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It is a small but committed cross-section of drinkers that has found itself arranged along the tasting room bar. We are here because we have missed the tour: my wife and I accidentally, having thought it was scheduled to begin
If it weren’t for the flags, and perhaps the bored-looking woman waving me through from behind plexiglass, I’m not sure I would have been able to tell you at what point I left Spain behind me. The border between La
I am standing in a Victorian-era promenade shelter in Margate, a two-hour train ride from London in the district of Thanet in north-eastern Kent, looking out over the grey-green water, hugging my winter coat around me, and trying to imagine
“The Grand National,” I was told on the morning of Britain’s famous steeplechase, “is a forty-nag slaughter-circus.” This sounded like hyperbole to me. But my friend continued: “Be sure to place a bet.” “I don’t know anything about horses,” I