England’s seaside towns have been in steady decline for what feels like decades but it has been interesting to see how some of them in recent years have reinvented themselves and revived their economies as centers of art and gastronomy. One of the most successful in this respect has been Whitstable.  Situated just a few miles from the ancient city of Canterbury, Whitstable started to prosper as a tourist destination for Londoners in the mid-18th century.

Today, the town attracts visitors from far and wide drawn to its outstanding seafood restaurants, pretty shops and pubs, and the long shingle beach.  The day we visited recently was a wild and blustery one, the kind of day when staying upright on the beach was a challenge for everyone.  It wasn’t too hard to be persuaded to take refuge in Wheeler’s Oyster Bar, a small place that opened first in the mid-1850s and has been serving outstanding fish and seafood ever since.  Wild Whitstable oysters (famous throughout the UK), halibut, spicy crab cakes and homemade bread with Guinness-flavored butter were served at the tiny counter and it was fun to watch people coming in to buy fresh crab and prawns at a place that’s clearly loved by locals and visitors alike. If this is typical of what Whitstable has to offer, I can’t wait to visit again on a calmer day, perhaps during the summer oyster festival.

I loved every word of this beautiful, sensitive, and quietly disruptive novel. I read the first hundred pages or so before putting it aside for two weeks.  Coming back to it, I remembered reading those early pages slowly and carefully and finding myself being drawn in by the power of both the story and the storytelling.  The temptation to gulp down the book quickly and greedily was something I wanted to resist. I knew the rest of the novel deserved the attentiveness I’d given to the early pages and intuited that I’d get more if I took a break and returned to it later for an equally careful reading.

On its flawless surface, Late in the Day seems to be one of those quintessentially English novels in which intelligent, cultured, and affluent people (people of “bourgeois sensibility with their sadness and subtlety and complicated arrangements“) are captured in a moment of sudden and private grief, a moment in which the complex, densely packed and strong-yet-fragile root structure of their relationships is exposed to view.  It also seems to be, again only on the surface, an old-fashioned story, one in which an omniscient narrator stands detached, peering into the lives of the characters she has created, and understanding better than they themselves their motives and destinies.

The novel opens with the sudden death of Zachary, a London-based gallery owner. For his wife, Lydia, his best friend, Alex, and Alex’s wife, Christine, all close friends for decades, the death has the force of an earthquake and aftershocks that will reverberate for a long time.

Tessa Hadley has, I believe, been publishing novels since 2002 but it’s only now that I’ve discovered her books, and come to realize how admired she is, and how much she deserves the admiration.  Late in the day indeed, but better late than never.

If you have seen any of the black and white archival film footage from the First World War, you will most likely remember grainy, shaky, juddering images of soldiers on the Western front.  The original film stock, itself of poor quality, has deteriorated further in the hundred years since the end of the war. When the Imperial War Museum in London was looking for ways to mark the centenary of the Armistice and approached Peter Jackson, the Oscar-winning director of The Lord of The Rings, Jackson saw an opportunity.  Could 21st century technology and editing techniques rescue the ageing celluloid and create a fitting and permanent monument to the hundreds of thousands of men who gave their lives in “the war to end all wars”.

The result is simply extraordinary.  Jackson and his team took the museum’s hundreds of hours of film and its enormous collection of audio reminiscences and created a 100-minute documentary that is simply a work of art.  And, in a move that could have flopped horribly but which triumphs completely, Jackson took the decision to colorize the original black and white film.  The technology of colorization has clearly come a long way because the results presented here, though not consistently perfect, feel natural and authentic.

Film and technology geeks will love what was achieved here and will be delighted by the 30-minute appendix to the documentary in which Jackson describes how the work was done.  But what really matters is the recovery of those faces and voices from a hundred years ago, the faces and voices of the resilient, the brave, the frightened, and the dutiful. The restoration forever of the lives extinguished and the voices silenced, some just a few hours after the original films were first recorded.

It’s not easy to explain the appeal of Tokyo.  Even its most enthusiastic admirers (and I count myself one of them) wouldn’t claim that it’s a pretty city.  The firebombing in March 1945 destroyed much of the old city and subsequent development left a patchwork of architectural styles and few buildings of real note.  There are some important religious sites (Senso-ji and Meiji Jingu for example) but overall Tokyo is not a place likely to delight or detain for long lovers of architecture or historic monuments.  It’s surprisingly difficult in fact to make one of those lists for Tokyo of the “top 20 things you must see” that people seem to like so much.  It’s a paradise for foodies, of course, but the cuisine alone doesn’t explain why Tokyo has such a special hold on the affections of so many people.

