I Wanna Take You To A Wine Bar, Wine Bar

It's only mid July, but I feel like summer has been around forever already, and it's one of those summers that you look start to back on fondly even before it's over. It feels distinct as an era that kicked off with being Mabel and has sprawled into long laid back evenings of rosé and repartee. New friendships have been formed, and old ones cemented; I've soaked up the rays in Greece, India, Paris and Eastbourne, and even on the odd rainy day, I've had enough sunshine under my skin to see me through to the next blazingly good one.

Galvanised by this enduring feel-good factor, last night a gang of us took the train to Lewes, in search of a mini adventure and in celebration of several birthdays. We spent most of the evening in Symposium, a swish off licence-come-wine-bar, where you can sit and enjoy all sorts of hand-picked and unusual wines at retail price (plus corkage) and nibble on local cheeses and other treats. There's nothing like this place in Eastbourne, and I'd recommend it as a nice change from either pub or restaurant. The service and atmosphere were both excellent as we made our way through three distinctive bottles of red. After bottle two, I decided it would be a good idea to start vlogging, and this was the result...

If you enjoyed my boozy Lewes vlog, I've also made little films of my recent travels to Athens, The Peloponnese, Wales and Stockholm.

Sussex Gastro Pubs Series: The Lewes Snowdrop Reborn

Lately I've been trying to expand the circuit of pubs, cafes and restaurants that we frequent, rather than sticking to the same old places. There have been a few good discoveries this year, though I'm afraid we haven't branched out as much as I'd hoped. So last Sunday, in an attempt to broaden our horizons before the end of the year, we re-visited an old haunt that had gone gradually downhill in recent years but was reported to be back on form.

The Snowdrop in Lewes was a favourite back in my Sixth Form college days, when it was a bit of a crusty/biker/wicca hang-out, serving hearty vegetarian food and pints of Snakebite and black. I hadn't been for years until I started working down the Cliffe end of Lewes earlier this year and popped in to find it a shadow of its former self and barely able to scrape together a sandwich, let alone a decent Sunday lunch. I am delighted to say that this sorry situation has now been rectified by the pub's latest landlords, who have restored the place to its former glory - albeit with a few (pleasant) changes.

In place of the old bric-a-brac stage-set style decor, the inside of the Snowdrop now sports an array of homely canal boat style furnishings, while the exterior has been painted in a fetching shade of pale green. It is back to being a freehouse for the first time in ten years, serving an impressive range of local ales, Bavarian beers and posh ciders on tap, as well as a good selection of bottled booze.

But the most exciting development at the all-new Snowdrop is the all-new menu. The veggie roast I had there on Sunday was one of the best I've ever eaten at a pub - only my own home cooked roast would top it, and even then it would be a close thing. The nutroast was moist and flavoursome and packed with tasty ingredients like capers and sunflower seeds. There was a wide selection of veg including red cabbage, parsnips, peas, broccoli, roast potatoes and cauliflower, all cooked to perfection and packed with flavour. The only (very slight) criticism I could possibly raise was that I would have liked more of the delicious gravy - but then that is probably just me being greedy.

At most Sussex country pubs you'd wait at least half an hour, sometimes up to an hour, for Sunday lunch. Ours came in about ten minutes, even though the place was bustling. Unlike the previous landlords, the staff were friendly and chatty and justifiably proud of their efforts to transform the pub from seedy dive to cosy gastropub.

I'm looking forward to going back to the Snowdrop again for the C&M Christmas lunch next week, when hopefully I'll get to see what the upstairs looks like these days. Let's just pray that my colleagues behave themselves during the festivities, because I'd hate to get barred so soon after re-discovering this once again fabulous joint.

Where Shall We Go Today?

Ant and I have decided to try and be a bit more adventurous in our choices of places to eat, drink and socialise this year. We've got into the habit of frequenting the same old circuit of cafés and watering holes, and lovely though they are, I often feel as though we are missing out by limiting ourselves to these tried and trusted joints.

My new job, which I started on Wednesday, takes me to the opposite end of Lewes from where I was previously working, and dangerously close to one of my regular foodie haunts - the wonderful Bill's. But even more excitingly, right underneath my office is a little gem of a place that had until now evaded my lunchtime radar. Tucked away in the courtyard of Pastorale Antiques, Buttercup is a rustic cafe-bistro with a simple menu that changes daily, and a bountiful supply of mouth-watering cakes. The free Wi-Fi also makes it a perfect spot from which to work whilst enjoying a slice of home-made Battenberg and a pot of Earl Grey. As if the new job wasn't cool enough already, I am immediately endeared to my new surroundings by virtue of this discovery. In the words of Little Orphan Annie: "I think I'm gonna like it here".

