Gavin and Stacey

Gavin and Stacey. I won't lie to you, it's one of my favourite TV programmes at the moment. Right up there with The Thick of It, Life and, yes, I'll admit it, the supremely trashy Gossip Girl. Another confession. I've been to Barry Island - I didn't mean to, promise, but suddenly we seemed to be taking a diversion on the way to Cardiff. And then there it was, Barry Island. With the amusement arcade, the Ship Inn, and, although we didn't see it, the street where Bryn and Gwen live. But as we missed out on some of the sights, a return trip's needed. And, don't worry, we've got a web guide for next time. Heading to Barry, however, is not the true height of being a G&S fan. That occurred last Monday when a work colleague and I decided to spice up the normal tea round by making a half tea, half coffee. Just to try, you understand. (For the record it's not horrible, not exactly pleasant, but not as bad as it sounds.) And what did this week's episode feature? A toffee, or a cea. That's half coffee, half tea to you or me.

Christmas lights

Now bathed in blue light, Bristol has welcomed in Christmas. Tree branches light up College Green, waving in the wind like dancers' legs encased in sparkly fishnets. Tent roofs fashioned from glimmering tendrils hang between shops in Broadmead, and in Clifton Village a large tree has been draped in luminescent pearls.

The wrongs of spring

Sorry Stravinsky. Sorry that your iconic masterpiece The Rite of Spring is being subject to this. That while the ENO orchestra in the pit doesn't put a foot wrong in all those complex rhythms and wild accents, unleashing your score's visceral power, there's a company of dancers on stage not putting a foot right. Sorry that you have to write one of the best ballet scores out there, and the choreography of this ENO production has to be so disappointing. A mass orgy followed by cigarettes? Tens of naked mens putting on flowery dresses to symbolise - I'm told - femininity? Not radical. Ridiculous.

Background music

Sorry Adolphe Adam. Giselle might be the quintessential Romantic ballet, with lots of suffering for love, otherworldly spirits and featherweight long tutus, but - to be frank - your music's a bit dull. Yes, you might have written one of the first purpose-composed ballet scores, rather than tacking together lots of catchy melodies to make a patchwork ballet, but where's the sparkle, the drama, the melodies? Giselle dies of a broken heart, comes back as a slightly creepy being called a Wili, and then saves someone else from death through her love. Surely that deserves some musical tugging at the heartstrings? Beautiful ballet, shame about the magnolia music. (Though, as a viola player, thumbs up for the long viola solo in Act II.)

Pacific sky

Scenes from Highway 1

Forget for a moment the blue of the Pacific, the crash of the waves, the endless sky and the wheeling birds. Forget the lure of the open highway, the American dream, the thrill of driving alone, of surviving on the right-hand side of road. Forget seeing the bridges that have withstood salty seas since 1932. Forget the waterfall that empties itself on to a sandy beach, and the elephant seals lounging in the sun. I've got to forget all that. You see, I’ve just caught sight of the car clock: 2pm. So since I left my youth hostel at 10am, I’ve driven, erm, 34 miles. Leaving 232 miles before nightfall. 232 miles?! Gulp. Along twisty roads. Double gulp. With speed limits of 35mph. Have just swallowed my tongue. Right. No more getting carried away by nature’s beauty, or stopping for just one more I-might-never-see-this-again photo. Time for foot on the gas.

Losing its direction

For six months or so I've been volunteering at a homeless shelter in Bristol. The £1.6million Compass Centre is pretty much brand new, opened last May with a flourish from the local council. But now it's closing. Despite the fact that more than 20 and up to 30 people sleep there every night.Officially, there are only two rough sleepers in Bristol, but I, and all the other volunteers, know that this simply isn't true. Any council member who bothered to visit and talk to the people it helps, the staff or the volunteers would have to agree. This isn't going to be an irate post - the takeover of the centre is a done deal - but why close a well-run, busy night shelter? Why close a shelter that people feel safe in, and instead consign them to the streets or a scramble for beds in the city's only other shelter? Is money that important?

