of its parapets, where the carts of merchants once forded the river. It owes this rich heritage largely to its position, at the centre of Germany and the crossing of trade routes from the Baltic to Venice, from Madrid to Kiev. At the conclusion of the Second World War it was briefly occupied by the Americans. After the Yalta talks its residents, given no choice in the matter and hardly any notice, found themselves part of the Communist east.Scratch the surface and you will hear stories about those days when they were citizens of the German Democratic Republic. One told me she had a group of close friends who had stuck together since school days. Then one of them married an officer of the STASI, the notorious secret police whose activities wee so brilliantly fictionalised in the movie "The Lives of Others". Fearing a slip of the tongue might land them in trouble the group cut off contact with her. She described the day in 1970 when she had tried to catch a glimpse of the then West German Chancellor as he appeared at a window on the square by the main station, there for a historic summit with his opposite number from the East. The event is commemorated in large letters on the building in question: "Willy Brandt ans Fenster". We arrived at the station from Weimar after a 15 minute train journey. Weimar, though no less fascinating, is very different. Its name is more familiar thanks to the short lived, inflation ravaged republic, whose constitution was agreed there and later abused by Hitler. The concentration camp Buchenwald is a brooding presence just out of town, now a grim memorial. Weimar was the cradle of the Bauhaus which, like the Arts and Crafts movement, drew together all design disciplines. A fascinating museum reminds you of its continuing impact and, with the likes of Kandinsky among its guiding lights, why the Nazis effectively put paid to it. Buildings associated with the Bauhaus, including the original school, have been recognised by UNESCO as World Heritage Sites. But so have the houses, castles and parks which reflect Weimar's classical period. The town's most insistent leitmotif is the Enlightenment. JS Bach, Liszt, Schiller and Goethe, the great polymath, all lived there. The museum attached to Goethe's Baroque house., with its graceful evocative wooden staircase and the piano Mendelssohn played, illustrates his boundless curiosity through collections of everything from artworks and minerals to the skeletons of small creatures. Weimar's Town Square Weimar's crowning glory, however, is the Duchess Anna Amalia library. The initial impact of its tiered Rococo Hall is like that you experience, for example, stepping for the first time into a great cathedral. Anna Amalia married Duke Ernst II Konstantin of Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach in her late teens. He died two years later, leaving her with an uncommonly long widowhood in which to fill her time. She founded the library in 1766, with the then revolutionary idea opening it not just to the upper classes but to all comers. The shelves are lined with volumes Schiller and Goethe might have borrowed - the former keen on history, the latter, who made over 2000 loans, intrigued by everything from Descartes to Humboldt's account of his South American expedition. He made over 2000 loans. In 2004 a fire destroyed around 50,000 books and damaged many others. Water from hoses cascaded though the Rococo Hall, which had to be painstakingly restored. Extraordinary expertise was deployed to rescue soaked and charred volumes. Those left soggy by the water were put in freezers and slowly thawed later, to prevent mould. Erfurt has a much less courtly atmosphere than Weimar. It is the capital of the state of Thuringia, whose many attractions remind you how much was obscured by what we once called the Iron Curtain. Eisenach is just one example. Dominated by Wartburg Castle where Luther translated the New Testament, it is the town where Johann Sebastian Bach was born. Next to what hay or many not have been his birthplace is a wonderful museum, where the entrance price also gets you a recital on instruments from the baroque period. Unusually, Erfurt has a great church, St Severus, next to an even greater cathedral, their closeness explained by the fact that they were originally female and male establishments. The latter brims with treasures, such as its 14th and 15th century windows, hidden in a mine during the Second World War and a lovely little altar painting by Lucas Cranach the Elder. Unlike Weimar, Erfurt is full of busy beer gardens. We dined in one - Zum Güldenen Rade in Marktstrasse - on delicious potato dumplings called Klösse, which are a local speciality. Mine were stuffed with black pudding and liver sausage and served with two sauces, one a horseradish cream. But of all Erfurt's fascinations, none is more memorable than its old synagogue, now a museum. Until a couple of decades ago it had lain concealed by surrounding buildings for over 500 years. It was built in the 11th century, but was later covered to a storehouse some after the city's Jews, blamed for the arrival of the Black Death, were massacred in a 14th century pogrom. Nearby a construction worker unearthed what he took to be an old ash tray. It led to the discovery of a staggering hoard of Jewish jewellery, coins and artefacts which are now on show there. The great irony I mentioned at the outset is that the synagogue eventually became a restaurant and dance hall. And as my guide notes, it is beyond doubt that during the darkest years of the last century, Nazis, ignorant of the building's history, caroused there. A version of this article appeared originally in Scotland on Sunday's Spectrum magazine

