The Chapel in the Hills
At the end of a dusty sheep walk, just beyond the bramble-pricked hedges and the scatterings of wool snagged on … Continue reading The Chapel in the Hills
At the end of a dusty sheep walk, just beyond the bramble-pricked hedges and the scatterings of wool snagged on … Continue reading The Chapel in the Hills
This is a statement in stone, a survivor of centuries, a spine across the river, carrying the memory of hooves and wheels, boots and bare feet. Continue reading The Bridge at Crickhowell
There are some films you never grow out of. For me, one of them is Notting Hill. It’s not just … Continue reading À la Recherché de la Porte Bleue
Taking shelter by the standing stonesMiles from all that moves… …feeling spirits never far removed” – Ultravox, Man of Two Worlds … Continue reading The Standing Stones
The priory appears suddenly—half in ruin, half in shadow—as though it has risen from the earth itself. The surrounding hills form a vast amphitheatre, each ridge and fold reflecting the broken symmetry of the priory’s arches and towers. These aren’t just hills; they’re a congregation. And Llanthony stands at their centre, the altar to a forgotten order. Continue reading The Ruins of Llanthony
And everywhere, there’s the sense that this is its own place: not just a neighbourhood of London, but a village that happens to have been swallowed up by the city. Notting Hill doesn’t feel like part of the capital. It feels like a walled garden. A stage set. A place apart. Continue reading The London Village
Deep within the walls of Raglan Castle, I climb the spiral stairs to the top of the keep. My footfalls … Continue reading The Walls of Raglan
In another room, I find The Adoration of the Shepherds. It’s different. More personal. The brushstrokes are slower, more honest. Murillo is no longer copying prints. He is creating. As a former shepherd myself, I recognise the men he paints: weary, awed, practical, resourceful. Continue reading The Sacred and Profane
The railing is old, but sturdy. I lean on it and take in the view, swept by a mix of awe and vertigo. The wind up here feels purer, less of the earth and more of the sky. It tugs gently at the dry grass growing from cracks in the stone dome beside me, as though even the weeds want a view. Continue reading Stone and Sky
I sit alone in a church in Ronda. The carved wooden pew beneath me creaks quietly as I shift my … Continue reading She Has Done Everything