[Just don't jostle him while he's got a straight razor to his throat okay]
England has lousy weather and worse food. I spent far too much time being dragged around by a know-it-all who seemed to like tormenting me with new and "interesting" places. Usually a drafty castle with gaudy tapestries or a lofty cliffside place with some long, boring history, probably because he knew I'd hate it.
[Cross sounds less and less irritated as he talks, as if he's forgetting that he's supposed to be.] There was one place that wasn't half bad. A bed and breakfast tucked between cities, grew their own vegetables and somehow kept fresh flowers despite the horrid cold summers.
[This is where most of Cross's stories have a woman enter the picture, but not this one.] But it was best in the winter. The hearth warmed the entire place, and the lady of the house kept good wine handy. [He pauses, being picky with the razor around his chin.]