We snuggle up in our warm coats, scarves and wellies and head to this year’s fireworks.

Once we arrive, the music is loud, there’s a certain anticipation and festive feel in the air.

 We stroll along to the burger stand and order our cheeseburgers topped with onions and ketchup. It’s pretty dark so I can’t really tell if it’s well cooked but bite into it all the same. Mmm…,it’s delicious. I wash it down with some mulled wine, surprisingly strong behind the warmth and spicy sweetness. We bump into a few familiar faces.

 Suddenly that first firework rockets into the night sky followed by fireworks of every colour whizz through the air burning brighter and louder by the minute. The children wrapped up in woolly hats and scarves, yell with excitement at the initial boom. Their bellies filled with hot dogs and lips stained red with toffee apples, their eyes glazed with expectation and wonderment.

 I sip my wine and my daughter hands me some chocolate as comets hurtle through the November air. I enjoy the pink glittering tails that give way to cascading shimmers of gold-lace; cool ultraviolet tones scatter like ribbons then silently fall away like stardust. I stand back and marvel at the screamers, the brilliant white strobe effects and the patterns of the spinning Catherine wheels.

 I look around for a moment and see the full moon, steady and tranquil obscured by a fog of cloud; a sea of mesmerized faces gazing up at the night sky. I smell the air dense with smoke. Sparks dissipate into the atmosphere leaving a trail of embers until the silent ashes fall to the ground. I wonder what people are thinking as the fireworks explode with colour, scorching and crackling through the air.

 The biggest fireworks ignite, filling the sky for a sensational finale and we are bombarded with a starburst of luminous colour. It has been a wonderful community event, bringing friends and families together. We head home in jovial mood, our hair smelling of smoke and our steps crunching on the cold damp grass, through drifts of fallen leaves.

We’re venturing to Battlers Green Farm shopping village in Radlett this morning for brunch at the Bull Pen restaurant and tearoom. It is a converted barn built in the early 1900’s, the shaker-style tables and chairs match the light wood floors and the tall windows let in ample light. It’s always busy, has a great buzz and is well known for its cream teas and freshly baked cakes. I order a small cooked breakfast followed by some cinnamon toast that I dip in maple syrup.

It’s hard to believe that it started out with a single shop in a secluded farm area, and that over a dozen stables have now been converted into attractive boutiques. It’s so refreshing to leave the high street behind and take pleasure in wandering along a tree-lined promenade and exploring each and every boutique.

There is a strong community feel and an authentic rustic charm. I chat with a variety of local traders and spend a little longer than I should in the clothing boutiques. I love the unusual selection of handbags and jewellery; I try on a taupe woolen scarf with dark swirling patterns, it has a distinct style and will keep me warm. Perfect!

Outside the florist is an autumnal table decorated with seasonal fruits and flowers, and yellow and orange pumpkins of all shapes and sizes, The green scent is revitalizing and as I step in, take time to admire the freshly cut lilies, roses and orchid plants.

As soon as I step into Spice Way, I breathe in the intense aroma and marvel at the wonderful variety of bowls filled with colourful blends of mixed herbs and spices. A variety of gourmet gift sets to suit all palettes are neatly arranged along the higher shelves.

Across the courtyard are two large home interior shops packed with stylish accessories. I buy a small oval lamp with mini mosaic mirror tiles; it will sparkle nicely in my living room.

As I step out of the shop, I find my husband in the village’s anchor farm shop clutching a huge loaf of sourdough bread and choosing some mature cheddar.

Just before we leave with our bagful of culinary delights, we go and have a look at the aviary hidden behind the shops as it’s populated with some colourful and animated cockatoos!

Going out for a pizza and a glass of decent red wine is one of life’s simple pleasures.  We’re welcomed into Nonno’s Pizzeria on Hatfield Road by the headwaiter, quintessentially Southern Italian, charming and loud; he asks us to take a seat.

The place has a rustic charm, furnished with antiqued wooden tables and chairs and the walls have a rough brick finish. The huge wood-fired pizza oven behind the curved counter glows with warmth giving the restaurant a homely feel and savoury aromas fill the air. I order a mushroom pizza with some rocket and spinach heaped on the top. My husband, teenage daughter and friend order Americanos.

The chef is a young Italian from Trento, a natural, kneading and flinging the dough about; there isn’t a rolling pin in sight and I watch him creating a small disc, re-flouring the surface then throwing it back down, stretching it into a wider disk and making sure it never gets too thin.

