I sometimes think it feels as though every Brit has some kind of tie to Cyprus; whether they’ve been themselves or know someone (who knows someone) who has moved out there. I first visited Cyprus when I was 13 years old and my parents loved it so much that we returned every year until I was all grown up and flew the nest. My parents continued to visit, toying with the idea of joining those people who’ve made the move to live there.
My dad does well for special occasions. Whilst the rest of us in the family have birthdays either side of Christmas when it’s dark and cold and no one has any money to do anything, my dad is a Spring baby. This weekend, as I thought back to being lucky enough to just see the sun on Mother’s day, I couldn’t help think that dad’s are very lucky indeed to have a Summer date dedicated to them!
One mild Saturday morning in April I got up and drove into the Warwickshire countryside, where nestled away amid beautiful rolling yellow fields and rickety red brick buildings is an incredibly interesting story to be told.
Bloody hell, does this restaurant have impact! I mean how often do you drive through acres of deer scattered grounds to get to your dinner reservations?
York is up there as one of my favourite cities in the UK. This place isn’t just steeped in history, it’s positively swimming in it. Nearly every building is old and quaint and lovely, the inner city is surrounded like by a giant stone wall, there’s ghost tours, there’s people dressed as Vikings, there’s tea shops where the staff wear frilly aprons and pubs that seem as old as time itself. Stepping into York is like stepping back in time.