On Saturday, we re-acquainted ourselves with an old hang-out from our Waterstone's days - the Pull & Pump in Brighton. Though many a post-work pint was sunk inside its cosy walls back then, neither of us had ever eaten in there before. A stone's throw from the dreaded Churchill Centre (which I only ever brave out of necessity), it is a veritable sanctuary of calm in comparison. Taking a well-earned break from the end-of-Sale madness (I was on a new work-clothes mission), and not wanting to go too far-afield, we ducked in for lunch. I chose vegeburger and chips (obviously), while Ant went for the Kedgeree; both were excellent. I can't understand why more people weren't doing the same - the place was half empty.

Falling back into old habits, and in the absence of further inspiration, on Sunday afternoon we popped to Middle Farm for refreshment after a walk around the Firle Estate, resolving to investigate new afternoon tea options for next weekend. Any suggestions?

Photo of Buttercup cafe courtesy of Mister Snappy on Flickr.

Merry Christmas from the Golden Goat

Either I'm getting snobbier, or Christmas cards are getting tackier by the year. For most of the people to whom I send them (local friends and family are given verbal greetings only), Christmas cards are a once-a-year reminder of my existence, and I want them to say something about me. I don't want them to be particularly religious, overly sentimental, or in any way reminiscent of ironic wallpaper. Also, I prefer them to be recycled and in a good cause - because I always tut disappointedly when opening other people's non-charity cards (why wouldn't you?) and it would be hypocritical not to ride my own high-horse.

Having been uninspired by the cards on sale in recent times, this year I used an online service (moo.com) to get some printed using my own photographs. A little narcissistic perhaps, but much more personal and much more 'me'. My favourite of the four pictures I chose is this rather splendid golden goat (pictured above), who we discovered in a funky little bar in Cologne last December. He says much more about my perception of Christmas than any dusty crib scene or cutesy fluffy baby seals rolling in the snow (much as I adore fluffy baby seals). You can see the other designs I picked on Flickr.

For the reasons stated above, I hadn't intended to send out very many cards, so only had 25 printed. These have already run out (if you got one, especially a goat, you are one of the lucky few!) and so I was forced to scour Lewes at lunchtime today looking for a supply of extras (it's too late to get more printed). Even Oxfam, who can usually be relied upon to offer something vaguely tasteful, left me swaying in wide-eyed horror at the crap vileness of their selection. In the end I had to swallow my pride and pick the least offensive. So, apologies in advance to anyone who receives one of these sub-standard variations - please consider this blog post as your official Christmas card instead.

Festive Monsters

It is the first day of December and suddenly the usually modest lunchtime queue at the Lewes Post Office has started snaking out of the door and around the corner. It will be like this now every (working) day until Christmas Eve. The looming deadlines for posting parcels abroad in time for Christmas are no doubt partly responsible, but I can't help thinking that today's date itself is also to blame. Turning the kitchen calendar over to December this morning, I felt a surge of anxiety about the impending festivities - the growing 'to do' list for which I have largely been ignoring for the last few weeks. Not that you could forget about Christmas if you tried, what with it being shoved in your face no sooner than the 'Back to School' retail promotions have finished in September. But now that we're actually in the same month as the Big Day, it's like being penned in a cage with a snarling monster - you know if you don't start feeding it soon that you're going to get eaten! So off they all march to the Post Office, joining hordes of other stony-faced shoppers despatching the usual pointless paraphernalia to out-of-town relatives; ticking the boxes and pacifying the monster. Personally, I only have a couple of packages to send this year, to friends in other countries; thanks to the wonders of online shopping, I shall be delegating the majority of that irksome task to Amazon. And I have absolutely no problem with other people doing the same - I would rather get stuff that I actually want off my wish list than a basket of cosmetics or a gimmicky gadget that will end up Out the Back with the Rest. Birthdays are for thoughtful and original gifts - Christmas is just about getting through it with minimum damage to both sanity and wallet. Bah, Humbug.

Lunch at Bill's

The inevitable consequences of Wednesday night's boozy dinner at the Sanctuary put me in need of serious restoration by yesterday lunchtime, and the only rational choice here in Lewes was to head for the legendary Bill's. Any self-respecting Brighton foodie will be familiar with the branch in the North Laine, which is permanently rammed, and a good place for spotting minor (and sometimes major - Kylie was once sat on the table next to me) celebrities. The original café/deli in Lewes opened in 2001 and has recently extended to accommodate its ever-growing army of devotees. Unlike the tranquil Sanctuary, Bill's is a buzzy, bustly place, brilliant for over-hearing snippets of conversation between bonkers locals. I often treat myself to a lunchtime smoothie from there, and if Mum comes to meet me for lunch, that's where we'll invariably end up.