So, what’s the appeal and why, after twenty-plus visits, have I come to think of it as one of my favorite cities? Yes, it’s well organized, safe, clean, and easy to navigate, but that could be said about some pretty uninteresting places.  And it’s undeniable that the people of Tokyo are a delight: welcoming, hospitable, graceful and endlessly forgiving of westerners ignorant of Japanese life, language, and customs. But even that doesn’t explain Tokyo’s charm.  The truth is I love Tokyo because it remains strange and strangely unknowable.  It doesn’t seem to matter how often I visit. Tokyo, its people, its customs, its pulse, remain just beyond my reach. The city’s surface may be familiar.  After all, it operates much like any other city. But beneath that surface, Tokyo never lets you forget that it’s a Japanese city first, and Japan, for all its modernity and its embrace of western fashions, remains wonderfully Japanese.  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When the powers-that-be decided to relocate Tokyo’s famous fish market from Tsukiji to Toyosu last year, I wondered what would happen to the old location.  With Tsukiji neighboring pricey, glamorous Ginza, I assumed the narrow lanes would eventually be bulldozed to make way for more fancy stores and apartment buildings.  Maybe eventually, but it hasn’t happened yet.  When I checked out Tsukiji last week, both locals and tourists alike seem to have ignored the move of the world-renowned tuna auctions and continue to flock to the old neighborhood to buy vegetables and kitchenware and to eat sushi in those hole-in-the-wall places that continue to prosper. I’m relieved.  I’d been one of those visitors who had made the 5am pilgrimage a few years ago to watch the auctions and had been delighted by Tsukiji’s untidy streets and stores, so different from the order that prevails in other areas of Tokyo.  The auctions may have gone. Tsukiji’s charm hasn’t…. yet.

My last visit to Kyoto, little more than 24 hours squeezed in between business commitments in Tokyo, was back in 2016. Things were different this time. Three days with my family; an opportunity to explore this gorgeous city a little more fully, though still not nearly enough time to do justice to it. Getting to know Kyoto is a journey of many parts. Food, from the humble ramen shops to the exquisite kaiseki restaurants, the narrow streets of Gion with their tea shops and geisha, and, of course, the temples.  All 1,600 of them, from the smallest and most hidden to the grandest. These are the jewels of Kyoto. Two stood out for me on this visit.  First, Kennin-ji, founded in the thirteenth century and the oldest in Kyoto, with its gorgeous Zen gardens and stunning “twin dragon ceiling” painted by Koizumi Jensaku to mark the 800th anniversary of the temple’s foundation. Kennin-ji is easy to find at the far end of what is probably Gion’s most famous street, Hanami-koji, so it attracts plenty of visitors in peak seasons.  In contrast, Honen-in feels small, secluded, and private with its moss covered gateway and pretty paths. There were almost no other visitors the morning we were there, which only added to its allure and charm.

Temple hopping can make you hungry, so it’s just as well that Kyoto is a gastronome’s dream come true.  In whatever direction your tastes lead you – ramen, shabu-shabu, teppanyaki –  you’ll find hundreds of restaurants to satisfy every budget and longing and, if your experience is anything like ours, a warm welcome in every place.  A couple of beers in a tiny local’s bar on Hanamikoji-dori or the best paitan ramen you could hope to eat (in a small place on Shinbashi-dori) made for full stomachs and a few great memories of a truly wonderful city.

If you don’t read Japanese it can be a tricky business choosing a restaurant in a city like Tokyo.  Even in the lead-up to the 2020 Olympic Games, very few of the eating places have signs or menus in English.  Does that slightly intimidating entrance with the sliding door and noren lead to a cut-price ramen shop or a high-end, Michelin-starred kaiseki restaurant? Unless you want to eat somewhere that offers uncertain visitors photographs of the delights inside (and who wants to eat in those places?), sometimes you have no choice but to summon your courage, lift up the noren, and plunge inside without having a clue what awaits you. Those chefs who yell “irasshaimase” as you walk in are trying to be hospitable, but somehow end up adding to the uncertainty and stress.

On a chilly February evening recently, I ducked under a low doorway and into a tiny place in Ebisu that offered little more than six seats at the counter.  I was the first to arrive, so I couldn’t glance at other people’s plates to get an idea of what was on offer. A quick glimpse over the counter and into the kitchen was no help either.  When it became clear to the two guys running this tiny place that a menu would be useless to me, a lengthy mime show ensued which ended a little later with a enormous bowl of steaming noodles sitting in a broth of hard clams that I later discovered is called ushiojiru. It was delicious, of course, and perfect for a winter evening, but there were two more surprises in store for me.  First, the restaurant accepted only cash (unusual in Tokyo).  Second, the ushiojiru was shockingly expensive. Flying blind and solo, I’d wandered into Suzuran, one of Tokyo’s most celebrated and costly ramen restaurants.  Amid their smiles and my blushes, I slipped outside to a local ATM, returning to pay, and eventually to disappear into the Tokyo night with a full stomach and an empty wallet.

