My father was recently telling Vanessa about how, as a pre-war child in middle England, he would see the Coal-man every week, drawing up in a heavy wooden cart, pulled by an enormous Shire horse. Every Tuesday, he delivered sooty brown sacks, full of fist-sized lumps of coal for the fireplaces, and bags of blackened coke, for the cooking stove. She sat listening to him and thought how marvelous it all sounded. A variety of household economies, all arriving at the front door b

I walked past a shop in Paris the other day that appeared to sell almost nothing but mustard. Not mostly mustard. Not mustard alongside the olive oil, vinegar, biscuits and emergency tins of tomatoes. Mustard seemed to be the actual business plan. A few streets later there was a cheese shop devoted, of course, entirely to cheese. All refrigerated and proper. A slaboratory of refrigerated ingots, in various shades of yellow. Then one selling just brushes - brooms and dust-bust

Some time ago, in these very pages, I did a great deal of confident theorising about mice. You may remember it. If not, it's in my book Postcards from the Platform's Edge - so go order a copy, if you haven't already. There was a tear-down property for sale in L.A. and a Château for purchase in France, and somewhere between the two I set out my thesis: that the Town Mouse looks at the Château and sees lonely isolation, while the Country Mouse looks at the city condo' and sees

I arranged to meet Vanessa at Wagram. I said it without thinking, the way you'd say "meet me at the chemist" or on the corner, or by the tree. What I actually meant, more precisely, was "Meet me at Café L'Étoile 1903" - which is an old café-brasserie at the bottom of the Avenue de Wagram, almost in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe. We both know it well, and the coffee is excellent. "OK, I'll see you at Wagram"... It was only an hour later, sitting, waiting with my excellent

There are few cake-related lies told with greater sincerity than “No thanks, I couldn't possibly...." Particularly when the last chocolate éclair on the plate is in play. The French pâtisserie counter is one of those rare places where adulthood briefly, but totally, fails me. We may have a mortgage, a pension and strongly held opinions about climate change, but put me - a grown-ass man - in front of twelve pretty cakes behind a pane of cough-proof glass, and I become eight ye

I hear that phrase on the news quite a bit, every time there is a live report from the scene of something dramatic or tragic. "Here's what we do know.".. It's the baseline of established truth. The poured concrete on which further clarification can stand. It might not be much, but it is solid and reliable and certainly good enough for most of us, given the circumstances. No educated guesswork. No stabs in the dark, no taking a shot at anything. Which brings me, as neatly as

There was a particular little shop that used to exist on almost every French street corner, and although most of them have quietly disappeared, their ghosts remain if you are lucky enough to spot one. You will be walking through some entirely ordinary town or village, when your eye drifts upwards and catches an old façade, it's painted signage faded and faint, but sure enough - perhaps above a mobile phone shop, an estate agent or some other high street blandness, you will se

There is a recognisable sort of chap standing beside a very clean car outside a top hotel. He wears two principal things - a peaked cap, and an expression of professional, unbothered serenity. He opens the door. He inclines his head. He says "Sir" and "Madam" with the respectful deference of a fellow who has said it many times. And when you have spread yourself across the leather interiors, he glides you smoothly across town without, it seems, doing anything so vulgar as maki

I am a sucker for things that are not really traditional food parings. I mean I love things that do go together - fish and chips, buttered toast, and cream on jam, but I do like a new challenge. Enter, Roquefort & Honey Ice Cream. Found on a menu at a not-very-posh bistro in the stunning town of Sant Malo. There were clearly less challenging flavours on offer, and I could very much have made a far more vanilla choice, but something about it made me want to dive headlong into

There is a fine line between what we understand as appreciation and what we immediately deride as snobbery. Somewhere along the way, we decided that knowing too much about wine, coffee, or olive oil, made us a bit "too" something. You will know by now, that I love to look at the roots of words. The Etymology. The Verbal archaeology that whispers through history, where words and phrases orginiated and how we have skewed them to suit modern purpose. Frustratingly, the origins o

