Dunsmore is a tiny Chilterns village. It announces itself only by the way the road narrows around it. You follow the sign from the main road, climb a little, then climb some more. The hedges start to press in, and just as you’re wondering whether you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere near Wendover, a cluster of cottages appears as though it has been there all along, waiting politely for you to catch up.

Andrea and I went to Dunsmore on Sunday for the plant fair. We knew that the weather still hasn’t quite committed to spring, so any small expedition feels like an act of faith. And worth taking an additional layer of something warm.

The car park, when we found it, consisted of a patch of green roughly the size of five cars, all of which were unfortunately there. A man in a high-vis vest waved us further along the lane and gestured us, with a sort of generous flourish, onto the enormous semi-circular gravel drive of what was clearly somebody’s home. A somebody’s very lovely home. We hesitated. It felt, to use my mother’s phrase, a bit much. One man (the owner?) filling his mower with petrol seemed unfazed by our arrival. So we crunched in beside three other cars and a Labrador who had appointed himself chief greeter.

I love this about the Chilterns. The villages are tucked so deeply into the folds of the hills that getting to anything at all requires a small act of trust (in the lane, in the signs, in the person waving you onto their gravel as though you’d been expected for tea). There is no fanfare here. You either find these places or you don’t, and if you do, they reward you fully.

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Romantic planting

The plant fair was small and excellent, in the way things in this part of the world can be. Trestle tables, hand-written labels, growers who actually grew the things they were selling. I came away with English geraniums that will bloom in a translucent pink, a campanula whose blue I will have to physically restrain myself from describing as cornflower (everyone says cornflower), and a feathered flurry of cosmos plants, because cosmos always feels like an elegant choice. Andrea filled her box of treats with considered enthusiasm. I made romantic, pastel coloured choices. And popped in a bunch of cut ranunculus in a twist of brown paper, because I couldn’t resist them.

The satisfaction of passing a cyclist

All paid up, we turned to go back down the lane, and then stopped. Because on a single track road, a group of cars coming one way can only mean that you turn and go the other way. Which is what we did. And that’s when the cyclists appeared.

If you have ever driven a single-track Chilterns lane on a Sunday afternoon, you will know the particular choreography required to pass another car. You inch. They inch. Someone tucks into a passing place that is really just a flattened bit of verge. There is a small ceremony of nods and raised hands and mouthed thank-yous through the windscreen. It’s one of the few remaining places where strangers still communicate almost entirely in gesture, and I find it charming, so long as it stays completely friendly. By the third car, we were waving like minor royalty.

But cyclists are another story. Whole gaggles of middle-aged men in lycra. Pedalling and puffing furiously, two abreast. You have virtually no hope of passing them. So we glided along peacefully at the rear. Until I saw my chance annd picked off the occasional straggler at the back. I take a tiny and growing pleasure in moving ahead of these loners to cut them off from their group. I’m not proud of that, you understand.

Farm shop heaven

We eventually stopped at Buckmoorend Farm Shop on the way home, which is a thing I would now recommend to anyone passing within a ten-mile radius. It’s a proper farm shop, where the bread is still warm and the vegetables still have a little soil clinging to them as proof of identity. I loaded up - I won’t list everything, but there was cheese involved, and I felt no shame about it - and added a bottle of local Amersham gin to the basket because, well, because it was there, our stocks were low and it was Sunday.

Outside, a little coffee and tea stand had been set up, and a steady stream of cyclists in lycra were peeling off the lanes to refuel. There were benches, dogs, the smell of bacon from somewhere. It felt like the village version of a service station, only different in every way that matters, which is rather the point. It seems the locals like it too - the farm is right next to the Chequers Estate, where British Prime Ministers retreat from Downing Street on a Friday evening, and host the odd world leader (Mr D Trump being the latest). I hadn’t realised how friendly they all seem to be with the farm, but one glance at their website shows a surprising array of PM’s being fêted there.

(You can see the edge of Chequers Mansion in the second photo)

These are the trips I like best. Twenty minutes from home, great conversation, somewhere small and specific to head towards, and a bag of edible loot for the journey back. No motorway. No carpark ticket. No itinerary beyond plants, then farm shop, then home.

When I got back, I did the thing I have been doing more often lately, which is absolutely nothing useful. I unloaded the plants onto the terrace, lined them up in their small plastic pots, made a pot of tea, and curled up to watch my favourite vlogs - the slow, gentle ones where someone in a French farmhouse arranges peonies for forty minutes.

It’s been cold and wet and properly rainy here since. The kind of weather where the lawn squelches underfoot and the garden looks, frankly, sulky. So the plants are still in their pots, lined up by the back door, and I keep stepping out to look at them and stepping back in again without planting a single thing. I am thinking about where the geraniums want to go. I am consulting the campanula. I am giving the cosmos time to express a preference.

This is one of the small luxuries of a Sunday-bought plant. You don’t have to do anything with it yet. It can sit. You can sit. Decisions can be made next weekend, or the weekend after, when the rain lifts and the soil warms and you have a clearer sense of what your garden is trying to tell you.

I’ll plant them next weekend. Probably.

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There is a time every spring when the countryside stops being something you observe and becomes something that ambushes you. This week, it ambushed me several times.

Medieval beauty

It all started when I was walking the dog through a nearby meadow - the one that sits high on a hill near the village and smells of cold mud until about now - when I nearly stepped on them. Snakeshead fritillaries. A whole patch of them, nodding in the April breeze, their deep purple and white chequerboard petals looking exactly like something a medieval painter should have captured for a Book of Hours. I stood there for a longer time than was strictly reasonable, which Bodi bore with the dignified patience of someone who has learned that humans will occasionally stop and stare at plants, and that the only appropriate response is to sit and wait it out.

You see, I didn’t know they were there. They’ve clearly become naturalised, which means they’ve been doing their thing, year after year, and I’ve just been walking past at the wrong moment, or looking the wrong way. Finding them felt like discovering a secret that nature had been keeping not maliciously, but just because I hadn’t been paying attention. I am paying attention now, and they were pure heaven.

The bluebells, meanwhile, are doing what bluebells do. The woods around us are always a carpet of blueish-purple at this time of year. They look like a painting of England that you would be faintly embarrassed to have hanging in your house because it’s almost too clichéd. In my walk on Friday, there was that particular haze, a blue that isn’t quite blue, a purple mist of colour that only happens for about three weeks and then is gone. I thought, not for the first time, that if someone had never seen bluebell woods before and you tried to describe them, they would think you were exaggerating.

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Back garden bliss

Back in my own garden, the pink ornamental cherry tree is having its moment. I planted it a few years ago with the village’s history in mind. In Victorian times there was a lovely tradition of people coming out from London to see the cherry blossom in the Chilterns. They’d make day trips of it, a kind of annual pilgrimage. I like the idea that the blossom was considered so worth the journey that it became a kind of event. My solitary tree is not exactly at the scale of the Victorian spectacle, but it is doing its best, the whole thing has burst into the most extravagant cloud of pink blossom, entirely disproportionate to the size of the tree and very much in keeping with the spirit of showing off in spring. I stand at the kitchen window and feel unreasonably pleased with it.

Seeking inspiration

This was clearly the right week, then, for a trip to Burford Garden Centre. My friend Andrea and I have a particular approach to garden centres which involves very little urgency and quite a lot of stopping. Stopping to look at things, stopping to admire things we have no intention of buying but give us inspiration, stopping to look at things we might buy, and stopping to discuss the things we have already bought. It’s an art form, really, and Burford is exactly the right place for it. It’s an uber-garden centre that understands that people don’t just come for the plants, they come for the looking, the slow pleasure of being surrounded by beautiful things and letting inspiration settle on you like pollen.

We were thoroughly inspired. We were also very well fed, because lunch was delicious, and there is nothing like a good lunch to make the whole enterprise feel like an occasion rather than an errand.

Baskets with cold feet

I came home with the plants for two flowering baskets. I am very pleased with them in theory. In practice, I’m not entirely sure they’re adjusting well to the Chilterns microclimate, which, whatever the calendar says, is not quite there yet. They are sitting in their baskets looking, if I’m honest, as though they’d rather be somewhere slightly warmer. I have told them that April will sort itself out and that they are going to be magnificent. They remain unconvinced.

But that, I suppose, is gardening. You plant things in hope, you stand back and wait, you find yourself giving pep talks to bacopa plants at half seven in the morning. It is a perfectly rational way to spend a life.

