But it’s not one that a Jack Tar would recognise. Instead of oakham, gunpowder smoke, tobacco and rum, I can smell oak polish, high-end perfume, old wood, and new money. It’s a curious blend, like Chanel No.5 dabbed behind the ears of Admiral Nelson. Continue reading The Liberty Timbers
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
The dome of Herefordshire sky above Kilpec is so wide and blue it seems like a theatre backdrop, flecked with … Continue reading Strange Faces
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