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
It is hot in Seville. Even though it is only a little after nine in the morning, the temperature is … Continue reading Lux per Oculum
The sycamore stands like a sentinel. Its great limbs stretch outward, heavy with leaves, each one etched with veins like … Continue reading The Witness Tree
I love the element of danger and the ecstasy of flight… – Chris de Burg, I Love the Night It’s … Continue reading The Geometry of Lift
Morning in Cirencester. I step into the church vestibule, leaving the harsh summer sun for the cool shade of the … Continue reading In Search of the Perpendicular
There’s no better seat in London than the front row, top deck, of a red double-decker. From here, the city … Continue reading On the Buses
