It's that time of year again. Suitcases are being retrieved from the darkest corner of the loft, sunscreen checked for "use by" dates and bathing suits - scrutinized, discarded and unceremoniously replaced. Discussions are held in-household, asking why we left it so late to do almost everything, and promises are made around wholly unrealistic departure times for Gatwick airport. Meanwhile, other-peoples-photos are already beginning to arrive on your phone, with other-peoples-

If there is one subject guaranteed to unite humanity, it is the weather. We simply cannot stop discussing it. It doesn't matter whether you're in Paris, Perth, or Pyongyang, "weather chat" is the small talk of choice. The ice-breaker, the introduction. The attempt to bash down the barrier of language, and a chance to stand on some familiar, common ground, where souls that collide in the far-flung corners or our little blue rock, can meet on the level. And what better leveller

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

Somewhere along the way, we took the word intimate for a long walk. We led it out of philosophy, psychology, and human experience, and ended up folding it neatly in a drawer, labelled - "Reserved - Date Night"... But why even take this subject on, when we seem quite happy for it to describe what we take off? Is intimacy all about the bodies beneath the clothes, or the self beneath the surface? Intimacy comes from the Latin intimus, meaning “the innermost.” The place closest

OK, so firstly, we Brits did not know that Groundhog Day was actually a thing. It is a real event. In Pennsylvania, every February. To us, it still looks like a punchline that somehow escaped the joke. A fluffy, tired animal is lifted from its burrow, consulted about the future, and returned to its warm den, while a crowd applauds politely and then heads off to CostCo. Um...we also didn't know that this has been going on under our very noses, for well over a century. Every Fe

Many of us tend to have a dim view of February. It really does seem to be the black sheep of our calendar. Short-changed on day numbers, an awkward ending to the cadence of that rhyme to remember - "30 days hath November" - it feels like the month that also ran - the racing term for runners and riders that were not really worth a real mention.But let's forgive the slightly gawky floundering of February. It was never a month designed to feel like such a fly in the hearty, wint

Turns out this photo is a fake, by the way... Even though if it did fool the folks at Forbes magazine, but... that's OK. It says what I want to say, AI or not. It's a picture that "shows" French farmers protesting in Paris. They are there, by the way - as I type - with tractors and trailers, and even sheep, lining the grand Avenues and Boulevards of the Nations capital, hosing down Government buildings with the occasional muck-spreader. When French farmers are unhappy, they q

The word surrender did not always carry the white flag with which we associate its use today. It comes into English from the Old French "surrendre" - formed from sur (over) and rendre (to give back). Its Latin root, reddere, means to return, to restore, to hand back what was borrowed. The French medieval meaning of the word surrender, was all about "restoration" - to hand back rights or authority. A piece of land or a farmhouse tenancy, on the expiry of its lease. To surrend

Truffles have been around since the Pharaos were in short pants. Quite why the first sandal kicked the first truffle, prompting its wearer to bend down and take a mouthful, is another story altogether. But we have been loving them ever since... King Francis I of France (let's hope he didn’t endure the challenges of rhotacism) was the first noble notable to put truffles on the royal platter. His truffly gusto was duly noted by the brilliant lawyer-turned-chef, Jean Brillat-Sav

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 mark

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 Fre

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, th

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 boulevards

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 fie

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

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

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