Recall of Stones

I am definitely back on the farm again. The day starts with the ritual of shaving. Archaeology. Trying to recover the face I used to wear. Next the uniform is assembled: black suit, white royal shirt, knot cufflinks in red and black and a clubbable tie.

For official purposes, my picture is taken. No one looks good reduced to 2cm x 2cm, but somehow I manage to take on the appearance of a morose CID boozer and brawler. Gene Hunt without the brutal sex appeal.

I am given a computer, Blackberry and a time to be at the House of Commons. As soon as I get to the first security barrier it becomes natural. Mental muscle memory. I tune out the armour and machine guns. Empty pockets, go under the scanner and assume the position for the type of vigorous frisking I doubt even those with a fetish for being manhandled by a police officer wearing purple latex gloves could enjoy. As usual, the more sophisticated security technology remains inconspicuous.

Once inside the Palace of Westminster, even more comes back. Trying not to become emotional at the though of buying Edradour whisky in the shop for my grandfather, I push on deeper into the building. My recall of stones is strong enough to navigate along corridors and up staircases to the Committee Rooms without getting lost.

At one point, as the Minister spoke, I looked out beyond the wood panels through a window as the sun hit St Stephen's Tower. It looked beautiful. I felt history whispering to me and allowed myself the thought: my grandfather would have loved to hear about this.

Les Arcenaulx

Dining in good restaurants in France can be tricky. There are rituals to be observed, menus littered with untranslatable phrases to navigate. On top of this, there is the food.

Much modern French cuisine is ruined by one extra ingredient syndrome. Think of a plate of great food, perfectly balanced and deep with flavour and then overload it to point of collapse with one more thing. Even worse, like a vast raft of food served at English dining establishments, French fare is often burdened by more pretension than is even seen in an aspiring poet haunting the Left Bank.

However, tonight at Les Arcenaulx, I enjoyed one best meals of my life. The food was delicious, the setting joyous. A former 16th Century arsenal, restored to make the most of its high stone ceilings and beams. Good linen, candles, elegant leather chairs. Gilt mirrors and just the right amount of greenery. A smattering of antique artefacts. An air of luxury without descending towards ostentation.

The exposed stone walls are backdrop to more bookcases than you would find in the average small town library. One of the pleasure of Les Arcenaulx is there are books everywhere you look. Shelves heave with battered, resilient hardbacks that share space alongside graceful paperbacks and leather-bound tomes. Harmonic collections in each case mix the new and old, obscure and commonplace – just as you want a great menu to do. As an author I have never felt more at home in a restaurant. The fact it is called ‘The Arsenal’ just added an extra layer of delightful personal appropriateness.

To honour one of my grandfather’s last wishes, we have Dubonnet as an apéritif. Then the food starts. It is triumphant. Artichokes cooked with white wine and bacon, fish soup. The most perfect beefsteak. Every dish delivers fantastic taste by starting with good seasonal, local ingredients, cooked with flair and bone-deep skill. By the time my Essex accent mangled the phrase ‘L’addition, s’il vous plaît’, both my body and soul felt nourished.

We left Les Arcenaulx before its usual cast of actors, academics and politicians arrived. Drifting in Vieux Port as sunset approached, there was no problem more pressing than what flavour gelato to buy. If there is one lesson, one reflection for the fading week it is this: you celebrate your ancestors best not by trying to remember them, but by living your life well. Tonight, I feel as if I did that.