He pours on the tomato sauce with a small ladle in circular motion, then its time for a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese and a drizzle of oil, after that he adds the toppings with care and finishes with oregano and garlic. The pizza is put into the oven then served at the perfect temperature, its crust a deep golden brown and cheese bubbling.

When the pizzas arrive they’re huge, and we’re relieved that we didn’t bother with starters. They’re utterly delicious! The waiter sings along to the Italian music as we demolish our food.

The place is getting busy as it’s a Friday night and the headwaiter holds it together by speaking more loudly and flitting from table to table, making sure everybody is happy. My daughter doesn’t quite finish all of her pizza but being a teenager, is likely to devour the rest of it stone cold for breakfast tomorrow morning.

We leave full and content, ready to brave the cold air.

“Ciao e grazie.” I call out as we leave.

The waiter smiles and gives us a wave. “Ciao al prossimo!”

After driving through a maze of country lanes, I arrive at the Henry Moore Studios and Gardens. It is a gloriously sunny day and I enter the visitor’s centre, a chic contemporary glass structure.

I take a seat outside the café and sip my cappuccino overlooking the bright Sculpture gardens. The Family Group in bronze stands before me. I stare into it contemplating how Moore has captured the essence of being a family unit and celebrating the stability that it can provide.

I step into the gardens, and walk by an orchard abundant with ripe apples, its leaves casting a dappled sunlight onto the grass. As I approach The Double Oval sculpture I soon realize that it’s only when I walk around these sculptures that they truly come to life; each angle offers a fresh perspective and there is an inherent dynamism within each seemingly static and bulky design.

I enter the Yellow brick studio, a workshop space with uncut raw stone, wood, bronze, marble and all sorts of tools, like mallets and chisels, where I can imagine Moore getting covered in dust as he carved with intensity.

This leads to the Maquette Studio, I’m fascinated to learn that Moore didn’t draw his designs, but made maquettes based on various everyday natural objects like flint or bone. These sensorial organic forms would ignite his interest and he’d add to them with clay, cast them in plaster and later use them as a base for his full-scale statues.

Further along, is a sixteenth century reconstructed barn. Inside are some huge tapestries hung on the walls based on Moore’s drawings; they show how his trips to Mexico and Athens influenced him. The knowledgeable guide explains Moore’s aversion to polished classical monuments and his interest in draping often used in Greco-Roman figures.

Finally I head to a current exhibition entitled: Becoming Henry Moore tracing his path as a young sculptor. I can see his early work exhibited alongside indigenous and ancient statues and how artists like Picasso and Modigliani inspired him.

The presentation of Moore’s Modernist artwork is perfectly laid out here and I leave feeling a sense of awe at this sculptor’s legacy, amazed by his innovation with abstract form, and enchanted by the delicacy and aesthetic sensibility that infuse these monumental statues.

We head to The Green kitchen for lunch. As we enter, the smell of homemade food and the warmth from the kitchen gives it a homely feel; we’re greeted with a smile, given a menu and asked to take a seat.

The walls are painted in soft green and framed wildlife illustrations hang in two neat rows along the back wall. I peer passed the cappuccino machine into the open kitchen; it is arranged with stainless steel shelves packed with utensils, food containers and fresh fruit and veg. Two display fridges by the till are crammed with wholemeal products like veggie burgers, natural yoghurts and juices. Beside them are healthier snack options such as Chickpea puffs and Vego bars.

We start chatting with the friendly waitress and order falafels and hoummous with pitta bread, carrot, pepper and cucumber sticks on the side. I look out of the window; it’s one of those perfect October days, gentle winds and leaves falling. I sip mint tea wondering why there aren’t more vegetarian cafes around. I’ve heard people say that the vegetarian diet is limited, but when I think of dishes like tagines, stir fries and vegetable curries, I have to disagree.

By cutting down on meat and trying vegetarian dishes, we enrich our culinary experiences and discover other cultures. The waitress tells us about their monthly themed dinner evenings. The next one is a Nepalese buffet. I get it booked and look forward to trying some Newa cuisine.

Our lunch arrives. The bread is warm and it’s such a pleasure to see the real colour and consistency that hoummous should be. I can taste the subtle combination of garlic, chickpea and tahini. It’s authentic home made food and I feel full after eating it. For dessert, I bite into a carrot and walnut muffin. The crunchy walnut complements the rich carrot and cinnamon flavours perfectly.

I’ve lost count of the steak restaurants my husband has made me dine in over the years, so I’m enjoying seeing him sitting there out of his depth and subjecting him to a strictly vegetarian lunch. It’s time to expand his horizons a little; he needs to learn that there is life beyond meat n’ potatoes!