This week has been a reminder, which I seem to need on a fairly regular basis at the moment, that the small things are where most of the joy actually lives. Not in the grand plans or the big events, but in a patch of fritillaries you nearly walked past. In the bluebell haze. In the blossom doing its annual showing-off. In a leisurely lunch with a good friend and the unhurried pleasure of looking at beautiful things. Pay attention - it is worth it.

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I didn’t wake up intending to have a day.

But I nailed my colours to the mast, so to speak, by wearing my aqua cashmere jumper. Clothes are always important, or at least they are to me. They set the mood for the kind of day I want to have. The jumper is short-sleeved, so it represents optimism or, maybe, a complete denial of British weather patterns, but I stand by it. It has become my answer to most questions, including ones that have nothing to do with clothing.

What I hadn’t planned for was the bee. I was in the kitchen, warmth coming through the Velux windows in that very convincing way that suggests spring has properly arrived (it hasn’t, but we’ll take it), when I heard a noise. A sort of angry thrumming.

I looked down, I looked around and then up. And there it was. A bee of such scale above my head, that, for a moment, I genuinely wondered if it was some kind of small bird that had taken a wrong turn. I am not exaggerating when I say it was the length of my finger. Possibly longer. It was inside my kitchen, hitting itself repeatedly against the glass, with increasing frustration and absolutely no sense of direction.

Now, I like to think of myself as relatively calm in a crisis. But there is something about a very large, very determined queen bee in your kitchen ceiling that puts this to the test.

There followed a brief internal negotiation:

· Ignore it and hope it resolves itself (unlikely)

· Open the back door, leave the room and pretend it isn’t happening (tempting)

· Or… deal with it

I chose the third option, largely because the bashing had become impossible to ignore.

Using the long pole that opens the window, a tool I had previously regarded as faintly unnecessary, I attempted, as delicately as one can in these circumstances, to guide the situation towards a resolution. This involved an amount of manoeuvring, brute force because (naturally) the window had stuck and a degree of bravery I hadn’t anticipated needing that morning. I also gave myself, and the bee, a firm stream of encouragement. The bee did not appear to be listening.

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Eventually, and I think we should take a moment to acknowledge this as a success, the window finally opened. Even then, the bee remained resolutely clinging to the glass. Why? Bringing my second implement into play – the kitchen mop – I gently guided it out. I stood there afterwards, slightly triumphant, slightly ridiculous, holding the mop like I had just completed some sort of rural Olympic event. And then I noticed the light.

The kitchen was full of it. Proper, clear, early spring light. It had been there the whole time of course, but I had been grimly otherwise occupied. It felt, in its own way, like the first small luxury of the day (or was that just my spike of adrenaline subsiding?).

Later, I opened our front door and was met by the incredible scent of the skimmia planted in the pots outside. If I were a different sort of person, I might describe this as grounding. As it is, I simply think of it as sumptuous. It reminds me of lily-of-the-valley and I’m always impressed by how such a modest plant can punch so much above its weight. It delivers frothy white blossom in the spring and glossy red berries in the winter.

It was my second attempt at Mother’s Day, this time with my son, who had been elsewhere the previous weekend. I am increasingly in favour of celebrations that arrive off schedule. They feel much less like an obligation and more like a choice. Once I’d selected a suitable vase for his beautiful yellow roses, the two of us went out for lunch locally. It was nothing overly elaborate, but the food was good enough to feel like an outing. We properly talked, which is one of the unexpected benefits of having adult children. You are no longer directing proceedings; you are part of them. There was laughter, there was a small amount of life advice (from both sides), and a great sense that this was time well spent without needing to be labelled as such.

Back home, I did something I nearly didn’t do. I laid the table for tea. There is always a moment where I think: do I need to do this? It’s just us. We could easily not bother. And yet, every time I do bother, it changes things. No one will gasp at the sight of that rather nice linen napkin in a gorgeous colour (courtesy of Etsy – browsing highly recommended). But we do sit down differently.

After he had left, and I had winked away the inevitable small tear, I found myself in my study, looking at my desk. I properly looked at it and felt a twinge of satisfaction, because last week I sorted it. I finally dismantled the various piles of clutter that were towering over me just a little too much. I’ll never be a clean desk person, but there are limits. In the process, I cleared out some clothes that had been sitting in one corner of the room, occupying more mental space than they deserved. They have now moved on (sold or given away), which feels efficient and oddly liberating.

At the bottom of one pile, I found the notebooks (several of them). The kind you buy, or are bought, because they look incredibly pretty and they represent a version of yourself who writes things down thoughtfully and consistently. I had apparently been saving them, but for what, I have no idea. So I’ve decided to use them. Not for anything profound. For lists, notes, fragments of days like this one. It feels mildly rebellious, which is ridiculous, but there we are.

By early evening, I was sitting on the sofa, about to tuck into a good book. In the fireplace, the cherry blossom stems I bought at Berkhamsted market were claiming my attention instead. When I first brought them home, they were little more than branches with tiny pods of potential. Now, day by day, the buds are opening. They are a soft, almost apologetically beautiful, pink.

I keep noticing them as I walk past, slightly surprised each time by how much they’ve changed. By the time I finally sat down, Bodi had joined me on the sofa, with complete confidence that this was the correct place for her to be. I stroked her absent-mindedly, still thinking about the day. Her fur is very soft but her ears are in another league. Think velvet cushion. She rarely lets me get this close. She was a rescue dog with a very tough beginning, so when she leans against me or cuddles up, it’s the ultimate privilege. I’m much more used to an arrogant toss of the head as I cravenly pat the sofa and try to get her to sit next to me.

And those small moments with her were, perhaps, the final small luxury of the day.

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If Bridgerton ever came to Buckinghamshire, I suspect it would look very much like this.

There are birthdays. And then there are proper birthdays.

The sort that involve friends gathering around a table and the firm understanding that absolutely no one is counting calories.

This particular celebration took place at Burnham Beeches Hotel, a rather handsome Georgian building tucked away just beyond the famous beech woods. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel slightly more elegant simply by walking through the door.

Afternoon tea was served in a room that could only be described as deliciously feminine. The walls were papered in pale pink and soft green, framed with elegant mouldings that seemed determined to make the room look permanently well-dressed. Above us, chandeliers glowed gently from the ceiling, throwing warm light over the tables, like something out of a period drama.

All it needed was a string quartet and someone fainting attractively onto a chaise longue.

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We had travelled to celebrate our friend Jess’s birthday, and the table was soon filled with the sort of delicate food that makes afternoon tea such a dangerously joyful experience.

First came the savouries.

Tiny cheese soufflé tarts appeared, light and golden, the sort of thing that disappears before anyone has properly had time to discuss it. Then came neat little sandwiches with their crusts trimmed off in that reassuringly civilised way that suggests someone in the kitchen cares deeply about presentation.

And then, of course, the scones arrived. (I say scoooones, you say scons. We can still be friends.)

Warm, soft, and sitting proudly beside pots of jam and thick cream. There is always a brief moment of polite uncertainty around a scone, the eternal English question of whether one should add the jam first or the cream first. In my case, this was quickly abandoned in favour of putting a plump teaspoon of each side by side and simply eating them while they were still warm.

Life is too short for structured scone protocol.

Next came the tiny patisseries. Perfect little works of art, gold leaf and sprinkles - glossy and delicate, and slightly too pretty to eat.

Slightly.

We each chose different teas, which felt like the correct way to approach the occasion. Between us there were floral teas, strong breakfast blends, something faintly citrusy, and something else that smelled like a garden in early summer. The tea was cheerfully replenished throughout the afternoon, which meant the conversation became increasingly enthusiastic as the teapots continued to arrive. One of our number (my lips are sealed) forgot not once, but twice, that a tea strainer is needed with loose leaf tea. But it all added to the fun.

There is something about afternoon tea that encourages good conversation.

Perhaps it’s the pace of it. Nothing arrives in a rush. There is time to talk, laugh, tell stories, and occasionally interrupt someone because you have just discovered that the pastry in front of you contains white chocolate cream and this information simply cannot wait.

But the real contrast to all that sweetness arrived a little later.

After several rounds of tea and cake, we wandered outside into the hotel gardens, where the March air was brisk enough to remind us that this was still England, and not some dreamy patisserie-based fantasy land.

The wind had a bite to it. The trees were still mostly bare. The daffodils were horizontal. Somewhere, a crow was making its opinions loudly known from the branches.

It was exactly what was needed.

Because stepping out of that pale green room and into the cool, slightly untidy reality of an English garden with paths full of sticky mud very close by and realising you are wearing a layer too few, felt wonderfully grounding. The sweetness of the cakes, the warmth of the room, the laughter around the table - all of it seemed even better when balanced by the sharp freshness of the air.

