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
The hills rise behind Abergavenny like a wall built by giants, steep, green, and unyielding. They are the town’s backdrop … Continue reading The Riddle of the Stones
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
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
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
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
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
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
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