Later that evening I ask, “What’s for dinner tonight?”

“I’m making us Steak Diane…” he smiles. “…with plenty of veggies on the side!”

He doesn’t appear to be joking. I give up!

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to St. Albans was that it was a wonderful mix of city and country life. One minute I could be shopping in the town centre, the next I could be on a country walk breathing in the clean air! I’m getting that feeling now as I walk into Notcutts Garden Centre.  I love to slow down and linger on these outdoor garden spaces, surrounded by blushing pink hydrangeas and the fruit of the crab apple tree.

Celebrating its 120th anniversary this year, it was founded in the 1880s by Roger Crompton Notcutt who started out purely as an amateur gardener; however, by 1914 Notcutts nursery had won its first gold medal for its Azalea garden at Chelsea.

I pick up a basket and see a mass of pink shrubs displayed on a round table. The quiet sun diffuses along the tops of their thick foliage. I step closer, pick one up and take in the aromatic scent of its leaves. The assistant smiles as he sees me analyzing it, then tells me that they’re called “skimmias” are quite hardy and can often even survive when neglected. As I don’t have green fingers, they sound perfect and I put one in my basket!

The gravel crunches at my footsteps as I pass by traditional clay chimeneas and terracotta pots; further along, thick logs are stacked in an attractive pyramid log store alongside kindling wood and sacks of compost piled high.

I step under a pergola arch covered with white climbing roses then wind along a path leading to the water features. The trickling fountain designs are mostly contemporary; my favourites are the geometric spheres and cubes with built in LED lighting. I pause; it feels meditative listening to the cascading waters.

Further along the path I spot Calla lily plants and put one in my basket. Their elegant cone shape, depth of purple colour, and lush green leaves will contrast dramatically beside the pink and white roses on my garden table at home.

I walk on, drifts of brown leaves at my feet, listening to the birdsong cutting through the cool October air; feeling relaxed I head inside to get my hands dirty and pick some loose tulip bulbs for my garden.

We’re welcomed into the De Havilland aviation museum by a volunteer who explains proudly that their collection has the only three WWII Mosquito aircraft in the country. I notice a group of retired gentlemen chatting and laughing in the cafe; he tells us that the BBC is here today interviewing some veterans.

The museum, established in 1959, was the first of its type to open to the public and is dedicated to preserving and communicating De Havilland’s contribution to innovation in British aviation technology.

We step into the field and there before our very eyes is a collection of full sized jet airplanes! I stumble upon the world famous “Comet 2R” built in the early fifties. Only its nose and front fuselage have survived; I stand in front of it and take in the clean curvature of its shape designed for maximum velocity.

I walk on, turn a corner and discover a wooden WWII Mosquito light fighter plane, a prototype. Its first flight was in November 1940, piloted by Geoffrey de Havilland himself. I stand under a wing looking up, trying to fathom how this aircraft ever got off the ground!

I am approached by a volunteer who is amused by my puzzled expression; like many of the volunteers, he is a retired pilot and very knowledgeable; he leads the way into the hangar and shows me a type of flexible lightweight wood used to make part of the wings.

Inside, dedicated volunteers surrounded by historic exhibits of photos and memorabilia

walk around carrying tools and components, quietly working to restore various aircraft.

The volunteer then shows me another fighter plane and invites me to climb into the cockpit of the Sea Vixen built in 1960; I sit there in silence, listening to him as I gaze in awe at the many dials measuring air pressure, speed, fuel and altitude covered by a web of connecting wires; I marvel at the advanced capacity of the human brain able to design these feats of aeronautical engineering. I love the sound of the technical words that he reels off like “tail booms” and “transonic flight.”

By the time we leave, I’m all smiles and tell my husband that I feel raring to go.

“Go where?” he questions.

On my first pilot lesson of course!”

“Not another one of your crazy ideas!” He smiles.

I turn the street corner, and walk into a yard towards the entrance of the Fleetville Vintage Emporium. I feel as if I’ve entered a De Chirico painting as I approach a collection of half-assembled mannequins and an arrangement of old Singer sewing machines.

I am greeted by a sales assistant as I step into the emporium. Several movie and pop art prints decorate the wall behind her. The radio is playing an Elvis tune taking me right back to the seventies. Suddenly the colour dial seems to have turned up a few notches, and there before me is a vast and wonderfully eclectic collection of vintage accessories, clothing, books, vinyl and art.

I almost feel disconnected from the 21st century, as if caught in a time warp, bombarded by random pieces of furniture, doll’s houses, glass cabinets filled with crystal-cut champagne glasses chock-full with costume jewellery.