We stood there for a moment, thin jackets pulled closer, breathing in that unmistakable early-spring smell of damp earth and hopeful new growth.

Then, naturally, we went back inside. Because there were still tiny cakes left. And birthdays, after all, should be celebrated properly.

Do you have a favourite place for afternoon tea? I’m always willing to conduct further research.

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There are few things more uplifting than a weekend that does exactly what it says on the tin.

After months (years?) of what has felt like horizontal rain and skies the colour of porridge, we woke on Sunday to actual sunshine. Not the watery, apologetic kind. Proper sunshine. The sort that makes you fling open windows, inspect the garden with intent, and announce to your husband, “We are going somewhere scenic.”

So we drove to Goring-on-Thames, with Bodi installed regally in the boot of the car like a slightly judgemental duchess.

It was finally not raining. If you live in the Chilterns (or anywhere within a 50-mile radius of a British cloud), you will understand that this sentence alone warrants bunting.

The river in full spate

The drive over was one of those quietly beautiful Chilterns routes: ancient tracks, rolling fields, hedgerows just beginning to brighten and the light catching on chalky hillsides. When we reached the river, however, any pastoral serenity was replaced with drama.

The River Thames was in full spate.

I don’t know whether official flood warnings had been issued, but I would not have been surprised. The water was alarmingly close to the banks, the sort of close that makes you instinctively step back even though you are a good metre away. It had that opaque, powerful look: muscular and purposeful as it rushed by our feet.

At the weir, it was frankly furious.

The water churned and crashed with theatrical commitment, as though auditioning for a particularly energetic adaptation of Les Misérables. We stood for a while watching it, slightly awed, slightly concerned, entirely British about the whole thing.

“Bit high,” someone near us murmured. “Yes,” we all agreed, collectively underreacting.

And yet there was sunshine. Actual warmth on our faces. Spring flowers tentatively emerging along the paths. Catkins hanging from branches like nature’s earrings. The air had that hopeful, green-edged scent that signals the world is trying again.

Cafe culture, Chilterns edition

In a move that can only be described as optimistic, half of Oxfordshire had decided to sit outside.

Cafés were spilling onto pavements. Thick coats were firmly draped over chair backs. Sunglasses, slightly premature but determined, had made their seasonal debut. There was a hum of cheerful defiance in the air. And naturally, we joined them. Because lemon and pistachio cake and jasmine tea do not, as we know, eat themselves.

We found a very tiny table in the sunshine at the Pierrepont cafe, angled ourselves strategically out of the breeze, and settled in. The cake was excellent. Moist and fragrant and strongly flavoured with lemon. The jasmine tea arrived in a yellow pot that made me feel both wholesome and faintly continental. Bodi positioned herself beneath the table with practised subtlety. She peered up at me between the slats with a cuteness that did not go unrewarded.

We stayed warm, we watched the world go by, and for an hour or so, everything felt uncomplicated. No rain and no rush. These are the moments I want to remember.

The lawn was a disaster, darling

Back home, the garden has been undergoing a mild but necessary intervention.

The lawn we put in three years ago, I regret to inform you, was a disaster.

Months of rain, shoulder injuries (mine), and general neglect had reduced it to something resembling a damp patchwork quilt. Very little actual grass and muddy round the edges. So we’ve taken decisive action.

Gravel has been added between certain borders, which instantly makes everything look more considered and less “we gave up in November.” Fresh grass seed has been scattered across bald patches with hopeful ceremony. And now we wait.

There is something wonderfully symbolic about sowing grass seed in early March. A strong faith that green will return and order will be restored. One day soon we might sit out there with a glass of something cold and feel mildly superior about our horticultural competence.

Next will come the flowers. We already have hyacinths and early bluebells. I saw a wild violet today that I can’t bring myself to pull out. Peonies are starting to sprout confident red arms towards the sky. I can feel the energy building. Tulips and alliums are on their way. Perhaps something outrageously optimistic in pink.

Paris, Alicia, and the Great Airbnb Hunt

As if spring in the Chilterns were not enough, Alicia and I have planned a trip to Paris in late April. Just typing that sentence makes me smile. Mother-daughter trips have a particular magic. Equal parts laughter, logistics and wardrobe strategising.

Finding somewhere to stay was, I will admit, more challenging than expected. “Reasonably central” and “within budget” are apparently opposing forces in Paris. We scrolled. We debated. We rejected bathrooms that appeared to be inside wardrobes. We questioned whether 14 square metres counted as “spacious.” Eventually, what I hope will be victory.

An Airbnb that is central enough to feel immersed, but not so eye-wateringly expensive that we’ll need to live on baguettes alone. It has charming high ceilings, panelled walls and a pretty balcony. Fingers crossed it’s all that we hope for.

The Eurostar timings were another small battle. The perfect train does not, it turns out, exist. But we have secured tickets and that is what matters.

Now the real fun begins: planning what to do and, crucially, what to wear.

There will be walking. Museums. Cafés. Possibly a little aimless wandering along the Seine. But mostly there will be outfits.

Spring in Paris demands effort. A trench coat? Definitely. Ballet flats? Perhaps. Something faintly 90s? Quite possibly.

Bridgerton vs the 90’s

Television in our house has recently been overshadowed.

Poor Bridgerton has been temporarily eclipsed by the compelling pull of JFK Jr. and Carolyn’s Love Story. I cannot quite believe we are back in 90’s-style weekly episodes. The patience required! The cliff-hangers! The waiting! But I am completely hooked. I will happily return to the second half of Bridgerton this week. But for now, the 90’s have my heart.

The energy is shifting

There is something in the air at the moment. A sense that the long grey stretch is receding and new plans are gathering momentum.

Spring is not subtle. It does not politely ask permission. It nudges. It brightens. It insists. And this weekend, sitting by the Thames, watching water rush past with urgent purpose, I felt something loosen. We are allowed to enjoy things. We are allowed to sit in the sun even if it is only 14 degrees Celsius and slightly breezy.

We are allowed to plan trips, sow seeds, watch nostalgic documentaries, feed dogs under café tables, and feel quietly hopeful. The river will calm. Paris awaits.

There’s enough trouble in the world. Joy does not need to be grand. Sometimes it is simply sunshine, a lovely walk, and a dog waiting patiently for crumbs.

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There are some places that feel like a small holiday even if you’ve only driven twenty minutes to get there.

Marlow - positioned right at the edge of the Chilterns - is one of those places.

It has that particular kind of English charm that makes you feel slightly more put together simply by walking down the High Street. That’s even if you’ve arrived with windblown hair, sensible boots, and the vague intention of “just having a mooch.”

And honestly, mooching is one of life’s most underrated pleasures.

I went to Marlow this week with no great agenda, other than the hope of shaking off a slightly grey mood and perhaps spotting the first signs that spring is, eventually, going to show up.

It was one of those crisp days where the sun keeps threatening to appear but never quite commits. Still, the town had that gentle bustle that always cheers me. People popping into cafés, dogs being admired, shoppers walking past holding takeaway coffees and looking purposeful.

Marlow does have the reassuring presence of some High Street favourites.

You can always rely on Toast for linen and quiet sophistication. Mint Velvet is there with its touch of weekend glamour. The White Company continues to make you believe that if you just buy the right candle, your whole life might become more serene. And Sosandar sits confidently among them, offering outfits for women who have places to be and would like to look fabulous while getting there.

I popped into Oliver Bonas, which always feels like walking into a very upbeat version of someone else’s life. So many bright spring colours coming in: cheerful greens, punchy pinks, sunshine yellows. Homewares that make you want to redecorate an entire room immediately.

All excellent. But the real joy of Marlow is not the familiar names. It’s the independents.

The smaller shops where someone has chosen every item with care, where the rails feel personal rather than mass-produced, and where you can sense the owner’s eye on every corner.

I wandered into Un Dimanche à Paris, which sounds exactly like what it is: a little slice of French loveliness tucked into Buckinghamshire. Even the name makes you feel as though you should be buying a silk scarf and then going for a café crème somewhere nearby.

There was Scamp and Dude, which always makes me smile. It’s slightly playful, full of personality. The kind of shop that reminds you fashion doesn’t always have to be sensible. Sometimes it can just be fun.

And then I found Sansom. This was my final destination, although I didn’t quite know that when I walked in. It’s one of those boutiques that gets it exactly right: beautiful pieces, yes, but also that rare thing these days - genuinely personalised service.

Not the slightly alarming kind where someone pounces on you before you’ve even taken your coat off, but the gentle, attentive sort where you feel looked after and not hassled. The kind of shop where they know that shopping, for many women, is not just transactional. It’s emotional and it’s all about identity and optimism.

