From beginning to end Paris in Bloom is a glorious affair. Thick with promise, the pages turn effortlessly like petals in the wind, uplifting and exhilarating, and oh so pretty, bringing gasps of joy! In our chaotic world, it offers us all a heartening remedy by celebrating the beauty and fragility of life through flowers, against the beguiling backdrop of Paris.

Blushingly romantic, Georgianna’s love of blooms is strewn across every sumptuous page as she exquisitely captures the fleeting pleasures that come with each passing season.

From parks and gardens to mesmerising floral boutiques and markets, this is a book to cherish, showered with sunshine, hope and dreams. I almost weep with longing as I imagine crunching over gravel paths in the city’s most elegant, flower-filled spaces and peering through the enchanting doorway of une boutique de fleuriste.

Paris’s floral charms have been gathered with careful attention to detail before being tied with a flourish into one artfully-arranged bouquet…Heavenly images of whimsical balcons vie with vintage French ribbons and pale pink peonies, their delicate petticoats of blossom wooing from the basket of a bicycle.

A true delight for the senses, this beautiful book rejoices in French art de vivre and inspires us all to savour the rosy moments in life. If Paris in Bloom doesn’t stir you to book a ticket to Paris, nothing will.

For more information on Paris in Bloom and how to pre-order, click here.

Jane xx

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It also happens to be majestic venue for Spring Restaurant.

I meet my friend Cecilia by the dancing fountains and we enter a graceful and feminine drawing room flooded with natural light. A huge arrangement of branches cloaked in spring blossoms stretches toward the soaring ceilings.  Understated and elegant and yet so warm and unpretentious, there is an instant sense of well-being and balance. With growing anticipation we are greeted by friendly staff wearing relaxed uniforms designed by the off-beat Egg. I imagine Spring would lift your mood even on the greyest of English days!

Now one of Britain’s most celebrated chefs, Australian Skye Gyngell opened Spring to great acclaim, as much for her delightful food as for the beautifully renovated dining room. Formerly head chef at Petersham Nurseries Café, where she was guided by what she saw growing and blooming around her, Skye is renowned for her instinctive seasonal cooking, creating superb, simple dishes from exceptional produce.

We peruse the Set Lunch Menu and opt for two courses for £27.50. The sun is streaming in through the huge, arched windows and an art instillation of petals (or perhaps they are butterflies) float over the duck egg linen walls like they are caught in the wind. It is difficult to imagine this used to be the Inland Revenue. There’s something poetic about the place. In the evenings the room is candlelit, which makes for a more golden, romantic light. Today, the room is nearly full and it’s an interesting mix of guests here in the middle of academia, with locals who work in the arts and walk-ins from Somerset House.

We start with a dish of simple grilled prawns with spinach and romesco, a lemon cheek with the leaf still on, a glass of fresh 2013 Antonio Sanz Verdejo Rueda. Skye works closely with a farm at Hereford, three hours west on the Welsh border, to ensure the best seasonal produce. We chat to the waiter who tells us that it depends what arrives in the van as to what ends up on the menu. Everything is utilised and treated respectfully – it’s very much roots to tips cooking. There will be nettles in soon and flowers from the farm.

I choose the Tagliata of veal with bitter greens to follow, while Cecilia opts for the Mackerel with beetroots, chard and horseradish. For dessert we decide to share an Almond tart with crème fraîche – at once crispy and crumbly, buttery and nutty. It smells like a batch of homemade ANZAC biscuits pulled straight from the oven. Head pastry chef, Sarah Johnson, trained at Chez Panisse. There is also ice cream made with beautiful fruit from the farm and house-made cordial teas; mulberry leaf tea is available all year round and is very popular.

As an after lunch treat, we visit one of the finest small museums in the world in the north wing of Somerset House. The Courtauld Gallery’s collection of paintings, drawings, sculpture and decorative art spans the Renaissance to the 21^st century. The gallery is most renowned for its outstanding collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist art and here we admire masterpieces such as Manet’s A Bar at the Folies-Bergère and Degas’ Two Dancers on a Stage, among works by Monet, Van Gogh and Cézanne.

A wonderful finish to a most memorable lunch at Spring Restaurant, London.

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Covent Garden is divided by the main thoroughfare of Long Acre, and here on the southern side sits the piazza and most of the grand buildings, theatres and cultural facilities. It’s behind the curtain, however, in the streets back and beyond, that you will find the area’s full scale of delights.

Bloomsbury Flowers’ signature is ‘seasonal English country garden’ and ‘wild field flowers’, and it’s easy to be enchanted.