When the comic film star WC Fields, a lifelong atheist, was in hospital, close to the end of his life, the story goes that a visiting friend caught him sitting up in bed, reading the Bible. What are doing, the astonished friend asked. Field replied, in that drawl that somehow emphasised his on screen cynicism: “Looking for loopholes”. Who knows how we may behave then death is ringing the doorbell? Maybe I’ll need to apologise for a years oi enjoyment exploring churches without once feeling the tug of divine grace. Until then I’ll continue to urge anyone who’ll read or listen to never walk past one without an urgent reason. It doesn’t have to be well known, or endowed with riched, such as St Mary’s at Fairford in Gloucestershire, which boasts, arguably, the most complete array of medieval stained glass windows in Britain. There the eye was most drawn the sinner depected in the Great West Window (The Last Judgement) being transported into the fiery pit by wheelbarrow, a detail though to be the origin of the phrase “going to hell in a handcart”. It could be the less celebrated St James in Shere, Surrey where, in 1329, a woman was walled up in an anchorite’s cell. You may see the quatrefoil opening through which she received the sacrament and the narrow “squint” that enabled her to view mass at the high altar. Then there are the Saxon churches in Hampshire’s Meon Valley: All Saints in East Meon, perhaps, described by Pevsner as one of the count’s “most thrilling village churches”, or that at Corhampton, with its 12th century frescoes. Or in Somerset, there is St Andrew’s in the sleepy village of Trent, where the Archbishop who officiated at the late Queen’s coronation settled toward the end of his life see my feature article here). You could never run out. Sir Simon Jenkins picked no fewer than 1000 of them for his exhaustively researched book (England’s Thousand Best Churches). He has written that he is “intensely careful of churches, and not just churches as buildings, glorious as many of them are”, adding that those who deride the church should recognise them also as “institutions of local art, ancestry, history and ceremony”. And, like Fields, he is an atheist.

The hippopotamus, if disturbed while mating, is not a happy bunny. Sugar almost learned the hard way, surprising a pair in the act while fishing from his mokoro in Botswana's Okavango Delta. One reared up in front of him, the other bore down from behind. For a horrible moment or two he thought his time had come but he managed to manoeuvre his canoe into the thick, long grass and the hippos quickly lost interest. Had one gone for him, it could have bitten him in two as easily as if he were a cocktail swizzle stick. He related this tale as we glided across the inland delta in the brilliant light of early morning. It taught him, he said, to steer clear of the deeper channels, where hippos were more likely to be concealed. They copulate with the female submerged and holding her breath. But fortunately it appears sex in the morning is not their thing. We needed to cross several such channels, however. So I asked him apprehensively, when was the mating season? “Now”, he replied. We were on our way to one of the many islands formed as the flooding Okavango River, which begins with torrential rain on Angola's Benguela Plateau, ends its journey months later as a shimmering network of rivers and lagoons in the Kalahari Basin, where most of it evaporates. Thus Okavango Delta is one of the few that do not empty into a sea or ocean. Native plants and animals synchronise their biological cycles with its floods. This year's water levels were among the highest in 25 years. Sugar was our guide's Anglicised name, English being Botswana's official language. In Tswana it was Sukiri. He had been poling mokoros since he was seven, balancing at the rear like a gondolier. Traditionally, mokoros are dug outs, made using the whole trunk of a tree such as the mopane. But such trees can take 200 years to reach sufficient maturity and the government had been trying to discourage deforestation – so this one was fibreglass. The delta is a place of intense beauty. Lilies dot its placid surfaces. Their pads support the chestnut and white African jacana which stalks delicately on feet which evolution has stretched to spread their weight, appearing to walk on water. Hence its alternative name – the Jesus bird. The eye is caught suddenly by a tiny malachite kingfisher, with scarlet bills and flashing blue plumage. Crocodiles slide furtively from view at our approach. Hippos, observed