I had a browse, as you do, running my fingers along fabrics and admiring colours that felt like they belonged to a different season than the one we’re still slogging through.

And I tried on a pair of wide-leg jeans. Now, wide-leg jeans are one of those things that can either make you feel effortlessly Parisian, or like you’re playing dress-up in someone else’s wardrobe.

But these were perfect. And, here is the moment I will dine out on for some time, they were a size smaller than I usually buy. Reader, I nearly asked them to frame the label!

It’s amazing what a few weeks of New Year good intentions can do. Or perhaps it was simply the lighting in Sansom, which should frankly be rolled out across the nation as a public service.

Either way, I felt lighter and as though I was going out to have fun.

That little lift of confidence that comes when something fits well and you suddenly remember you are allowed to feel good in your clothes right now, not just two kilos from now, or when life is calmer, or when everything else is sorted.

Along with the jeans, I fell for the most gorgeous cardigan: a short-sleeved mohair knit in the softest periwinkle blue. Not quite winter, not quite summer, but the perfect bridge between seasons.

It’s gentle and cocooning and says, yes, the light is coming back.

By the time I left the boutique, bag in hand, I felt absurdly pleased with myself and had a feeling of being out in the world again.

Next time, I want to explore Marlow’s furniture and interiors shops properly, because there are plenty, and I have a feeling I could lose an entire afternoon (and quite a lot of money) among lamps, chairs, and impossibly tasteful ceramics.

Spring is around the corner. You can sense it in the lighter evenings, in the first brave pops of colour in shop windows, in that subtle shift in the air.

And then, as if the weekend hadn’t already been rather lovely, it ended with both children coming over for a Sunday roast.

There is something deeply comforting about that, isn’t there?

The table full, the chatter, delicious food and the feeling of everyone gathering back together for a few hours.

It struck me that this could become a little monthly tradition: a roast, a catch-up, a reminder that however grown-up they are, they still come home.

And really, when you add it all up, it’s the ordinary weekends that turn out to be the best ones.

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The year has begun not with a roar, but with a polite clearing of the throat.

I rather like it that way.

There is no sense yet of sprinting, of New Year declarations barked into the void, of colour-coded plans pinned to the fridge and ticked off in a military manner. Instead, the days have arrived softly. They knock. They wait. They seem content to be let in slowly, offered a cup of tea, and asked how they’re feeling.

I’m starting this year gently because it feels right.

That doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Quite the opposite. It just means I’m noticing things again: small pockets of happiness that don’t demand productivity or proof. A good walk when my annoyingly locked-up back allows it. A wintery-scented candle lit in the mid-afternoon because why not. A physical book picked up and actually read, rather than hovered over with vague intention.

There’s a particular pleasure in allowing January to be what it is. It’s become a pause, and a slightly woolly interlude between Christmas and the upcoming springtime. I’ve stopped expecting fireworks and instead am enjoying the glow. I keep reading that from mid-February we’ll be in fire horse energy, and I’m most definitely looking forward to wahtever that will mean.

And yet, despite all this gentleness, something else is stirring. A restlessness and a map-unfolding feeling.

I’m finding myself planning travel in my head. Not booking yet, not pinning dates down (too brash, too soon), but imagining. Browsing. Letting my mind wander to places I haven’t yet been, or haven’t been enough. Will it be a city with good light? A village with a bakery that opens early? Places where lunch is taken seriously and time stretches out obligingly.

Travel planning, I’ve realised, is a form of hope. It says: there will be a future version of me, and she will go somewhere interesting.

I don’t yet know where exactly (there are a few contenders jostling for attention) but I do know that France is calling again. Or perhaps it never stopped.

I once had a French teacher who told me, with a smile, that France was “le pays de ton cœur” - the country of my heart. At the time, I was young and dramatic enough to accept this pronouncement without question. And honestly? I still do.

France is stitched into me somewhere deep and irrational. The language, the rhythm of life, the way meals unfold slowly and unapologetically. The sense that pleasure is not something to be earned, but something to be practised.

Whenever life feels slightly off-kilter, I notice that my thoughts drift a long way south. I crave southern French air. French conversation with a Provençal twang. The sound of cicadas.

I don’t need to live there permanently to feel this pull, but I do need to return. To remind myself of who I am when I’m there. Slightly braver. Slightly softer. More myself, perhaps.

And then, just when January might have risked becoming too quiet, too inward-looking, the weekend arrived with friends.

We met at a pub in Surrey, The Skimmington Castle, which sounds like it should be fictional and vaguely medieval, and in fact felt reassuringly solid and convivial. Low ceilings, good beer to keep the men happy, the gentle hum of other people doing exactly the same thing as us. We sat outside, drinking in the views, until the winter cold got to everyone.

(This is more how it looks in the summer!)

From there, the plan was lunch back at our friends’ house. A long lunch pretending it had an end point, but absolutely did not.

What followed was one of those glorious, sprawling afternoons that it was impossible to rush. Multiple courses of delicious food for eight appeared, cooked by talented friends who can deal with the various food allergies and likes and dislikes (they’ve known us all for more than 30 years). Bottles of wine multiplied mysteriously, mostly for the non-drivers, who embraced their responsibilities with enthusiasm. Plates were cleared and replaced. Stories were told, interrupted, and told again better.

At some point around 6pm we all looked slightly stunned, as though we’d been transported elsewhere and only just noticed the time.

These are the days I want more of. There’s no agenda beyond enjoyment. Days where conversation roams all over the place (AI, families, decorating, Trump, Starmer, recipes, music) where nobody checks the clock too often, and laughter is obligatory.

As we said our goodbyes (with the slightly exaggerated affection that follows wine and a long gap between meet-ups), I felt grateful for the friendship and for the fact that even in this slow January, there can be moments of real abundance.

So I’m easing myself into it. Planning travel slowly. Holding France close in my thoughts. Saying yes to long lunches and late afternoons. Paying attention to what makes me feel alive, and warm, and connected.

If this is the tone of the year so far (roll on that fire horse) I’m more than happy to listen.

And for now, at least, I’ll raise a glass to that slowness - but only when I’m not driving.

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Some weeks start with a bang and end with a whimper. Luckily, ours held strong with consistent fun.

It all centered around a trip to Surrey, where Paul and I headed to dinner with close friends. These are friends we made when our children were tiny. We’ve stayed in touch through house moves, travel and work on different continents and gallons of water under the bridge. They are the sort of friends where the invitation comes with no fuss and no expectations other than turning up as you are.

The drive to their house just began the pleasure. We left the motorway and plunged into deepest, darkest lanes, that get narrower as you approach their address.

We were in The Holiday movie location territory (just one valley across).

No internet connection and the hoot of owls greeted us, when we got out of the car at the top of their drive.

Their house was already glowing. Candles lit, music on low, coats swept away with the ease of people who actually want you there. Dinner was ready, the conversation was flowing, and then came the soup.

A beautiful, carefully made soup. Containing chickpeas.

Now, chickpeas and I are not friends. I am allergic to them in a way that is inconvenient rather than dramatic, which somehow makes it worse. No EpiPen heroics, just a firm and boring no, thank you.

I mentioned it apologetically, already mentally preparing myself to insist it was all fine and that I’d happily fill up on salad and bread. Instead, there was a pause of approximately three seconds, followed by:
“Oh! I’d forgotten! No problem at all.”

And then, as if by magic, an entirely different meal appeared, just for me. It was warm and delicious, and I felt very cared for.

Nobody made a fuss. Nobody made me feel awkward. We simply carried on, spoons clinking, laughter rising, and lots of reminiscence. They have two gorgeous dogs, a greyhound and a whippet, who strove to take centre stage, and managed to ensure we stroked them non-stop during the meal.

Later, wrapped up against the cold, we climbed into two cars and set off back down the narrow country lanes towards RHS Wisley and its winter light trail: Wisley Glow.

If you know those Surrey lanes, you’ll know what I mean when I say narrow. Hedge-lined, dark, twisting slightly more than feels strictly necessary, with the occasional moment of mutual politeness when another car appears and both drivers slow to a crawl, silently negotiating who will reverse first.

By the time we arrived, the world felt very far away.

Wisley during this time is something else entirely. The familiar daytime gardens are transformed into a kind of living theatre, where light becomes the main character. Birds sing strongly - sadly, they think it’s daytime! You walk the paths, picking out ghostly white tree trunks, pink leaves and winter shapes you’d normally pass without a second glance.

The trail led us through planted areas where colours glowed against the darkness. There were bright greens, intense reds and cool whites. The glasshouses shone like enormous lanterns, warm and inviting, as though you could step inside and stay there all winter if you wished.

