Annnnd we're back...in Devon!

No, we haven't been kidnapped. We've mostly just been at Meat Liquor (which, incidentally, looks like a place in which you would keep a kidnapped person). But hello again! Where were we?

Last year, we drove five hours down to Devon to stay in Dartmoor National Park. This drive takes ordinary people four hours, but I was the navigator. Here are some things you may already know about Dartmoor:

1. It is extremely beautiful, full of windswept moors and wild ponies.

2. There are a handful of really excellent restaurants.

3. You will need to remind yourself of #1 and #2 often, as you will spend most of your time lost on twisty, one-way country roads with twelve foot hedges on either side. It is a ginormous plant labyrinth.

But it was a great time. Plus, all of the places where you are going know that you will get lost and be late, and have a bottomless supply of idiot tourist sympathy. Once, we couldn't get to lunch because of this.

Friends will be surprised to learn that I am not the outdoorsiest of humans. Usually, in the case of a domestic crisis, I think "What Would Martha Do?" And Martha would definitely not be intimidated by wildlife. She would stare it down until it became a handbag. So I got out to shoo it.

However, the cow things in Dartmoor are totally not afraid of you. Get back in the car. GET BACK IN THE CAR.

Once we found it, we stayed at Bovey Castle, a beautiful property with lots of Lord-of-the-Manor activities designed for people who watch period dramas.

There are many owls there, belonging to a reluctant falconer who has been roped into a perpetual Harry Potter fantasy. We could not. get. enough. In fact, we took a private "falconry" lesson (tutorial in bird stroking) so as to avoid competition from the many hoggy children.

And of course, we ate. Gidleigh Park has a renowned restaurant which books up surprisingly quickly, given its location in the middle of a hedgerow maze. We made it to lunch and enjoyed four courses which, if not revolutionary, were moreish. The environment is comfortable, and doesn't choke on formality.

Certainly the best part of the meal was being able to finish it on the terrace, coffee in hand and looking at the countryside. The service here is something special, and it was our sommelier who suggested ending things this way. As we sipped, the restaurant manger stopped by to chat about food and and make polite conversation ("So, did you get lost in the hedges? Did a giant killer cow stand in front of the car and chew and not move? That always happens").

Our favorite meal--easily--was in the field kitchen at Riverford Organic Farm. For a fraction of the cost of Gidleigh, or indeed, the River Cottage, where we went the next day, they will serve you a no-choice lunch or dinner using the best of whatever seasonal ingredients they have on hand. On the night we visited, there was roast chicken and potatoes with rosemary, braised carrots, creamed spinach, fresh beets and white beans in olive oil, and about twelve varieties of pudding.

In one medium-sized room, the menu is scrawled on a chalkboard and the dishes are served family-style at smallish communal picnic tables. The atmosphere is so palpably easy-going that it would be churlish not to make friends, and so you sit at a table of generous new acquaintances and order more wine. It's irresistible.

Since we were in the neighborhood, our trip to Devon would have been incomplete without a visit to the River Cottage. When you arrive on the farm for Sunday lunch, a glass of champagne is thrust into your hand and you are encouraged to wander the property for an hour beforehand. Trays of mutton burgers were circulating on the day we were there, and much of our "wandering" involved following the servers at a respectful distance until we could surreptitiously swoop in for thirdsies.

We sat down to lunch at another communal table, and after a short speech about the meal, the plates began appearing. Your entire meal is served on a single dish, so there is slightly less bonding with your dining companions as you both reach for the same bowl of chard.

The pork was tender and very fatty, the vegetables fine, and the crackling delicious. Our dessert was a lackluster panna cotta, underwhelmingly served in a wine glass. There was not quite enough gelatin for the cream to set, so it was more like vanilla pudding than anything else. After gulping some bitter black coffee, we walked out to pat the pigs before swinging onto the road back to London.

Broadway Market

Naturally, it was the cupcakes that did it. TB and I had been tossing out the idea of visiting the Broadway Market for months before a couple of weekends ago, when I offhandedly mentioned that one of my favorite bakeries, Violet Cakes, had a stall there. There are few things TB likes better than cake in the morning. Suddenly, Hackney was a hop, skip, and a circle line away.

Tousle-haired, we scooped up some cupcakes, then stood in line for carefully-made flat whites from Climpson and Sons. There are a couple of handy picnic tables next to the stall, and we warmed a bench while munching through breakfast and watching the crowd go by. The icing on the cupcakes was excellent, but the crumb a bit dry. Much as I enjoy Violet cakes, I find this is often the case.

