All that stuff about credit crunch (but let’s call a spade a spade, it’s a recession) has meant that the UK travel supplements have recently orgied on the joys of British holidays, above all seaside ones. Dripping nostalgia, there is much talk of Nivea- and ozone-perfumed streets, fish ‘n chips, chintzy sofas and of course that grey sea that encircles our isles, fringed by even greyer shingle. It’s amazing what a touch of poetry can do to such an experience. So last week I set off with my partner for a reality check.

This is our friends’ idyllic garden cottage where we stayed, down Snape-way. I remember watching it being built 20 years ago, and as it’s soon to be demolished to make way for an extension to the main house, this will be my ode. At least it will live on in cyber-space. Bon voyage little house, you treated this guest well over the years.

From Athens it takes nearly four hours to drive across the Pelopponese peninsula (via a region by the name of Arcadia - what expectations…) to the south-western corner, near Koroni. This is where my partner and I hid out last week, holed up in a pretty little swamped by olive-groves (www.saintfridays.com) while temperatures outside rose and rose - and rose to 40•. Scorching, but compensated for by the stunningly clear, cool and calm waters of the Gulf of Messina down below. Here’s a watery view on a rather hazy morning, The outline of the Taygetus mountains of the Mani peninsula opposite is just visible. That’s for the next trip. Next minute (or 15) I was down there, afloat in the transparent water - bliss.

I’ve just spent a foodie afternoon in the middle of Regent’s Park which, in a quick floral aside, I’d like to note is looking stunning. Colour-coded flower-beds no less and zingy green lawns. Thank you rain. But back to affairs of the palate, Taste of London (an annual food fest) has certainly gone into overdrive with a line-up of over 40 top restaurants beside an army of food and drink producers. All these have escaped from their usual settings to man swish little stands under huge tents. One stand even housed repro Chesterfield sofas, maybe a sop for the exorbitant £25 entrance fee.

I’ve always enjoyed a quick fix of Turkish kebap - preferably a tender shish singed to perfection over open coals in clouds of pungent smoke. They do it pretty well round the corner from me in north London, but even better in Anatolia itself (that name is so much more exotic than Turkey, or Turkiye, which somehow gobbles). Anyway, what I was unaware of until last week was the vast range of kebabs at their source. Nor did I realise that history in south-east Anatolia floats around between 9000 BC (we actually saw a cult centre from this time) and the Ottomans - racing through Hittites, neo-Hittites, Assyrians, Romans and many others. As mind-boggling as the food, but far more conjectural.

For a change I’ve just headed north, a rare cardinal point for me despite my Scottish ancestry. So instead of golden sunlight and cossetting temperatures, I’ve been revelling in mists hovering over the Highlands which suddenly break apart to reveal absolutely stunning landscapes and limpid blue skies. Not cornflower, cobalt or French blue here; the blue is the colour of Scottish eyes - kind and ever discreet.