It was extremely busy, but people were happy to stroll through. There was no rushing (except perhaps a cut-throat swarm of people around the obligatory hot chocolate and marshmallow stand). We all had phones occasionally raised to take pictures, but we often forgot about them. The rockery, in particular, felt almost enchanted. It was textured and layered, finishing off with a blue and gold pergola to walk under. I had a real moment of feeling festive (and let me assure you, that moment gets later and later every year!) and just relaxed into the feeling.

Towards the end, we clustered around the large oblong lake. The theme this year was fire, and we were treated to huge gushes of flames by the side of the lake, matching the fountains that danced in time to the music. Lights were used to create magical effects, and we listened to music from How to Train your Dragon.

Then, in what felt like a very British and entirely sensible conclusion, the trail delivered us neatly back to the RHS shop.

Lights blazing. Wallets out. Normal life resumes.

And I’m left feeling like Christmas has started…

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One of my recent favourite traditions is a Sunday trip into London to meet my daughter Alicia at the V&A in South Kensington. The early start, the clear roads, and the strong sense of pleasure of parking for free near the museum. It feels like a little cheat, a wink to the city before it wakes up properly and puts on its Sunday best.

This time, I was finally making it to the Marie Antoinette Style exhibition, a visit originally planned for September but postponed for health reasons. I’d been looking forward to it for months, and as we walked through the familiar grand doors of the museum, I felt a rush of happiness.

As you enter, you are immediately swept into another world. The lighting is low and there is a whole lot of glitter to take in. Rooms are a soft cascade of pastel silks and myriad sequins, creating gilt-edged details everywhere you look. I half expected to smell violet powder and rosewater as I stepped inside. And I wasn’t prepared for all the bling.

The long-dead Queen immediately greets you in the form of her portraits. At the start of her reign, portraits were light, feminine, and rococo in style - Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun’s early portraits are a wonderful example.

But the show is not just about the paintings, it’s a three-dimensional collection of artefacts. Intimate possessions that once belonged to Marie Antoinette herself. If an item had definitely belonged to teh queen, it was marked with her elegant cipher, MA, and we were told how it survived the centuries to find its way here. It was extraordinary – so many little threads taking us back to 18^th century Versailles.

There were two delicate slippers belonging to her (think Cinderella), impossibly tiny, as if made for a doll; fragments of floral silks; and a ledger kept by her dressmaker, with notes in the margins giving dates and scraps of seasonal fabrics. Those scrawled notes felt more personal than any portrait. This was someone who had seen and talked with her in person, who had pinned lace at her neckline and arranged her ribbons.

Diamonds are forever

Then, unexpectedly, diamonds - glittering and complicated. Cases of jewellery worn by English aristocrats to the coronation of Elizabeth II in 1952, containig stones that had once formed part of the diamond necklace at the heart of the scandal that helped to seal Marie Antoinette’s fate. The idea that these same jewels had made their way from revolutionary France to the heartland of France’s arch enemy was very surprising.

The rooms traced her story through style - the pretty, pastel vision she created that became shorthand for the entire Ancien Régime. Everything floral, delicate and hyper-feminine; powdered, perfumed, ruffled, and completely detached from the grim realities of the world outside the gilded gates. And then, suddenly, a jolt. A room containing a white chemise, arms pinned wide, worn by her in prison. It was helplessly displayed next to a surviving fragment of a guillotine, complete with its murderous blade. The contrast was striking: the fine muslin of her shift, fragile and vulnerable, beside the dull, brutal solidity of wood and steel. It felt indecently intimate, as if we were ourselves in the crowd watching the moment her life collapsed from luxury to terror.

The exhibition then shifted tone, dragging us away from the froth and seeding in bleak moments of reality. Four marble busts of Marie Antoinette were arranged in a line, each releasing a different fragrance: one evoking the polished woods and candle wax of Versailles, another the orange blossom and roses of the Petit Trianon, another the earthy greenness of her gardens. The last was shockingly foul - a recreation of the stink of her prison cell. It genuinely made me nauseous. People were wrinkling their noses, some laughing awkwardly, but the point was made: even beauty curdles in the end, and the great can indeed be brought very low.

Is there a parable for today somewhere in there?

Then we were allowed to breathe out, and the mood lifted again. We entered a space filled with film costumes and designer fashion inspired by Marie Antoinette. It was a two-tier joyous, absurd, wonderful confection of tulle and bows. There were Kirsten Dunst’s famous gowns from Sofia Coppola’s 2006 film standing proud in bright pastels. Nearby was a wedding dress by Vivienne Westwood, who’d been inspired by her style. You couldn’t help but smile at the froth, the colour, the sheer silliness of it all.

Rococo temptations

We emerged, blinking, into the dedicated gift shop - a rococo temptation of its own. Rows of pastel boxes, silk scarves evoking Versailles, gloves, socks, notebooks printed with the queen’s monogram. Normally, I’d have been a pushover, but this time I held back. The exhibition had done its work, the sugary charm had been tempered by something darker, more real.

Marie Antoinette wasn’t a good queen. She was out of touch, naive, and more interested in fashion than politics. But she was very human, and her courage at the end, even as her world fell apart, is undeniable.

If you’re in London before March next year, then do go along. Breathe in the perfumes, gaze at the silks, and when you reach the guillotine blade, pause and be glad you can just walk away.

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There’s a shift in the air. Not enough to send you reaching for a jumper just yet, but enough to make you notice the light is altering. It falls more softly now. Its impact is rich and golden. It knows it’s changing gear and preparing for the next stage.

Walking down our lane (slowly, wrist in plaster, dignity intact), I’ve been surprised by how much there is to see. The hazelnuts are fattening on the trees, their bright, papery husks curling back to reveal the tightly packed kernels within. The blackberries are in abundance, sprawling in tangles that seem to have doubled overnight. Their colours range from dusty pink to that deep, inky purple that leaves its mark on your fingertips and your clothes if you’re careless. I’d love to say that these blackberries only live on the lane, but no, the brambles have invaded a corner of our garden, offering sweet, juicy fruit as a reward.

In the branches above the fence, the hawthorn berries are already red, like little rubies strung along the edges of the garden. They overhang from the lane, swaying gently when the breeze picks up, and reminding me daily that summer is coming to an end.

A season of gold

It’s the light, more than anything, that’s noticeable. Golden sunshine pouring over fields where the earth is parched and cracked from weeks of heat. Even the grass in our garden, which sprang back to life after just a week of showers, now crunches underfoot. There’s definitely a beauty to it, though. The lazy, dusty paths and the heat rising up to greet you.

If I were my usual self, I’d be tempted by longer walks, up through the beech woods, across the chalk paths, down to the hidden valleys where the shadows are starting to deepen. But with one arm out of action, those moments will have to wait. Instead, I’ve been focussing on what is right in front of me.

Harvest time

Our local farm shop is already selling the first of the season’s apples - Discovery, with their crisp bite and faint strawberry scent. The tomatoes are sweeter now and the mushrooms are plentiful. There’s something satisfying about thinking of recipes to use all this produce.

The countryside feels full and abundant. Many local farmers got the harvest in before August even began and the large rolls of hay are dotting the landscape, waiting for collection. We’re not quite at the mist stage yet, but the fruitfulness is everywhere you look, and I’ve noticed that the spiders have stepped up their labours. At the moment they are small, industrious and happy to go about their business outside. It won’t be long before we see them scuttling across the dining room. On a quest for who knows what.

Small worlds close to home

The bees are also still hard at work, weaving between the lavender and the last of the cosmos. A small family of robins has been making a daily appearance, chattering in the ivy on the fence, before launching into a slightly chaotic flight towards the fountain, where they are too small to bend in and drink, like the pigeons, but enjoy the splashes as the water trickles down.

The evenings have that late summer richness. I’ve taken to sitting outside with a mug of chamomile tea in the late sun, watching the sky change colour, the birds flying back and forth before they go to roost in the large ash tree above our garden. And the delight of sitting still enough to see the first bats swoop across me.

It feels less busy this year for obvious reasons, as though I was meant to slow down anyway. My injury is forcing me to take the time and not hurry.

I’m always looking ahead, to the next outing, the next season, the next adventure. I’m the worst patient ever, because I don’t like sitting still, recovering slowly, or indeed asking for much help. So, this enforced pause has me looking right in front of me instead and trying to literally take each day at a time, noticing and appreciating things more. I hope as things heal, I can stay focussed on these small things around me and enjoy them to the full.

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Last Sunday, I did something wonderfully indulgent. I drove into London for a mother-daughter get-together with Alicia, who, in her mid-twenties, is carving out her own little empire in the big city, but still makes time for her mum.