It's hot here. The sort of heat that suggests any kind of movement is a bad idea. Last night I sat in the pitch-black kitchen, with the fridge door open. It was not as effective as I would have liked. It was like being interrogated by the faint smell of Melon. Now then, if we played a word association game, and I said "Summer".. chances are someone would respond "Ice Cream". It is a horse-and-carriage relationship. A friendly rebellion against the sun - saying "OK if you want

I recently stumbled across an article in Forbes magazine, comparing two pieces of real estate. The first was a 996-square-foot "tear-down" in West Los Angeles. I had to look up the term "tear-down". It is basically a house that no-one wants to live in, and is far cheaper to knock down and build from scratch, than to fix up. The second property, was a 4,806-square-foot Château in France on 24 acres, with 8 ensuite bedrooms and a guest house. They were both listed for the same

Like many British people, I came to goat's cheese quite late in life. I mean, when I was a kid, you could order fruit juice as a starter in a fairly posh restaurant... yes, children, it was once thus. Anyway, in our house, goats didn't produce cheese, cows did. And they made it all in a place called Cheddar. Britain in the seventies, was not a place where food was discussed with any particular reverence. It came either hot, or cold. Cold was for lunch, hot was for dinner. Bre

Aren't cherries just a wonderfully optimistic fruit? They arrive quite suddenly, unlike the well guarded blackberries of Autumn, which just take forever to ripen and seem to do so one at a time. Cherries just appear. Reckless and post-box red, they are a bounty of equal opportunity, for birds and beings alike. In France, cherries are not simply fruit. They are a seasonal event. A brief national orthodoxy that, for approximately three glorious weeks, has everyone smiling. Here

There was a time, and I might be showing my age here, when butter became the subject of a deliberate, fatty witch-hunt. It seemed to be a hearing behind closed doors, for us butter lovers. It was accused and found guilty of shortening our lives and making us fat. The Western world fell under a wave of nutritional anxiety. Butter, which had been besties with bread for such a long time, was suddenly recast as the insidious villain of the kitchen. Into its golden yellow slippers

March 15th sits in that peculiar place in the French culinary calendar where winter has not quite finished and spring has not quite sprung. The markets still have a bit of an Irish feel to them - with much space still given over to leeks and potatoes. But you can sense that local market aficionados are sensing an arrival of sorts. The first crop of bright, green asparagus. The French love their asparagus. They have been cultivating them since the 15th century and their popula

In the late 1940s, on Long Island, just east of New York City, a new kind of American landscape was being built. It was called "Levittown" - one of a few that would appear in the 40's and 50's, designed originally for returning WWII veterans, with affordable homes, solid construction, picket fences and identical facades. But along with the mortgages came something else: lawn obligations written into property deeds. The owners needed to agree to maintain their grass to a legal

Set on a rolling 180 hectares of bocage and waterways in Mayenne, just 90 minutes from Paris, lies the historic estate of "BLANC BLANC BLANC". Our host for Soulstice 2026. It is certainly more than just a venue. It is a living, breathing testimony to transformation - of ancient place and industrious people. With more than 250 years of history, this site was once at the heart of linen blanching a physical, tactile process of washing, bleaching and preparing noble textiles for

Red roses. Valentine’s Day. Floral messaging that has no room for manoeuvre or misconstrue. Important, perhaps becasue our February 14th intentions need to be absolutely legible. Our designs and desires must have clarity and meaning. The red rose then, is a comfortably predictable symbol, bought and sold by the dozen. In fact, 250 million red roses are produced globally, for this day alone. Beautiful, classic, fully unmistakable. Even if we feel that a red rose is actually st

Vanessa is American. Her entire family is American, as is her accent, her passport and most of her cultural references. Yet she says she doesn't "feel it" any longer. This makes me sad. We English feel that national identity (not Nationalism) represents a central value - not a totally defining one - but nonetheless a solid sense of tribe, to which humans have been hardwired, since the dawn of people. There seems to be a particular tone to the American conversation at the mome