I knew in advance what I'd be ordering on this particular visit - I'd been craving it since breakfast - scrambled eggs on toast. Bill's scrambled eggs are superior to most (including mine) - billowing and creamy, scattered with vibrant fresh herbs (basil and tarragon on this occasion) and piled onto lightly toasted, generously buttered rustic white bread - they are the ultimate comfort food. Even the cute tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser adds to the experience. Whether or not I want dessert (I didn't this time), I always spend a decent amount of time gazing into the awe-inspiring Bill's cake cabinet, the contents of which would not be out of place in a gallery. Decorated with fresh flowers and colourful hunks of fruit, these delectable creations really are works of art. Even my mango and raspberry smoothie was adorned with a single red rose - a romantic gesture for the lone diner perhaps? I'd like to think so.

Another Surreal Lewes Moment

Jeremy Paxman came into our offices yesterday and I missed it. Apparently he'd been spotted filming down the road in the 15th Century bookshop, where a member of our advertising department stalked and eventually accosted him. She then persuaded him to come and pose for photographs with her colleagues, one of whom is a massive fan. He was only too happy to oblige, and spent the afternoon being fondled and fawned over by the over-excited team of ladies. This story was relayed to me at the bus stop last night by one of the girls in question, who had the photographic evidence on her phone. As she was recounting the story to an increasingly bemused audience of fellow commuters, the man himself was standing outside the legendary Catlin's, not 10 yards away. Only in Lewes.

Meeting Sulu's Fag-hag

Living in Brighton, I've become accustomed to being surrounded by a host of eccentrics, freaks and weirdos - the colourful characters are a big part of what I love about the town. But Lewes - where I travel to each day for work - boasts a much deeper strain of eccentricity that has none of the Brighton affectation about it. Proper dyed-in-the-wool 'local' fruitcakes line the quiet streets of this quaint historical town, and sometimes you over-hear the strangest things.

Today, in Lewes Post Office, I was waiting in line with an increasingly frustrated queue of customers - all visibly staring daggers at the elderly lady being served at the counter, who was clearly in no rush to be on her way. "Do you know who this letter is going to?" she asked the long suffering clerk, who raised his eyebrows in a polite but bemused "No, but I'm sure you're going to tell me" sort of way. "George Takei" she proudly announced. "He was Sulu in Star Trek. It's his birthday next week". And then, as if to clarify that she was a genuine acquaintance, and not just a random geeky stalker: "Oh yes, I know him. He always sends me a Christmas card. Lovely man. Him and his boyfriend...Yes, boyfriend... Oooh, didn't you know, he came out three years ago?" Clearly she was hoping to provoke some sort of response, but sadly I couldn't hear the clerk's half of the conversation to discover if her revelation had the desired effect (although based on the above picture, I wonder that anyone was ever particularly surprised). I had been served at a different window, and was on my way out the door, and she was still in full swing. I hope I am as mad and annoyingly verbose in my dotage - this little episode really brightened up my lunch hour.

And now I can say that I shop at the same Post Office as Sulu's Fag-hag. Awesome.

A Pixie Revelation

I spend almost all of my lunch breaks just pottering around Lewes - popping into its many excellent charity shops, and such eccentric local institutions as Mays General Store, Bill’s and Tizz’s, where one can easily waste a good 20 minutes window shopping. Very occasionally, I will venture into one of the few *shock horror* high street shops that are actually a rarity here, where many of the businesses are, amazingly, still local and independent. Yesterday I was in one of the high street shoe shops, harbouring a vague notion about new boots (don’t get your hopes up Ant), when I was amused to discover that pixie boots are back in fashion. I can distinctly remember my first pair of these 80s classics, as it was also the year (1985 I think) when I discovered that Father Christmas was less flesh-and-blood actual being, more parentally-executed benevolent concept (or so it was rather sweetly explained to me by my kind and inventive mother). I discovered this because those much-coveted pixie boots (black suede, with tassels, oh yes), delivered as I thought by Santa, all the way from Lapland, had to be exchanged in a high street shoe shop in Eastbourne, thanks to my ever-expanding 10 year old feet. My suspicions had of course already been raised by playground rumours and an ever-developing sense of cynicism, but this was the moment when the penny finally dropped and I resigned myself to the disappointing truth. So I will always associate pixie boots with the end of childhood magic, and the beginning of rational adulthood. Rather ironic when you think about it.