Our destination was the Victoria and Albert Museum in Kensington, where we were using my membership card to just walk into the much-talked-about Cartier exhibition.

I confess that I love a bit of sparkle. Give me a chandelier or even a sequin, and I’m lost. So, the promise of an entire series of rooms full of Cartier’s finest was enough to lure me off the sofa and behind the wheel, even on a Sunday.

I found a spot not too far from the museum (that’s why I go on Sundays), and before I’d even walked to the steps, I heard Alicia call from behind me, beaming and holding a mysterious flat parcel, which smelt incredibly delicious.

She handed it to me with justifiable pride. Inside was a still-warm loaf of home-made focaccia, speckled with tomatoes, pumpkin seeds, and walnuts. She’d got up early to bake it. One for her and one for us, “Just because,” she shrugged, as if this were an everyday offering. It’s moments like this that remind me she’s not just my child but also my best friend in disguise.

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The focaccia was carefully laid to rest in the car boot, a treasure to enjoy later, and we joined the Sunday procession up the V&A’s grand stone steps. I always feel excitement when entering through those glass doors. It’s a cabinet of curiosities masquerading as a museum.

The Cartier exhibition takes over a series of dimly lit rooms, each more dazzling than the last. I don’t think either of us spoke for the first five minutes. Our eyes were too busy drinking in the diamonds and rubies, pearls and sapphires that glowed and sparkled in the glass cases.

One room in particular, the Tiara Room, felt like stepping into a fairytale. It was arranged with round viewing cases, each showcasing at least three tiaras. Some were fragile, others literally made from steel. These glittering coronets once perched on the heads of queens and princesses. Some were commissioned by Russian aristocrats before the Revolution, others crowned British debutantes making their entrance into society. Just imagine the stories they could tell!

Cartier, we learned, had been at the centre of it all. A French jeweller with an international spirit. His designers borrowed inspiration from Egypt, China, India, Russia, Japan - each influence was perfectly infused into bracelets, brooches, earrings, and magnificent necklaces fit for a maharajah. I spotted a dazzling choker made over a century ago that had recently circled Rihanna’s neck at a red carpet event.

Alicia and I started playing our favourite game. From each case, we had to pick just one piece to take home - practicality be damned. She gravitated towards the deep, rich colours that suit her so well. I fell in love with an entire case of jewels that belonged to Wallis Simpson, the wife of Edward VIII. A woman who definitely had a penchant for panthers!

Occasionally, we’d pause and lean in to read a label - who commissioned this piece, which Grand Duchess lost it, which Maharaja arrived in London with trunks of gemstones to have them reset by Cartier. It was more than just jewellery, it was a glimpse into how power, fashion, and global influences coincided at a time when royalty had more sway and elegance meant something different to everyone.

We must have spent a good two hours wandering from one glass case to the next, heads bent together, pointing out favourite details and nudging each other with, “That one’s very you…”

By the time we emerged into the shop at the end, we were poised to buy mini tiaras of our own, with the real intention of manufacturing an occasion to wear them, with or without jeans. Sadly, nothing was quite right, but we realised we were both a little giddy from all the opulence.

A visit to the Member’s Dining Room helped stave off this new hunger for emeralds. A quick lunch and a glass of wine later, and we were fortified to visit one of the main galleries to round things off.

If you can, do go to the V&A and treat yourself to a few hours of sparkle and history. And then share the memories like a bite of warm focaccia!

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Thank you for reading The Chilterns Diaries - it’s hugely appreciated! Please do leave a like, a comment or a restack to spread the word, thank you ❤️❤️❤️

PS. I’ll be taking a break for the next couple of weeks and will return with new posts later in July ☀️ ☀️

Last week, I spent a few blissful hours wandering through one of the Chilterns’ hidden gems: Chiltern Sky Flowers. Tucked away among rolling hills and panoramic views, this small but mighty flower farm is the creation of Fiona, an inspiring local grower whose passion for British blooms is utterly contagious. British Flowers Week was in full swing, so it felt like the perfect moment to experience the farm.

Fiona greeted me at the gate with the warmth of an old friend, despite our never having met before. There were idyllic glimpses of the spectacular views beyond her house as we walked through a meadow of daisies to the fenced-off area containing the growing beds. We stood for a moment just taking in the scene: rows upon rows of healthy flowers, some in full bloom and others giving the promise of what is to come. It felt like stepping into a Monet painting, humming with life and colour.

Knowledge and experience

Fiona and her husband, Chris, moved to this spot 30 years ago. They gained three acres of land and a dream of a life closer to nature. In 2018, Fiona turned her lifelong love of flowers, and knowledge of horticulture, into a flourishing business. She supplies fresh, seasonal flowers to individual buyers, businesses, florists, and for weddings and events.

It’s very much a family affair. Chris has played a vital role in shaping the farm, meticulously laying out the beds in neat, generous rows and installing an irrigation system that keeps everything thriving, even during our drier summers.

As we strolled around the beds, Fiona shared how the farm operates: unlike mass producers or year-round suppliers, she doesn’t force her flowers to bloom out of season. Instead, Chiltern Sky Flowers celebrates what grows naturally in late spring and throughout the summer into the autumn. From the first brave blooms in April until the final intensity of October, Fiona’s fields burst with colour and scent - a glorious reminder of nature’s rhythms in a world that can often demand year-round abundance.

This thoughtful, seasonal approach is part of what makes Fiona’s flowers so special. She is a hive of knowledge and energy. Before she became a grower, Fiona was a flower photographer, so her eye for beauty is matched by a deep understanding of each bloom’s lifecycle. She showed me how to tell when a flower has been pollinated. Once it has, it knows its work is done and starts to fade. For the longest vase life, she explained, it’s best to pick blooms before this point, just as they are beginning to open and at their most promising.

Early starts

All this expertise means early starts: Fiona’s days often begin at 5 am, harvesting armfuls of flowers in the cool dawn to ensure they stay fresh for florists and customers. It’s a life of hard graft and early mornings, but she talks about it with such joy that you can’t help but feel uplifted.

Beyond growing and selling, Fiona is keen to pass on her love of flowers to others. She runs floristry workshops on the farm - a chance for people to get their hands dirty, learn to create arrangements, and enjoy the simple pleasure of working with seasonal stems.

Everything here is about celebrating what the farm can naturally provide. Fiona takes part in British Flowers Week each year and is a supporter of Flowers from the Farm, championing the importance of home-grown flowers at a time when so many of our bouquets travel thousands of miles to reach us. She also cares deeply about local food and sustainability - values that infuse every part of Chiltern Sky Flowers.

A postcard from The Chilterns

Before I left, Fiona insisted on sending me home with a generous bucket of freshly cut blooms. I felt like I’d won a prize, as she left stems of cornflower, sweet william, ammi, sweet peas, mint, and many more, to drink deep in a black bucket. Now, back at home, they sit on my kitchen table and fill the house with scent and joy. There’s something truly special about knowing exactly where your flowers have come from.

My morning at Chiltern Sky Flowers was a reminder of the beauty of slowing down and embracing the seasons. In a world of next-day delivery and supermarket bouquets flown halfway around the globe, there’s a change happening in places like Fiona’s farm. It’s about reconnecting with the land, valuing the skill of small growers, and remembering that the best things often come to those who wait – or at least to those willing to rise before dawn to greet the flowers!

If you ever find yourself longing for a dose of nature’s calm and a bucket of blooms that feel like a postcard from the Chilterns, I can’t recommend Chiltern Sky Flowers highly enough. Go for the flowers - stay for the peace, the views, and the inspiring company of a woman who has turned a hillside dream into a living, blooming reality.

Have you visited any local flower farms or grown your own seasonal flowers? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments! ❤️❤️❤️

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I like to think that I’m usually a pretty optimistic kind of person and when it’s sunny in the UK, it brings out all the best feelings in those around you. People smile in the street on Day one, they smile again on Day two and by Day three, the supermarket shelves are completely devoid of beer, burgers and charcoal.

I’m no exception. When it’s warm and sunny, life looks entirely different. You can sit outside in the evening light, chatting with a glass in hand, wearing a summer dress and sandals, not a cardigan in sight. After a few consecutive days of proper warmth, we allow ourselves to believe: summer might actually be here.

So this week, that optimism has bloomed right alongside the garden. There’s something fun about pretending we live somewhere a good few hundred miles further south. The light is different and everything feels more possible.