Clifton Rocks Railway

A secret railway? Hidden in the rock? Abandoned since WWII? Intriguing. So when I heard the Clifton Rocks Railway, billed as the only underground cliff railway in the world, was open for one of only two days this year I decided it was worth a look. Sadly the Banksy effect seemed to have taken hold, and the queue snaked round the corner and down the road. Time to head to front of the queue and peer over the railings instead. Would queuing be worth it? Hard to tell. To one side, a man is talking to a crowd, reeling off slightly too many Rocks Railway facts. To the other, erm, not a lot. The start of a railway? A brick wall? A friend asks one of the enthusiastic volunteers what else there is to see. Yes, the talk. Yes, the start of the railway. Anything else? A display board. We head to a patch of grass to lounge in the sun. Sometimes it's best if secrets stay that way.

Top tips

Eat lots of sweets before you start writing. All that sugar will fill your head of crazy ideas.
Wise words for aspiring young writers in The Times today. Maybe I'll take up this approach...

Bristol versus Lyon

Is British food really that much worse than French food? Two years on from my French sejour, I've returned to a question that I was often asked in Lyon. Well, actually, it was most often less of a question and more of a snigger; I'd be required to defend the food of our little island - our pies, jars of Marmite, bowls of jelly - to sophisticated Frenchies with palates more accustomed to fine foie gras than fish fingers. Oh, and insist that no, we Brits don't eat cooked breakfast every day, or stop to have tea and cake every afternoon. Just the other day I was asked what the food specialities were in Lyon, so I thought I'd write a gastronomic head-to-head for Lyon and Bristol. And seeing as I'm British, the conclusion should have been foregone. It all started well. Lyon's andouillete - a tripe sausage - is a local favourite. But, come on, who actually wants to eat pig's intestines? Which means that the intestine-free sausages served up by the brilliant St Nicholas Market suasage man win hands down.

Bring on the rest of the main courses. In Lyon, a wise diner would choose one of the more generically French dishes but someone hoping to sample everything Lyonnaise might succumb to the lure of the pike quenelle, another much-hyped speciality. Don't be fooled. Creamed fish bound together with egg yolk, boiled, and smothered in cream sauce? I'd take a Bristol Pieminster pie any day.

On to pudding. Ah, here I thought, Lyon would take a leap ahead. Chocolate fondant is hard to beat, although its richness might defeat you. But then I discovered the best chocolate brownies ever in the Lansdown pub which threw this conclusion into doubt. And THEN I discovered large drifts of unpicked blackberries in Ashton Court and on the Avon Gorge riverside path. Stand aside Lyon. Just as paper always beats stone, blackberry and apple always beats chocolate.

With Bristol clearly in the lead, it was time for a moment of reflection. Could little ole Bristol beat the so-called capital of gastronomy? It was then I realised it couldn't. OK, so some of Lyon's signature dishes might not be to my taste, but if you avoid those you'll feast like a king for not much at all. Fondue, foie gras, salade lyonnaise, pain perdu. Cheese, croissants, baguette and coffee. (It's not exactly a healthy diet!) Take your pick. And, best of all, lunch breaks really are breaks, not huddles behind computer screens with sandwiches, and people not only eat, they talk. Ho-hum. Perhaps it's time to move back to France?

A piano with a view

They're here! 16 pianos are now on the streets of Bristol...

The Year of the Flood

If the words 'book signing' say endless queues, a brief, bland encounter with a writer and a hastily scribbled signature to you, here's an event to prove otherwise. Margaret Atwood's current tour for her latest book The Year of the Flood is oh-so-much-more than your bog-standard book signing. The required reading becomes a performance, narrated by the author, starring local actors and musicians and with a specially commissioned score. An interview follows, as do appearances by local green groups - turns out Atwood is pretty keen on her environmental friendliness - and that's before the 70-year-old Canadian even picks up a pen. Phew. Watch this space for more - Atwood's coming to Bristol this Wednesday. Or for a real writer's take on it, Atwood's blog is here.