Once a simple word for a regular townsfellow, the term " bourgeois" has travelled through centuries of revolution, ridicule, and refinement. Its journey from common noun to common mirror, reflects our own uneasy juggle with progress and social aspiration. It is neither really a word of belonging, but perhaps more one that suggests "becoming". The hapless work of the sausage roll that wants to be a "Pork Wellington". Long before bourgeois became a petty insult, it was a mar

Generally, the French go at Christmas less hard than elsewhere it is celebrated. They don't post a shopping day countdown, or fall out of bars wearing reindeer horns from mid-November. France (mercifully) lacks the pub culture that brings the English "together". Nor, might I add, do they have TV programs of a necessary standard to keep people at home on the sofa. I cannot think of a single French TV show, where a Christmas Special wouldn't be acutely painful. Instead, the Fr

A note on some feelings which recently surfaced, when Vanessa and I ran into a couple we hadn't seen for a while, and what began as a pleasant enough conversational exchange, soon had us on the back foot, in a sort of panicked display of what can only be described as "anxious over-explaining". It was very aparent that this was a central tenet to our personal sense of being in the right place. If our sense of belonging relates to the emotional landscape of moving to France, t

I know... some of you will not see relocating as an "art" . Perhaps viewing it more of an extremely daunting prospect, a discomfort to be avoided, or just something that other people do. Particularly, of course if it involves not a mere change of post code, but a move that crosses time zones and international date lines. We benefit from a built-in bias around the beauty of staying put. Home is where our friends are, or the kids live, or the climate suits. It's where we "belon

Our understanding of the contemporary meaning of etiquette is possibly aligned with what the dictionary tells us - "The mindful, intentional practice of creating respectful, kind, orderly interactions". It still feels like a term that will always be a little distant, perhaps the domain of the snobby English, the word itself residing in a tidy cottage, somewhere near Wimbledon. We see the meaning plainly - as the opposite of queue jumping or asking a woman how old she is. Thi

The French have a verb for a very specific pastime. The dictionary has it as - Flâner… (v) to wander about with no particular purpose. Pronounced - flan - as in pan and ay - as in hay.  She  (or indeed he  - Le Flâneur ) was an individual who elegantly ambled the streets and squares with no desire to get anywhere specific, but simply to be there.  To observe. To absorb. To walk with no agenda other than the call of curiosity. In 19th-century Paris, flâneurs strolled the bou

There are few ingredients as humbly useful as the onion. It appears in every kitchen, at every stage of unprompted regrowth and under every list of ingredients. Raw and sharp in summer salads, melted and brown in winter stews, or quietly working in the background of rich sauces, often without due credit. The French don’t just cook with onions — they have built the entirety of French cuisine around them. France grows more onions than any other country in Europe, and you can ta

The rather sultry soundtrack of November is not only about cold fingers tapping on the barometer and raindrops on rooftops. Over the ploughed and purposeful fields of Lot et Garonne, the air is full with the honky tonk of departing geese. Like feathered fighter jets, you will hear them before you see them — a ragged, cloud-bound squadron, formed as a straggly V, calling desperatey to each other to keep things together. It's comfortingly instinctive - a DNA thing. I love seein

Every nation tends to make a contribution to the great theatre of style. England gave us understatement, Italy provided road rage and France — with predictable irony — gave us austerity disguised as art. The word silhouette began not as a term of beauty, but of mockery. Étienne de Silhouette, was the well intentioned but disastrously unpopular 1759 French finance minister. He tried very hard tried to balance the Nations chequebook after yet another costly skirmish with the E

The word sabotage is a genuine “drama picture”. It can conjure machines grinding noisily to a halt, partisans blowing up railway lines, or each of us inexplicably wrecking our own best chances.. It feels shivering, cinematic and rebellious. But sabotage has much humbler roots, in the clatter of a wooden shoe… In France, “ un sabot”  was a simple wooden clog worn for centuries by peasants and workers. Sturdy, practical and inexpensive, it was a shoe for everyday labour — for f

I love almost everything that is old. Old books, old times, old manners. One of the few enviable advantages of being British lies not only in how we have managed to preserve old things, but in how we continue to delight in them. We don’t simply store the past; we keep it in circulation, like a favourite chair, endlessly sat in. Old things come to us already whispering their stories. They carry tattered handling and loved history at their core, stories ready to be un-boxed, re

There was a time when a social visit began not with a text message or a hopeful knock, but with a small, stiff rectangle. The calling card was both introduction and safeguard — a way to say, “I was here,” without barging into someone’s day. It was etiquette in miniature, a pocket-sized handshake. Each card bore its owner’s name, sometimes a flourish of script or a modest emblem. One might slip it onto a silver tray in the hallway, where a family’s social geography was quietly

“Travel whispers to the soul’s boldness. It asks not for the absence of fear, but the courage to lead into the unknown, to embrace both the journey and the self that is discovered along the way”.                      Attributed to Mark Twain                       Every step beyond what is familiar is an invitation to growth. We do not travel to coll

October in the Dordogne is quieter now. The fields are slowing, the walnuts gathered, the vines picked clean. But for bees, it’s still very much office hours. The hum in the hives may have softened, but inside, a busy workforce is still clocking in. Bees don’t get the autumn off. While we shake moths from sweaters, and begin baking with cinnamon, the bees are in full admin. mode — stocktaking, rationing, and preparing the winter filing cabinets. By October, the queen has sort

Croydon Airport, Southern England, 1923. Aviation was still pretty new, with planes made mostly out of plywood and canvas. Crossing the channel could be done from the deck of a luxury liner, or for a daring few, in a propeller-driven tent, with 2 leather seats and a sense of direction. The pilots were just mechanics with benefits, but they had an understanding and a kinship with their craft. Radios crackling, announcing Ginger was trying to get in touch with Biffo, navigating

If Fridays had faces, it would be the mug shot of a pair of donkeys. Unhurried, not bothered, standing in the most shetered part of a wet meadow, the very picture of end-of-the-week sufficiency. The error we make, according to most donkeys, is in seeing these sweet and gentle creatures as slightly under-evolved horses. It is a subject of both slight resentment and constant discussion in all places where donkeys gather. They readily admit they lack the sleek flanks and polishe

Vineyards are surely the most civilised of our ancient cultivations. Humanity seems to have evolved liking its plants arranged in tidy rows, but while carrots and corn stand tall and straight, like obedient soldiers, vines have a rebellious elegance that cannot be stood to attention. They lean and twist with weary dignity, brothers in arms, performing more important work. Across the world there are boatloads of grape varietals, from Abrusco to Zinfandel and all stops in betwe

On a rainy day last November, the humble baguette was acknowledged and enshrined forever by UNESCO as “a thing of exceptional interest for the common heritage of mankind.”

Larders. Everyone either has one or wants one. Even the word is a delight to say. Lah-dah....lah-dee-dah, I'm in the lah-dah.. The word of course, has Latin roots, and derives from Lardum - meaning pork fat or what we now call bacon. It was (and still should be) a kitchens inner sanctum. A holy place, robust and well-filled with strong white ceramics and jarred beans and jams. It's an interior designers dream.. where kitchen necessities go to be instagrammed. But larders are

As a wine area, the vineyards of Bergerac are seen by many as a bit of a “dabbler” - with some steady reds and winsome whites. They are all north of OK - but their sweetest secret is a little pocket of activity called Monbazillac. These relatively small parcels produce the most golden wines, hugged in autumn to a degree of ripeness known as “noble rot” - basically elegant mildew - that positively shine - showing up in tasting notes as honey, apricot, and spice; the Dordogne’s