from a respectful distance, feed noisily, munching great bundles of grass. Sunset is a sudden fire, quickly extinguished. We watched it from the waterside bar at Eagle Island before being escorted back to our “tent” by a staff member, in case a dangerous animal had slipped into the camp unnoticed. Tent was a loose description. It was an en suite thatched hut with a bed under a mosquito net, his and hers wash basins, air conditioning, a phone and a wooden balcony with loungers. This was not for those who feel camping should involve an element of hardship. The lodge was one of three in Botswana run by luxury operator Belmond. To reach them we flew overnight to Johannesburg, spending a day there and a night at the tranquil and luxurious Westcliff Hotel, now a Four Seasons, and flying north next morning to the small delta gateway town of Maun. From there we reached our first stop by light aircraft. Savute Elephant Lodge, lies outside the delta on the enigmatic Savute Channel, which fills with water only once every 25 - 30 years or so. It was about due but during our visit but remained dust dry and the herds of huge elephants which give the camp its name gathered instead at artificial waterholes. On an afternoon game drive a keen eyed fellow traveller noticed lion tracks and after a long search our guide found us a big male, lazing beneath a bush about 50 metres away. But male lions are the animal equivalents of couch potatoes and this one wass true to form. We hung around silently for maybe ten minutes in fading light before he deigned to raise his great head, allowing us a proper sighting. A short flight took us on to Khwai River Lodge, a camp on the edge of the delta. Sitting by the pool there with binoculars was enough alone wo make the stay worthwhile. A purple heron waited motionless for the flicker of fish. Red lechwe (antelopes) grazed on the flood plain and the inevitable hippos lumbered and snorted through the long grass just a few metres away. Excursions with a guide known as KG and his dreadlocked trainee assistant Bob – after Marley, that is – proved deven more rewarding. Towards dusk we tracked down our first leopard, a female. slinking cooperatively close in the undergrowth with a cub. She seemed totally unfazed by our presence or the clicking of cameras. Early next morning we were driven across a rackety wooden causeway into the Moremi Game Reserve, where we sight ed wild dogs stalking impala. “One of those impala is going to be someone's breakfast”, said KG, but they were too fleet of foot. They showed the dogs their black and white rump M markings – which guides called “bush McDonalds” - and pranced off among the trees and scrub. The dogs turned their attention to a group of lechwe but were frustrated again as their intended prey splashed into a small lagoon and stayed there, defying their reluctant pursuers to brave the crocodiles. Days in camp began at 6am, with coffee and biscuits delivered to our tent. Then it was s a light breakfast at 6.30, of porridge, perhaps or the universal African staple, mealie meal, a game drive and a huge late morning brunch. Mornings were very chilly but by now it was hot and there were three hours or so to relax or swim before afternoon tea and another drive. Drinks after dark were served around a fire of mopane wood, which is so hard and heavy it will burn all night. Dinners, under a blaze of stars, were memorable. Besides delicious dishes such as sweet potato soup and Cape Malay chicken curry, we sampled warthog stew and crocodile tail. Before each evening drive, evoking shades of mad dogs and Englishmen, we were invited to order sundowners. These were consumed later as we stood by the vehicle, watching two hippos scrapping in the river, KG poured an American lady tourist an enormous beaker of white wine. “Now”, he teold her, “you will see pinky elephants”. This is a version of an article which appeared originally in Scotland on Sunday's Spectrum magazine

A new long distance walking trail across Switzerland's Bern Canton was scheduled to open this spring. The 305km long Via Berna will comprise 20 stages, ascents totalling 13,600m and is designed for hikes of medium fitness. Passing through cities, along lakes and across mountains, it is the first multi-stage route in the country to be awarded European certification as Leading Quality Trail for its marking, scenery, access, website and facilities. It starts in gentle hills at the edge of the Franches-Montagnes, crosses the highest points in the Jura, visits the city of Thun and runs along its eponymous lake. It follows Alpine trails with views of famous peaks including the Eiger and the Jungfrau, descending three times to U-shaped valleys created by ice age glaciers. The route finishes with a climb from the village of Gadmen on an old mule track to the Susten pass on the border with the Canton of Uri. En route are the Swiss capital of Bern, whose old town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the Reichenbach Valley, on whose falls Sherlock Holmes fought to the death with Professor Moriarty. Details of a wide range of accommodation along the way can be found here.