The garden has responded in kind. I hacked back our earliest-blossoming rose a bit too hard last year, and it has paid me back with a sulking fit. Its buds are only just starting to make an appearance. But its sibling rose bushes are already unfurling. The James Galway and the Port Sunlight are reliably strong performers, and my Gertrude Jekyll is racing along the inside track, the first tentative puffs of scent giving the promise of more to come.

Our irises are almost in full, regal bloom. Those we have in the back garden were planted for us, and I’m still in the process of falling in love with their bright purple paired with a ritzy orange centre. I love all that drama, but it’s giving me too much of the 1970’s, with that clashing colour combination. The Delft blue iris in the front garden looks much prettier.

The peony buds, tight little fists of potential, are swelling daily, with their moment not far off – assuming they avoid being eaten by aphids first.

The air in the evenings is scented with the jasmine I’ve planted in a pot near the garden table, mixing well with the occasional waft of BBQ smoke from the neighbours.

I find myself wandering outside after dinner, hands clasped behind my back, inspecting the borders like the strictest of army generals.

This weekend also involved a bit of a garden pilgrimage: a first trip to Notcutts. Since the sad closure of my usual local centre, I’ve had to cast my net wider. Notcutts is a 30-minute drive away, so I decided to make a morning of it, with a snack en route, a podcast in the car, and a list in my head (that I would of course promptly ignore). There's something so therapeutic about a browse through an outdoor plant area. Just you and the geraniums.

And what a treasure trove it turned out to be. I came away with two glorious lupins, one a deep purpley-blue, the other a creamy white. I can’t wait for them to be fully out. I have strong childhood memories of sniffing the scent of lupins in the garden borders of our house in Suffolk. They have a warm, peppery smell that is like nothing else.

And I couldn’t resist a couple of gorgeous peony plants even though I know I’ll be waiting a year or two for them to perform. That’s the thing about gardening: it teaches you patience, whether you like it or not.

The difference between day and evening for my pot of night-scented phlox

I’m also trying something new to me: night-scented phlox. Not much to look at during the day, as it ungenerously closes up its petals into deep pink clumps, but I’ve been amazed by its powerful perfume in these warm evenings, when it opens out into starry white flowers. A reward for lingering outside as the light fades. It’s the sort of plant I wouldn’t have gone looking for, but was delighted to find. Proof that it’s good to break out of your usual habits every so often.

Notcutts, I discovered while browsing, is still a family-run business, with its headquarters in Suffolk. The name rang a bell, and I suddenly remembered that I was at school with a Caroline Notcutt, whose father ran a chain of garden centres. Surely too much of a coincidence? She was in different year to me, but with only 60 girls per year, my school, with all its drawbacks, meant that you knew people in the years above. A quick bit of Googling later, and there she was – working as vice-chairman of the company. The family has been in horticulture for over a century, which is no mean feat.

While wandering the rows of perennials, I made a new four-legged friend, a cheerful little terrier who trotted up to say hello while his owner was distracted by the delphiniums. We shared a quiet moment of mutual admiration (he liked me scratching his neck and what can I say, I’m here to serve…) and it reminded me to pick up something for Bodi on the way out. Fair’s fair and all that.

Back home, my purchases have been planted, watered, and fussed over. The new lupins are settling in well, the peonies have been given pride of place, and the phlox have been tucked into pots near the French windows, where I’ll catch their scent on my way in and out. I know full well we’ll probably get another rainy spell before long, but for now, I’m indulging in the delicious illusion of a long, hot summer to come.

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Hasn’t the weather this past week been utterly glorious? I’ve lived in England long enough to know that spring can be a flirt - teasing without substance - but the last few days (with the notable exception of this morning) have been the real thing. That soft, pale yellow kind of sunshine, where the light is warm on your skin but the air still holds a da…

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Last autumn I invested in a new white jumper from Jaeger (by way of Marks and Spencer). It is oversized in just the right way. It has a funnel neck and is in the perfect shade of ivory white. The one that goes with almost everything.

My recent experiments with colour blocking clothes – which make life so easy, why did I not do this earlier! – meant I needed a matching pair of trousers. After a hunt, I found them in Zara and I’m very happy with the resulting outfit.

The one small drawback being that I’m increasingly nervous to go out of the house when wearing them.

In the summer months it’s pretty much expected that you’ll have at least one white cotton dress hanging within easy touching distance in the wardrobe. The idea is that it will make you feel effortlessly cool, calm, and collected as you glide through the summer heat - or pretend to.

White in winter is not necessarily the natural choice but I’ve become a complete convert. Apart from the very obvious limitation of needing to stay indoors the entire day, just in case.

Muddy pavements

This is because everywhere you go in January and February in the UK, a thin layer of dirt attaches itself to you within seconds of leaving the house. It’s the same layer of dirt that sprays onto your windscreen when driving. You switch on the wipers, add copious amounts of water to wash the screen, but it’s back again within a few seconds, smeared across the glass. It also appears (in much greater depth) on your wellington boots during the dog walk.

I used to believe I could walk up our village High Street to buy some more teabags and return as pristine as I set out. No longer the case. For at least two months of the year (and much depends on a dry March, otherwise, it’s three) the browny-grey flecks appear without fail.

The long, black puffer coat that I use as my everyday coat has a permanent brown hemline requiring regular wiping. So, imagine my hesitation on a warm February day. Should I not bother with the coat and step outside the house in just my white trousers and white jumper? It simply doesn’t make any sense to take the risk. This is why I think twice about doing it and probably why I sensibly didn’t have winter whites in my wardrobe until recently.

The pleasure of wearing such a gorgeous colour is real. But please heed my tiny voice of doom. The issues are not limited to the great outdoors.

I’m part of a very select book club composed of friends whose daughters went to primary school together. This was a really long time ago now, but we still love meeting up. We catch up on news and we even sometimes discuss books. It’s always a lot of fun.

Elegant outfits

When I hosted the most recent get together, a good friend wore her brand new white jumper. She looked chic as always in black trousers, boots and her elegant, new sweater. Snacks were passed around and glasses were filled. Until the fateful moment when she spilled a small amount of red wine onto the jumper.

We rushed to the kitchen. I became very focussed and went into the zone. I remember saying “I’m not sure I want this responsibility” before bravely wetting a paper towel and using its corner as a tiny vacuum cleaner to sponge the droplets off before they soaked into the woollen weave. It worked, thank goodness. The jumper was saved, and the evening could resume. But it was a salutary lesson.

Two rules of fashion

It helpfully combined two immutable rules of fashion:

Namely, winter white is rarely a successful option, even indoors.

And second, the rule that every woman knows: the first time you wear, or carry, an expensive new item of clothing or a handbag, something will happen to it.

A rip, a spill, a scratch. It’s absolutely guaranteed. You can leave the house in the same outfit a further hundred times and nothing whatsoever will happen to it. But that first time, it’s a sure-fire thing that something will go wrong.

On that note, I need to go and get changed because I’ve just spotted that I dropped a crumb of chocolate on the front of my white jumper and the whole thing will now need to be hand-washed. And will probably never be the same again…

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I think about renewals in two ways.

There is the groan I give every time my website and its domain are due for renewal. It’s a necessary expense. One that I try to remember is coming every year (but fail).

The auto-renew button is switched on, which means that the cost suddenly shows on my online app and I realise that yet again I’ve forgotten to add a note to my calendar that it’s heading my way.

However, this does lead me straight to the second viewpoint. That renewal is a good thing, a signal that progress is being made. The cycle is turning again, but with a new twist. Great opportunities lie ahead.

Unless something gets in their way, flowers will renew themselves every year. They are joy-givers. They enhance life and make us smile. They bring scent and colour to our surroundings, and they ferociously defend their right to exist. It’s never too early to go spring flower hunting in my opinion.

But I’ve always noticed how far behind my garden is here, compared to other regions. We have a cold micro-climate in the Chilterns which means flowers will lag behind their warmer cousins. The advantage is that we carry on enjoying them after they have disappeared elsewhere, but it does mean that those longed-for early signs of spring take their time to emerge.

Hughenden Manor

This week I began the hunt in earnest and was rewarded. On a gorgeously sunny day, we visited Hughenden Manor, a National Trust property once home to British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, a favourite of Queen Victoria.

It was filled with white treasure.

We began with a dog walk in the nearby woodland so that Bodi could let off steam and would be more content back on the lead as we got nearer to the house. This was the theory, but it was soon demolished. She is not a young dog but she put a skip into her stride, literally kicked up her heels and ran amok through the groups of people enjoying the walk through the estate woods.

