The lady of the house is not there, but fellow called Paul, is there to help me through the front door of what appears to be a gorgeous, quaint cottage. Loads of wonderful art,books, antiques fill me with awe. I cannot wait to meet the owner of all this magic. She must surely be a cultured older excentric personality!!. She will be back from France the next day I am told.
I discover I am in limbo for a couple of hours as the designated room has been given in error to two other people and they are busy moving. Paul hands me a cup of tea and a slice of toast. He is a small effeminate man with the look of a rabbit caught in the headlights about him. He is terribly sweet and after a small meaningless chat I go off for a well earned bath, change into some fresh clothes and hit Hamstead While i wait for me room under the stairs to be vacated.
I remember reading in travel guide that there is one of my favourite patisseries in Hamstead called Paul (no relation to the aforementioned). Well as you guessed from that comment, yes I hurried past various shops and leafy streets until I found it. Yes there it was so styish. Black outside and inside all the wonders of the pastry world, were laid out just as i had remembered. Croissants, pain de chocolate, apple pastries (sorry run out of french), fruit tarts of all kinds. Long baguettes filled with all manner of delicious savoury treats. Small quiches with delectable fillings. Breads of all looks and descriptions. This was to be my breakfast room for the next 7 days, give or take one or two.