‘At the moment it’s all lilacs, tulips, Guelda roses, and ranunculus,’ says owner Stephen Wicks, who runs the shop with his partner Mark Welford. Both are former dancers with the Royal Ballet and supply the flowers for the Royal Opera House. They have also opened a second shop in the courtyard of the stylish Ham Yard Hotel.

Compared to Paris, which is filled with corner florists, I was surprised to find so few in London. ‘Many have shut their doors, the rent is prohibitive,’ says Stephen. The shop uses a lot of foliage and herbs, and as much English produce as they can to support local growers. There are peonies all year round, however, and they deliver right across London – handy to know if you wish to order a particularly beautiful bouquet for a special occasion.

I often find myself asking the owners of boutiques I am drawn to for their favourite addresses nearby. It’s a sure way to dig out places that the locals love and frequent, and I enquire about Stephen’s favourite dining spots in Covent Garden.

A couple of doors up is Great Queen Street Restaurant. ‘It’s cosy and busy, and very English. We love their seven-hour roast leg of lamb with a hot pan of potatoes. It’s perfect for a slow Sunday lunch.’ He takes me to meet the owner. I discover that on Sundays, depending on the time of year, there’s also traditional roast Swaledale beef with Yorkshire pudding & all the trimmings, and suet crust steak & ale pie. I put it on my list to return to (although it’s rather pricey). Just as heartening is that fact that it’s part of the Anchor & Hope Group who own three premier pubs in London: The Canton Arms, The Camberwell Arms and the Anchor & Hope. Like most restaurants in the area, they do a pre-theatre menu.

‘Great Queen Street dates from 1612 and was one of the first streets in London,’ says Stephen. ‘Our shop was at one time occupied by an importer of Dutch tulip bulbs.’ The street is also home to milliner Stephen Jones, and Walker Slater, Edinburgh’s tweed tailor.

Stephen’s other favourites nearby are The Ivy Market Grill, and Jar Kitchen, an imaginative little café that’s just opened up around the corner on Drury Lane but feels far from the bustle of the market and theatre crowd. Berlin-raised chef Dominik Moldenhauer comes straight from Dinner by Heston Blumenthal, having previously headed up the kitchen at The Greenhouse in Perth, and there is indeed an Aussie feel to the some of the dishes. An Ottolenghi-style vegetarian dish of mixed grain salad with roasted heirloom carrots, coconut yoghurt and pomegranate tempts for lunch. The Covent Garden food renaissance continues.

As Stephen wraps a spray of lily of the valley in a flourish of lilac tissue paper he says, ‘Oh, but you must go to Petersham Nurseries! I just want to move in…and the food!’ (Yes, I did. I agree. It’s divine.). He pushes the spray under my nose and says, ‘Smell this, isn’t it amazing? For you, it’s the first of the season.’

I leave with my scented spring lilies and a smile on this lovely spring day, and make my way towards Somerset House for lunch at Spring Restaurant (stay tuned), past the imposing main entrance of the Royal Opera House. If you can’t make a ballet, backstage tours are available for a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the sumptuous auditorium, and afternoon tea is served in the Paul Hamlyn Hall. Originally intended as a fruit and flower market, the hall was famously depicted in Pygmalion, and as the Covent Garden market setting for the musical My Fair Lady.

‘With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy.’

Oscar Wilde

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Between posts, a lot of water has flowed under the bridge, but my personal highlight has been becoming a grandmother. Precious little Lila Grace is now seven month’s old.

To quote A. A. Milne in Winnie The Pooh, ‘Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.’

Lila, seven month’s old, rugged up for a walk.

At times, however, the waters have been rather rough and choppy. I lost my dear mother just a month ago, a woman who had an incredible capacity to spread love and joy, and I miss her every day. I am blessed to have so many cherished memories.

Also, as some of you know, a big project that I was working on went pear-shaped. Sadly, months of research and writing on London ended up in the bottom draw for a rainy day. I count myself as lucky, though, to have spent an extended time in the company of a good old friend and Londoner, who not only put me up, but showed me around and madly photographed and sketched her way around town with me. I first met Cecilia, an illustrator, when we both lived in New York many moons ago when our girls were young.

Anyway, time is ticking by and at the risk of all this wonderful material going out of date, I have decided to put a few favourite London addresses on the blog in the next little while.

The first address is a restaurant in Kensington called Maggie Jones’s. On the doorstep of the parks, the elegant neighbourhood embodies classic London charm.

Maggie Jones’s

World-weary and hankering for a warm and cosy place for an early dinner, Cecilia and I are immediately drawn to the window where a waiter is lighting candles. We peer in. He comes to the door and greets us with a smile. ‘We are open,’ he says, and before we know it we are deliberating over Maggie’s Creamed Fish Pie and a crispy roast chicken with bread sauce and gravy.