Lethal White is the fourth outing for the fictional private detectives Cormoran Strike and Robin Ellacott and their creator Robert Galbraith (better known as J.K. Rowling).  It’s a very long and complex yarn – by far the most ambitious yet by Galbraith/Rowling – featuring a murdered politician, blackmail, and other kinds of nastiness.  It’s all great fun, not least because of the unlikely, bubbling romance between the two protagonists.  Always credible? No. But this is escapist storytelling at its best: absorbing, undemanding, and entirely seductive. What more needs to be said?

I visited recently a friend’s office in central London, an office with a stunning, 180-degree view of the Thames, looking out over the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, HMS Belfast and the Mayor of London’s headquarters.  After the meeting I took a stroll along that section of the riverbank between London and Tower bridges and was struck by the enormous investment that has been made in London and the sensitivity of the development that’s happened in recent years in one of the most historic cityscapes in the world.

It made me realize how important and difficult it is to get the balance right between, on the one hand, conservation and protection of historic buildings and, on the other, the development necessary to ensure the future prosperity of a city.  The architectural treasures of London are uniquely rich and play an out-sized role in the city’s psyche.  Londoners are, as a rule, very protective of ancient landmarks and politicians are rightly wary of any development that threatens them.  How different that is from a city like New York where historic buildings are bulldozed with barely a second’s thought to make way for the latest gleaming (and often ugly) office or apartment building.  Much more than buildings and history are lost when such insensitive development happens.  Also lost is that variety, that blend of the old and the new, that over time deepens and enriches the character of a city.  The evolution of a truly great and beautiful city is the work of generations, but it has to begin with a continuous commitment to getting the balance right.  It’s my view that New York City, for all its dynamism and energy, will never rank as one of the great cities of the world unless it puts some restrictions on its new construction and starts to take conservation seriously. You can’t and shouldn’t conserve everything.  Many undistinguished buildings have been rightly demolished, but a truly great city needs to be seen and planned as a single, organic entity and with a clear presiding vision.  Get it right, as city governments in places such as London, Shanghai, and Paris have, and the rewards are visible for centuries to come: fascinating, surprising, provocative urban tapestries made with old and new threads.

The effort required to make this happen grows, in my view, from a commitment to something called society.  It’s not easy to define but it springs from a particular perspective and a set of characteristics.  It starts with respect for yesterday, today, and tomorrow and an appropriate balance between them. It begins with a recognition that a city has to be for everyone.  Not just for the young or for the prosperous or for the able bodied, but also for the elderly inhabitants and visitors and those who find it difficult to get around, for the walkers and the cyclists as well as the car owners.  It demands costly investment in roads and sidewalks, bridges and tunnels, rivers and parks, and, of course, in transport.  The transformation in my lifetime of London’s tube network has been extraordinarily farsighted.  Londoners, of course, still complain, but they have an underground network that’s for the most part efficient, safe, and clean.  Other cities around the world can make similar claims.  Compare that to New York’s subway system: crumbling, dirty, and inaccessible to many of its residents.  Cities don’t work when individuals and individualism are valued at the expense of communities and societies.  It’s as simple, and as complicated, as that.

There’s a lot of pride in India these days.  Sit in a highway traffic jam for a little while and you’ll see trucks all around you, elaborately decorated and brightly colored, with the words Great India stenciled in large letters on their paintwork.  Signs from the tourist authority hanging down from bridges and lamp posts remind locals and visitors alike that they are in Incredible India.  Confidence is everywhere.

It was all very different back in 1979 when I visited for the first time.  India, vibrant and colorful though it seemed to me then, felt like a country overwhelmed by its own problems.  Forty years on, much has changed, especially in the cities, and India has become a global super power. But whenever I travel there with colleagues and friends seeing India for the first time, they’re shocked by the crumbling infrastructure, the chaotic traffic, the cows and stray dogs wandering in the city streets, the mounds of rubbish, and I realize that India’s progress, though extraordinary, isn’t always visible in the ways foreigners expect it to be.  In spite of its phenomenal development in recent decades, it remains a country with profound challenges to overcome: poverty, inequality, and illiteracy, all the more shocking because of the extraordinary advances visible in other areas of Indian society.  India does everything – even advancement – in its own unique way.

I’ve been lucky enough to return to India many, many times since that first visit four decades ago.  It’s a country I’ve grown to love and it’s one that fascinates and moves me perhaps more than any other.  It has a unique energy and culture and a deep, unaffected spirituality.  I have found in its people gracefulness, kindness, and hospitality in extraordinary measure. It’s a place that every day makes you challenge your expectations and question your assumptions and, above all, reminds you that there’s no single pattern for living.  India is incredible, indeed.