England

At first glance, it looks like any other sleepy village in southwest England. A medieval church and manor house face a fish ’n’ chip shop and post office across the green. There’s the obligatory pub, the Farmers Arms, where log fires crackle and ale-taps gleam beneath oak-beamed ceilings. Along the narrow lanes, whitewashed cottages peter out into rolling Devonshire hills. In true UK style, the place even has an obscure tongue-twister of a name: Woolfardisworthy. Population 1,123. Look closer, however, and you’ll realize this isn’t your standard British backwater. For every pint of cider being poured in the pub, there’s a craft cocktail infused with foraged botanicals and homemade cordials — think a crabapple cider margarita or a sea buckthorn gin sour.

You just can’t beat London at Christmas. Unless you’re lining up to get into the Tube station (never mind onto a train) at Oxford Circus, in the pissing rain. Then you’re better off in one of those glass igloos in Finland.  When I’m in town for the holidays, I find myself returning to a few old faithfuls, with a few old faithfuls. The Zetter Marylebone Keep this gem up your sleeve for when the crowds become a little too much. A warren of sumptuous suites and a lavish, candlelit parlor awaits at dinky Zetter Marylebone hotel, just a couple of streets back from shopping mecca Selfridges. Divide and conquer last-minute shopping with Mom, then meet here at lunchtime for a swift recovery.

Quizzed on how best to assimilate a new culture, travel writer and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain once uttered the famous line: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” I never met the man, but still I miss him and his deft writing. The Opening a Bottle series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, in whatever city I’ve washed up in.  It’s my first proper day of spring on home soil, and it’s a blinder. Not a cloud in the sky, and a glorious cool breeze wafting the scent of mown grass across Lime Wood Hotel’s sumptuous gardens. They’re bursting with color, flowers blooming in every direction. White stone walls are awash with lilac wisteria. I’ve driven down to rural Hampshire from London to meet lauded resident chef Luke Holder.

Hannah Moore’s June Spectator piece on sandwiches made me hungry. Then it made me think. Ms Moore makes a sound distinction between modern Britain’s plastic-boxed, triangular ‘sandwich’ and the custom-made, piled-high, endlessly imitated, seldom-matched product of a good New York or Chicago delicatessen. Why, one wonders, do the Brits put up with it? Landing in countless foreign ports over the years, for business or pleasure, I’ve always wondered, pretty much before wondering about anything else, ‘What’s the food like?’ Almost always, I’ve liked what it was like. In the age of real borders and undiluted ethnicities, food was a powerful expression of locality.

London All is fair in love and war, and nothing is fair in sport. England rode their luck to their first final in a European Championship in London on Sunday night. They scored a stylish goal in the second minute, too — but then their luck ran out. Italy, always the favorites, regained control of the game. They equalized with only 23 minutes of normal time to run, forced a penalty shootout, and won. You make your own luck. England had the host nation’s home advantage. They had an off-pitch assist from their fans, too. For weeks the words 'Football’s coming home’ have echoed around this green and pleasant, small and crowded land. England’s game rose as the tournament progressed, until an entire nation waited on tenterhooks for Sunday night. For what?