It is pure serendipity that we have stumbled across this rustic restaurant off Kensington Church Street after a long day of scribbling notes and shooting in the rain. All wood and warmth and snug alcoves, Maggie’s feels like an old English farmhouse and is filled with tall country dressers and higgledy-piggledy bits and bobs.  It’s a nice change from the pared-back restaurants about. The dining rooms ramble over three rickety floors joined by creaking stairs upon which homey fare is dashed up from the kitchen on vintage English plates. Refusing to bow to the whims of food fashion, Maggie’s offers a menu groaning with traditional pies, puds and classic British food in generous portions. Above all, however, its long-standing popularity hinges on the high quality dishes, friendly staff and authentic feel.

Rustic bread and chunky crudités appear, and a blackboard with specials is propped against the wall. French wine rules the roost, sold by the bottle and half bottle and there is also a touch of French on the menu. Onion Soup is a speciality. In fact, a large French enclave resides in South Kensington, which is home to the French Lycée. Other entrées include globe artichoke with hollandaise sauce, duck liver pâté and prawn cocktail. It feels like a throwback to a fabulous early 80s dinner party!

Christine the maître d’ comes over for a chat. We discover that the family-run restaurant opened in 1963. The current owner, Englishman Peter Frankel, is elderly now but still comes for lunch in his racing green Jag with his two English bulldogs. Our piping hot mains arrive. By now we are ravenous and I plunge a serving spoon into Maggie’s Creamed Fish pie with its piped potato top. Swirling aromas escape. It is packed with prawns and cod, has a lovely texture and a sauce full of flavour. Cecilia opts for a Chicken and Artichoke Pie with a golden pastry lid and we share sides of green beans, and peas and bacon. Everything looks so homemade and delicious we could be in a friend’s kitchen.

By 7.30 pm the place is heaving, and many diners appear to be local regulars who are greeted like old friends. English couples and families; kids dressed neatly in Boden. What appeals is that while it’s incurably romantic and intimate enough for a special occasion, it’s a place you can feel equally comfortable in straight from a rugged day of exploring the parks.

Christine also tells us that the restaurant is named as an alias for Princess Margaret who often used to dine here, booking under the name ‘Maggie Jones’. As we speak, Prince Michael arrives, grandson of King George V and the Queen’s first cousin. He is a regular and is discreetly ushered to his table with his black Labrador, Shadow.

‘We have a lot of game on the menu in autumn,’ says Christine. ‘In summer it’s more fish, savoury tarts and salads, and on a cold winter’s night you will find casseroles, soups and pies.’ Indeed, it strikes me as more of a cosy, come-in-from-the-rain sort of spot. Steaks are also staples, along with dishes such as Grilled Rack of English Lamb with rosemary & garlic, and Steak & Kidney Pie. There’s a reasonably priced lunch menu and the traditional Sunday lunch is popular, three set courses for £21.75.

Desserts are jolly and conventional: Sherry Trifle, Burnt Cream (the original Cambridge University recipe), Bread & Butter Pudding and Spotted Dick. We share a crisp apple crumble topped with slowly melting ice cream and served on pretty crockery. If you’re feeling mellow, you may wish to finish with a Malt Whiskey, or a wee drop of vintage Port and a wedge of Stilton.

‘Make a remark,’ said the Red Queen; ‘it’s ridiculous to leave all the conversation to the pudding.’

Lewis Carroll Through the Looking Glass

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*마감되었습니다. 감사합니다.
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The doorman takes my luggage and ushers me in with a smile. Swathes of crumpled red taffeta are draped dramatically above, lit by a spectacular contemporary chandelier. Rushing to arrive, and with my mind elsewhere, I am suddenly brought into the moment and taken by surprise. It’s a theatrical entrance, almost like walking into the foyer of an opera house, setting the mood for what is to come.

The imposing building dates to the early 20^th century and was designed by talented architects Cassien-Bernard and Paul Friesé. From the street, it’s classic and stately, jutting out like the bow of a cruise liner at the junction of Rue La Fayette and Rue Pillet Will, home to headquarters of the Figaro newspaper.

Once inside, the space opens up to a jaw-dropping rotunda crowned with a soaring glass ceiling, a grand lobby indeed, where Vincent is waiting. Marble pillars, imposing archways, a beautiful mosaic floor and the original wooden bank counters rub shoulders with 21^st century red leather sofas, gold banquettes and perspex bar stools; an opulent blend of Neo-Baroque and modern design. It’s a unique, striking space filled with burgundy, gold and beaucoup de bling. Refurbished as a four-star hotel in 2009, the building is classified as an historic monument.

