Climbing through the old gate, the heat is instant and enveloping. The stones radiate the morning’s stored warmth; lizards dart along the ramparts. I follow the rough path upward to the bell tower, where a single bronze bell hangs under a weathered brick arch. Continue reading The Tower of Gaucín
Our road to Corton had begun in London, but not in the present day. It stretched back to 1760, when my ancestor, Matthew Blakiston, served as Lord Mayor of London. Continue reading Return to the Wylye Valley
It was at the back of a cupboard, in an album whose pages had curled and yellowed with age. The … Continue reading Blinman Revisited
A bell tolls. Its sound rolls across the village: slow, deliberate, resonant, as though each stroke is being rung not … Continue reading St. Mary’s Dymock
The dome of Herefordshire sky above Kilpec is so wide and blue it seems like a theatre backdrop, flecked with … Continue reading Strange Faces
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