What’s green in England and white in Germany? The answer, most commonly at least, is asparagus. Both are excellent, enjoyment of them enhanced by the brevity of the season. But in Germany much more is made of it. Chalk written notices outside restaurants trumpet that der Spargelsaison has arrived. Roadside kiosks selling it open all over the place. It’s not unusual to find, on a menu, a dish incorporating a whole kilo of it, sometimes eaten with ham. You could catch the season this spring and early summer. It starts in mid-April and ends officially on midsummer’s day, June 24, or Johannistag – said also to be the birthday of St John the Baptist and sometimes called Spargelweihnachten or Spargelsylvester (asparagus Christmas or New Year’s Eve). The popularity of the vegetable, sometimes known as white gold, was given a big leg up by French King Louis X1V, though there’s no record of him saying “let them eat asparagus”. It became established on princely tables in what is now Germany after the Elector of Palatine developed a taste for it around the end the 18th century. Four states are home to "asparagus routes", among them those in Baden and Lower Saxony. Lower Saxony trail - image courtesy German National Tourist Office The Baden Route (Baden Spargelstrasses) takes in Schwetzingen, claimed as the world capital of asparagus. It's one of a number of towns which hosts an asparagus festival – this one in early May. It also runs through Hockenheim, with its motor racing course, Reilgen, Bruchsal, Karlsruhe, Rastatt and Scherzheim. The well signposted Lower Saxony route covers some 750kms, starting and finishing in Burgdorf on the Aue river, about 22kms northeast of Hanover. It crosses the regions of Brunswick, Lüneburg Heath, Mittelweiser and Oldenburg Münsterland. But you can find restaurants serving great helpings of it everywhere – not least Munich, whose city centre market has many stalls piled with graded stacks. In Bavaria is is often shown on menus as Schrobenhauser Spargel. Schrobenhauser, near Augsburg, is the centre of a major cultivation area, whose sandy soil is reckoned to give the local variety a light, nutty taste. I recall eating it pickled and in a mousse at Munich's upmarket Pfistermühle restaurant. And not far away in Regensburg it was impossible to turn up the opportunity to round off dinner with the astonishingly successful combination of asparagus ice cream and strawberries.

The reincarnated Good Food Guide has revamped the ratings awarded to restsurants by its subscribers. Gone is the old one to 10 scale, in which the lowest score was for "capable cooking with simple combinations and clear flavours". In come four categories: good, very good, exceptional and "world class". I am reminded irrestistibly of dropping into a Hereforshire pub one hot afternoon on a walk that took in places where the Dymock poets lived their bucolic existence on the eve of the First World. Did they please have something to eat. Only pickled eggs, said trhe landlord. A local at the bar confided: "His pickled eggs are world class". It is, in other words, a fairly meaningless accolade. One must assume that subscribers to that publication are relatively well travelled but they would have to be world class globetrotters to make the choice of rating remotely meaningful. In the interests of balance I must at the Guide's justification for its use: "Once derided for its lack of food culture, Great Britain today boasts one of the most eclectic dining scenes in the world. At the very top a few extraordinary chefs are having a seismic impact on British dining. These astonishing restaurants are redefining the profession, pushing the boundaries of what eating in a restaurant is all about. It’s the stuff of bucket lists, the vision and talent drawing not just national but international recognition – especially from chefs world-wide. In any given year, there will only be two or three chefs and restaurants operating at this level. The best of the best." Fair enough - and pedantry aside it's wonderful that the Guide is up and running again aftyer it demise furing the pandemic, albeit currently as a newsletter. It has been helping foodies avoid disasters for over 70 years. On my bookshelves is a 1957-58 edition (Lobster Florence at Wheeler's for 13s/6p and a bottleof Chablis for 18s). But I'm also reminded of an old story about the Konditorei that opened with the boast "Best Konditorei in Vienna". Another opened a few doors away claiming to be best in Austria", the next two advertised themselves respectively as "best in Europe" and "best in the world". Finally, for this must have been a very long Strasse, a fifth sprang up with the modest clai: "Best Konditorei on this street".