The doorman accompanies me up to my suite on the sixth floor. It’s inviting and serene with hardwood floors and 60 square metres of space.

Stylish pendant lights flank the leather headboard, and the king-size bed is made up with luxurious burgundy taffeta and crisp linen. Beyond is a bathroom of black marble.

The afternoon sun plays on the sheer maroon curtains, dropping away before flooding the room with light; a double exposition.

Located in the 9^th arrondissement, the hotel is conveniently close to a cornucopia of delights. A dash to the end of the street will take you to Boulevard Haussmann and les grands magasins for a shopping spree at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. An added bonus is that it’s not far to carry those shoeboxes back to your hotel! Also just a short stroll away is Opéra Garnier, for a special evening out, and a little further, Place Vendôme and the Tuileries Gardens. To the north lies rue des Martrys, a lively merchant street that leads up to Montmartre, while a meander east will take you to a labyrinth of nineteenth-century covered passageways, dusted with old-world charm.

A tour of the hotel by the lovely Emilie takes us down to the diamond vault in the basement. Originally used by the bank there are around 400 safes here  – some inconceivably large. The metro rumbles above us. It’s a movie moment. Today the room is dark and shadowy, leather sofas empty, but the room can be booked for photo shoots, film, and private events such as cocktail parties.

Back in the lobby, we peer up the iron spiral stairwell, an allegory of the snake. It also has something of the Eiffel Tower about it. Emelie tells us that one of the architects who designed the bank was in fact from the Eiffel School.

We sweep up to the first floor, originally bank offices, and walk along the balcony that runs around the walls, offering a dramatic view of the lobby below. Peeking into a room or two we discover an exuberant mix of golden age spirit and crisp contemporary design, with plaited leather rugs, marble bathrooms and designer furniture. There are 94 rooms and 16 lavish suites in all, dressed in hues of cream, chocolate and cassis.

Number 106 is the former office of the president of the bank, and one of the best suites. It’s dripping with glamour, red and gold. The romantic circular room has a bay window, marble fireplace and gilded moldings, not to mention a white leather bed and chairs from Bretz, the German manufacturer of luxuriously designed furniture and cult sofas. On the way out we pass a collection of Chinese artefacts. Each floor of the hotel showcases an impressive collection of art – it’s almost a boutique museum.

The Banke is a member of the Small Luxury Hotels of the World and part of the Derby Hotels Collection, a small group of eclectic hotels run by the Spanish ‘Clos family’, with addresses in Barcelona, Madrid, London and Paris. CEO Jordi Clos is an Egyptian archeologist and his wife is the artistic director of the hotels. Señor Clos owns and runs the only Egyptian museum in Barcelona, and each address features part of his private art collection of historically priceless jewellery, sculptures and artwork from different continents and civilizations. ‘At the Banke we have remarkable jewellery collections originating from Oceania, Asia, Africa and the Americas,’ says Emilie.

She explains that the hotel’s inspiration comes from the wife of the CEO – and her flamboyant style, flair for design and eccentric touches are everywhere. The lobby, for example, features an assortment of intriguing treasures preserved under glass domes: shells and starfish, old pharmacy bottles, a vintage globe of the world.

Next, we climb up to the rooftop (not open to guests) for a breathtaking view of the city. Sacré Cœur with its giant meringue dome sits across the rooftops. One of the suites boasts a dress circle view of the magnificent basilica.

Afterwards, we head back to the lobby for an apéro at the LolaBar, which serves cocktails and traditional tapas, before dining at the hotel’s Josefin gastronomic restaurant on the opposite side of the lobby. In such a cavernous space, the bar is not such a cosy place for a drink, and personally, I find the seating rather uncomfortable.

The black leather chairs and glam gold banquettes of the Josefin make up for it, a comfortable designer setting with mood lighting and sheer black curtains. Spanish and French cuisine are served, with Mediterranean specialities. We start with a plate of delicious Iberian bellota ham & pan con tomate. The staff is friendly and the service excellent and there’s a small selection of Spanish wines to choose from. Mains include pluma of Ibérique pork with black pudding spring rolls, and beef tartare with gaufrette potatoes. Vincent opts for the succulent lamb with a tajine of legumes confits, while I choose the delicate sea bream, with a flavoursome piperade of jambon de bellota. The Millefeuilles Josefin with caramel & pear sorbet for dessert tastes as good as it looks!