The caffine and sugar was animating, and we vibrated down the street to see the rest of the market. When you've visited a few of the Saturday markets in London, you start to notice many of the same small vendors popping up. The Tomato Stall, Pieminister, Flour Power City Bakery, etc. This isn't a terrible thing--we visit The Tomato Stall at our local market every weekend--but it's nice to see a few new faces.

We'll be back soon. It would be reason enough just to visit the fruit stall in the middle of the market, which sold us five plump, drippy peaches for £2. Cobbler, anyone?

Petersham Nurseries

Skye Gyngell, the chef at Petersham Nurseries, has been nestled between Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and Nigel Slater on my cookbook shelf since before we moved to London. A few weeks ago we hopped a train to Richmond to spend an afternoon among the blooms and bovines.

We walked into the greenhouse, shaking rain from our umbrellas, and took in the dirt floor, flowers, and scrubbed wooden tables. The air was fresh and warm. Our server showed us to a beautiful spot, and rushed away for a bottle of champagne.

Not many of the courses lasted long enough for me to photograph. The preparations are simple and the ingredients predictably excellent.

I was especially won over by the braised veal, served with the brightest, most flavorful roast tomatoes. The jus at the bottom of the dish was rich and savory, and we mopped it up with bread from the table.

There is also a cafe and bakery were we stopped after lunch to pick up a few things for the evening. We ran into the maitre d' from the restaurant, who had just waved us out of the dining room. She looked on in mock bewilderment as we selected our pastries and laughed with the server at our appetites.

Petersham nurseries is a beautiful space and an astoundingly good restaurant. More than that, the entire operation hums with goodwill. They are only open for lunch, and as soon as we left I felt an overwhelming pull to go back and share it with everyone we love.

Dinner at Midnight in Brussels

TB and I have been out of town for much of the past two months. Potted plants shrivelled, friendships were conducted via email, and the till at William Curley had a well-earned rest. It's exciting to be home again. Today we spent the morning at Leila's Shop eating baked eggs and chatting with our tablemates. We walked into Clerkenwell for madeleines from St John, baked to order and wrapped in wax paper. We ate them on the long walk home, burning our fingers on the steam and swearing never to go out of town again.

Roguishly, even with our adopted city at our doorstep, there are a few places from our recent trips I can't stop thinking about. One is the Restaurant de L'Ogenblik in Brussels. We arrived off the Eurostar late one evening to start a holiday in Belgium. By the time we had checked into our hotel and reemerged, it was nearly midnight, and all of Brussels seemed to be in bed. We sceptically made our way to the Restaurant de L'Ogenblik, passing row after row of dark storefronts. Turning a corner into the Galerie des Princes, bright windows revealed the crowded bistro, nearly every table claimed. The tone was convivial and the patrons elegant and tipsy. We ordered rare filet pur aux champignons sauvages, gratin dauphinois, and a voluptuous bottle of red wine. The proprietor, smiling and forgiving my French, kept bringing us hot, impossibly good frites on the house, which we used to clean our plates.

Maybe it was the heady combination of butter and conversation, or our gratefulness at not having to go to bed hungry, but the evening is fixed in my mind as one of our best this spring.

A Very Good Bookshop in Bath

On a recent trip to Bath, we put aside an afternoon to visit Mr. B's Emporium of Reading Delights. It has warm, large windows that look out on narrow John Street and implore you to stick your head in. When you step over the threshold, the floorboards give a satisfying creak.

The shop is laid out over two floors, and the books are split by subject and interest throughout several rooms. The second room on the ground floor had cookery titles displayed in a footed bathtub. I shivered at the site of my two favorite things arranged so attractively together. "Someone in this shop speaks to my soul" I said feverishly, looking at TB with crazy saucer eyes. "Undoubtedly," said TB, loosening my grip on The World of Cheese and leading the way upstairs.

On the first floor, we came across two people sitting in armchairs with a plate of cakes and mugs of tea between them. One of the two was Mr B himself, dolling out recommendations to an eager, scribbling listener based on her current favorite titles. When they were finished, I asked Mr. B about the bibliotherapy session and he explained that it was part of their "Delightful Reading Spa Treatment," which includes a 45-minute discussion of books with an expert, a gift certificate for the shop, and, of course, snacks. Have you ever heard of a better way to spend an afternoon? Or a lifetime? You have not.

After chatting with the good natured staff, and testing out all the the armchairs, TB gently pulled us toward the door so that the nice people could close and go home. We saw this just as we were leaving.

"Wally"?