Field Notes - Old Fashioned

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 whisering their narratives. They carry sentiment and history at their core, ready to be unpacked, retold, sometimes reimagined. A battered tray, a silver spoon, a diary in faded ink — each stirs the imagination, each invites us to wonder who touched it, who needed it, who bought it.

When gathered together, these objects enter into dialogue. The stuffed goose nods knowingly to the tortoiseshell trinket box. The worn walking stick leans conspiratorially against a soldier’s portrait. Juxtaposed, they form a network of affinities, revealing connections across time and character that no single item could hold alone.

In their company, we are not collectors so much as curators of affection. These objects distil human experience, generating new meanings simply by existing side by side. They remind us that difference is not dissonance but part of a greater chorus. Each piece is more fascinating because of the others it stands among, their obvious distinctions creating a harmony of memories. To love old things is to love humanity — patched, enduring, imperfect, and endlessly related.