And then I say goodbye, enter my soundproof room, close my blackout curtains and, on a very comfortable bed, fall straight to sleep. Here at the Banke, you can bank on a good night’s rest.

 Photos by Vincent Bourdon ©

Accommodation courtesy of L’Hôtel Banke

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At first light on Sunday morning I crept out of the house, pulled on my rubber boots and went for a long walk around the vineyards and across the paddocks, as I always do when I visit. There is something incredibly special about being under a big morning sky, the air crisp and clean, not another human-being within cooee*. The only sound is warbling magpies.

On this cold winter morning, I greet Lily the deer,

then head out into the paddocks where the sun is just rising above the gums.

I trudge on – up the hillside and past the caves my brothers and I used to play in – spotting a fox that slinks back into his den the moment he spies me.

On to the limestone quarry…another playground that is now much deeper and steeper than I remember, where the ochre light dances and I hear the echo of ‘laughter past’.

At the top of the hill, I pause to look over this precious land, where magnificent red gums throw long morning shadows.

On the other side of the hill, beyond the vines, a mob of kangaroos jumps away as I approach.

At the shearing shed I climb the stairs as I have so many times before, bringing smoko in a basket to the shearers as a child; tea, jubilee cake and sandwiches. The smell of lanolin hangs in the air. This morning the shears are still and silent but it’s easy to conjure in my mind their constant drone, the shed a hive of activity.

The sun shines brighter as I meander through rows of vines,

and head back towards the house paddock.

It was on this very lawn, left of the white wooden fence, that I celebrated my wedding reception in a big white marquee – many moons ago. Oh, how the trees have grown and life has changed…

I throw off my boots and open the door to the smell of bacon. My brother is cooking breakfast with eggs collected this morning. Suddenly I’m famished.

As I walked through the paddocks I had a  flashback to a ‘Winter Morning in Time’, circa 1970…

A morning in time: memories and milking

My breath curls into the crisp morning air as I dig my hands deeper into my parka pockets. I am perched on a wooden railing of the milking shed, swinging my legs in my rubber boots as I watch the warm milk squirt noisily against the cold, steel bucket. It is rhythmical and comforting. The only sound apart from the milk hitting the steel is Clarabelle, a jersey cow the colour of milky espresso, munching on her half bucket of oats.

My father sits on a stump of wood, its seat worn smooth with use, hand milking with a deft proficiency that comes from years of practice. Depending on the amount of feed in the paddock, the house cow produces about a gallon and a half of milk in the morning and a gallon at night … more with the new spring grasses. The sound of milk grows duller and deeper as the bucket fills with frothy warm milk. By the time the soft morning sun caresses my hair and the last drop of milk is shaken into the bucket, I am almost in a trance-like state, hypnotised by the sound of the ritual.

The cats that live in the haystack on the mice they catch are lurking about. My father pours a little milk into their tins near the shed. They lap it up. We walk up the gentle slope of the orchard together, towards the house, milk sloshing precariously close to the rim of the bucket. Jack Frost is still lying on the grass and the winter light throws magic into the morning. We kick off our boots and enter into the warm kitchen where my Scottish grandmother is slowly stirring oatmeal over the fire with her spurtle (porridge stick). Another morning ritual.

A large bowl sits ready on the table and a strong river of milk quickly fills it, foaming and swirling. This bowl has a permanent home on the top shelf of the fridge where it sits and forms a layer of cream that begs to be skimmed off with a spoon. My father likes to eat it on bread with homemade jam. A jug is filled with the remaining milk: raw, real, full-cream milk straight from a happy, coffee-coloured cow. The cereal is on the table. It’s time for breakfast.

*Cooee! is a shout used in Australia, usually in the bush, to attract attention, find missing people, or indicate one’s own location. When done correctly – loudly and shrilly – a call of “cooee” can carry over a considerable distance. The distance one’s cooee call travels can be a matter of competitive pride. It is also known as a call for help.

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If you would like to purchase a copy of the original hardback, please note that there is limited quantity remaining, so drop into your local bookshop soon. Alternatively, head to www.amazon.com, www.fishpond.com.au or www.booktopia.com.au.

Included this week in Ten Best Memoirs for Summer Reading by Kay Sanger.

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Unless you have amazingly good eyesight, pick up a copy to read the full article.

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To read more about Cook’n with Class go to www.cooknwithclass.com

Cook’n with Class; a boutique cooking school nestled in the backstreets of Montmartre. Photo: Vincent Bourdon

Scallops in orange butter sauce with candied citrus zest and white asparagus. Photo: Vincent Bourdon

A warm chocolate fondant with a molten stream of striped chocolate lava. Photo: Vincent Bourdon

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