There are over 50 vendors in this space and given the vast quantity of paraphernalia, each unit is a little topsy-turvy and merges into the other;

I enjoy having to rummage around and look closely to find things of interest.

There is something for everybody and among my favourite collectables are: manual typewriters, vintage 35mm cameras and sequined clutch handbags; I try on a pair of silver strappy sandals, but alas, they’re too small!

I flick through a book on fashion illustration and start chatting with a trader who is busy tidying; he tells me about his apprenticeship in men’s tailoring in his younger days. It’s a pleasure to listen to some of his anecdotes about learning his craft in London in the late sixties. His clothing is neatly arranged around a huge spiral stand in the middle of his unit, full with colourful shirts, jackets and ties.

Toward the back is a huge selection of vinyl records stored in cardboard boxes, above them hang black and white photos of music legends; an unusual one of Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten jamming together catches my eye.

As I leave, I spot a cylindrical mustard and white lampshade with orange patterns running across it straight out of 1978! I smile, relieved that some things are destined to stay in the past!

I love that September feeling when the children are back at school, and everything goes a little quieter. This week I have been enjoying Herts Open Studios, a wonderful collection of mini art exhibitions across St Albans and Hertfordshire, now in its 30th year.

The first gallery on my list is Nude Tin Can Gallery. I open the door, step onto a dark wooden floor and into a white studio. I look up at the contrasting artwork neatly displayed on the walls, from oil paintings on large canvases to small watercolour portraits and framed original prints

A small portrait catches my eye. I gaze into it. The artist is setting up and notices me lingering so we start chatting; he explains the inspiration behind it.

I then wander around; I peer into a glass cabinet and observe some limited edition sculptures cast in bronze smooth feminine shapes reminiscent of Henry Moore.

Afterwards I head to another local gallery, a ten minute walk in the other direction. I climb the stairs and step into an attic. I start chatting with an artist who shows me around. I can’t take my eyes off a large acrylic on canvas of abstract dolphins, an oceanic piece that instantly transports me to a far away place. I enter the seascape and feel absorbed by it while managing to sustain a conversation.

In the other room, I fall in love with a collection of miniature linocuts of sunflowers. I’m fascinated by the way the artist has honed in on sections of the flower and added fluorescent colours to her detailed composition. The artist has succeeded in conveying the flower’s captivating beauty. I’ve often felt that when sunflowers are in full bloom they have an otherworldly feel about them that never fails to capture my attention.

It’s fun being around so much art and taking in the vibrant colours and textures. I’m amazed by the wealth of talent to be found just meandering along these few streets and as I walk home, ponder on the fact that this has been an education; I now feel as if I know more about art mediums, methods and materials that artists adopt to express their imaginations. Fortunately these exhibitions continue until the end of the month, so there’s time to see plenty more.

I begin my walk into Romeland and wander down Fishpool Street towards St Michael’s Village; its elevated pavements and numerous former coaching inns remind me that it was originally a stop on the mediaeval route from London to Chester.

According to antique maps, St. Albans originally grew up around the north, east, and west sides of the Abbey extending around the Market Place, along St. Peter’s Street, Holywell Street, High Street, and Fishpool Street, all of which apparently existed by the eleventh century.

This historic district is very picturesque, and even on a cloudy day, the red brick and flower baskets that hang from the timber frames make it feel warm. I absorb the old world charm of the rows of snug cottages, only two floors high and freshly painted in white; their front doors are brightly decorated in unique colours with shiny door knockers and letter boxes, each one exuding its own distinctive character.

With such a long and varied history, I’m not at all surprised that this city is a source of pride and enjoyment to its residents and attracts so many visitors. There were once as many as fourteen pubs alone in this street, offering home cooked pub food and a welcoming atmosphere.

The Lower red lion pub, the only remaining pub on the street, sells real ale, holds weekly quiz nights and even offers bed and breakfast; its main building dates back to the seventeenth century. Mmm I wouldn’t mind waking up in this location and looking out onto the magnificence of the Abbey while enjoying breakfast in bed!

Further down the street is St Michaels Manor Hotel, a stately manor house dating back to 1530, with five acres of beautifully manicured gardens and overlooking a tranquil lake. The perfect location for a wedding, or to impress your house guests with an afternoon tea.

I’d love to go on an historic city tour guide to find out more about the scandals and sinister events that took place over the centuries within these old streets; Mind you, I don’t think I’d like to meander home at night, all alone, after a pint or two through this apparently haunted thoroughfare!