Another perfect day in Amsterdam, brisk and sunny. Mr. Muscato and I go about bundled up in sweaters and scarves, even though the locals appear to be under the impression that it's high summer.
The insistently chinois motif on two walls of our otherwise tremendously comfortable room brings to mind dear Mr. Wilde's deathbed comment: either this wallpaper goes, or I do. Since the rest of the hotel is so entirely pleasant, however, we've decided to stick it out.
Not least because this is our view.
Mr. Muscato's old friend The Dutchman took us motoring today. It turns out, rather to our surprise, that Amsterdam is in fact entirely surrounded by Holland, a country distinguished, from our limited experience, by scenic villages, sheep-ridden meadows, and, as above, absurdly picturesque vistas. This was a lovely castle, poised between a river and the Zuider Zee, surrounded by gardens of an almost numbing beauty.
And then, as if life weren't ridiculously lovely enough, we had a memorable lunch at a tiny, scenic inn, one at which I noticed only as we were leaving the discreet Michelin star tucked away inside the door.
Tonight: dinner chez l'Executrix and then some pub-crawling.