Cries of surprise, some nervous laughter, and friendly greetings told us where she was, ahead of us on the path. We panted along (more me than Paul, to be fair) and tried and failed to keep pace. When we caught a glimpse, we called her back. This meant she came to a standstill, watching us from the corner of her eye, waiting until we got close, and we were confidently bringing the lead towards her collar, before running off again.

There was never any danger that she would hurt anyone as she is the gentlest of creatures. But her determination was shining through, and she was feeling the coming of spring in the air. Eventually after a deep plunge into the valley and a lung-burning run up the steep hill towards the Manor, we found her wandering in the off-limits area near the Estate office.

Presumably, we now feature on their security CCTV as we capture our pet.

Snowdrop heaven

The lead was clipped back on, discipline firmly re-established and we approached the banks of snowdrops cascading along the back of the Manor gardens.

Frost still clung to the nearby fields in the shade but with this bright sunshine, we could detect actual warmth. It felt amazing after all these months of darkness. When we got closer, it was clear that the white blooms of the snowdrops were clustering in the most unexpected places. In the afternoon sun, they were starting to lift their heads. They were finally trusting enough in the light and the temperature to create crisp white skirts out of their snowy cups. Much like the Victorian crinoline dresses that would have promenaded along these paths in Disraeli’s time. Each bloom was edged with delicate green.

The spread of these snowdrops increases gradually each spring. You can find them hiding shyly behind trees or gathered convivially on a bank. Whether they are massing their forces to cascade down the valley or mount the slope behind them isn’t quite clear. But the overall effect is beautiful.

We took it all in, then walked across the woodland garden and into the walled kitchen garden. Here everything is very managed and tended. There is a winter beauty in the quiet planting beds and the clipped supports, all waiting to burst out with new life.

One side of the kitchen garden borders a house and I’m sure that nesting birds appreciate the boots nailed high onto its wall. The produce cart lies empty at the moment, waiting to be filled with fruit and vegetables from the estate. Hughenden is not one of the flashiest or largest properties run by the National Trust, but it’s definitely worth the trip.

Early daffodils

The final part of our walk ran past hazel trees laden down with yellow catkins and we were given a brief glimpse of some very early daffodils. Hughenden is famous for its springtime daffodils, so we will certainly be back for more.

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Last week I was sent a perfume sample when I ordered a candle. It was not just any sample, but Divine Vanille by Olivier Pescheux. It’s a reasonably powerful scent, so use it with care. It’s sitting on my desk and hasn’t yet graduated upstairs to my collection.

For me the main attraction is that it promises to transport you to Madagascar, where vanilla grows. A brief search tells me that 80% of all vanilla in the world comes from Madagascar. Which in turn is the fourth largest island in the world. Capital, Antananarivo - you’ll thank me one day.

Perhaps it’s my strong desire for some sunshine but I’m happy to imagine flying towards the vanilla plantations of Madagascar, exploring the amazing wildlife, currently endangered by deforestation, and settling on a tropical beach with a good book. It feels like a lovely vision for the dog days of January (which I’m aware aren’t a thing but the name seems apt for the month that never ends).

A different world

What I adore about perfume is that it has the power to lift you into a different world. And my love of fragrance samples has been with me for years. Ever since I took an au pair job with a family in Paris in the summer just before I turned 18.

This family lived in the swanky 16^th Arrondissement. Father was a film producer; mother was in the perfume business, and they had two gorgeous children. I was generously allowed to use a sofa bed in their living room, which meant I could only go to sleep after they finished socialising.

The apartment was very elegant but after the first evening I was not allowed to use the lift that took you to the main entrance. I had to use the servants’ entrance and navigate the terrifying ascenseur at the back of the building, which was essentially a wire cage open to the elements and proved to be an enormous struggle to open and close.

I got completely stuck in it one day and had to call out to the concierge in the courtyard below. She lived up to all the stereotypes of venomous cruelty that you might imagine.

Thanks to that lift, I limited my trips out as much as possible but I was 17 and in Paris on my own. The city was mine and I stayed out all day, walking and becoming familiar with the Metro, until it was time to collect the children from the Garderie (daycare).

Normandy awaits

It’s hard to overstate how unprepared I was for the life I led that summer. The family moved to their second home, a converted mill in Normandy, where they held weekend parties involving minor aristocracy and French film stars.

I didn’t need to do very much except acquire a tan, avoid the attentions of a rather pervy Count, who chased me around the table tennis table in the barn next door, and learn to speak better French.

Before we left Paris for Normandy in a blaze of packing and firm instructions to ensure that the children had the right clothes, I was invited to lunch by Madame, at a brasserie not far from her office. She wanted me to meet her friend, with whom I had a distant connection. So far so good but I recall feeling quite out of my depth during the conversation. They had to switch to English which was all a little humiliating. I know they found it amusing.

After the lunch finished, I was shown Madame’s office and as a gift she kindly gave me a small bag of perfume samples. These were perfumes I had only seen in the pages of glossy magazines: Magie Noire, L’Air du Temps, Boucheron…

These samples were not in the identical test tubes you get now - they were magical miniature versions of the grown-up bottles. I was enchanted and very grateful. It made me aware of a whole new world, which I could take with me in bite size everywhere I went. Those tiny bottles stayed with me for several years and each was finished with regret. The remaining contents had gradually turned brown and I was sensible enough to realise that the fragrance was no longer all that it could be.

I do still have a full-size bottle of Les Jardins de Bagatelle by Guerlain on my dressing table in hommage to that early introduction to the world of scent all those decades ago.

And my French had improved considerably by the end of the summer.

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Back in November, when it was turning colder and Christmas was fast approaching, I invested in a velvetiser from Hotel Chocolat which makes good hot chocolate in matter of seconds.

I think I had visions of us all playing family games, each clutching a mug of frothy hot chocolate, perhaps in matching PJs(?) whilst a Hallmark movie played in the background.

Needless to say, it didn’t pan out quite like that, but as a family we did celebrate the admirable work ethic of the device by asking quite a lot of it over the festive break. And it’s still performing well for us in January. The need to reduce calories has reduced the number of drinks, but we are still enjoying the aroma of hot melted chocolate. I can particularly recommend the white chocolate version, which has just the right amount of delicious vanilla.

Light the candle

To counteract the bleakness of winter, when it feels as though there are precious few icy blue skies days and it’s much more likely to be cold and grey, I wheel out my stock of scented candles to cheer up the house.

Of course, December is a really big moment in the life of a scented candle. It moves centre stage and puffs out gorgeous clouds of orange or cinnamon. But come January, I brutally edit the large collection on the mantelpiece and prefer the scents of fir trees or smoky incense. It’s a cosy accompaniment to the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.

The length of time to leave a candle burning does vary. In my experience there is a tipping point where you really have to blow it out. This is because it’s filled the room just a little too successfully for comfort and you are starting to feel slightly nauseous sitting near it on the sofa. This never prevents me lighting them again though. Over the years, my taste in candles has sadly grown to include ruinously expensive candles like those sold by Cire Trudon. I only ever buy the smallest of candle sizes from them and it’s definitely a treat moment to do that. The 2016 referendum has meant it’s now much harder to get hold of them in the UK. So, my purse and I have found a very small benefit of Brexit!

Thinking of how cosy the right candle can make a room, it’s also the moment for the throw or the sofa blanket. Working at a computer or watching TV involves sitting still for long periods of time, and even with a log fire going strong it can be surprisingly cold. That’s the moment to pull the throw down from the top of the sofa and snuggle into it. Our dog has of course had first dibs and few people have the heart to move her off a blanket she’s already lying on. But we come to a compromise in most cases and we sometimes even share the experience with her. She was such a shy, unconfident dog when we adopted her, that it makes those moments when she cuddles into you all the more special.

The scents of spring

Of course, natural scents are the best to have in the house and once all the decorations are packed away, I often add small bowls of narcissi bulbs and jasmine plants to the downstairs rooms. White and blue bowls or pure white bowls make everything look fresh. The flowers bring a welcome burst of fragrance as you walk around the house and the delicate blossoms pack a surprising punch for something so small. They really lift the spirits as we face the long march to spring.

And finally to top off those winter time comforts, how does a really hot mug of gingerbread tea sound? I’ve talked about my love of Shibui teas in a previous post, so won’t blow their trumpet again. Suffice it to say that it takes a lot to beat real ginger and spices to make you feel healthy and nourished on a cold winter’s day.

I hope you’re finding ways to stay warm this January. Thank you to all my lovely subscribers and please do give a like to this post if you’ve enjoyed it ❤️❤️❤️

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January is such a strange time. We’re cocooned in icy cold and it’s almost impossible to imagine that in a few weeks, new plants will be pushing through the earth with enormous force and the sun will have a modicum of warmth. As humans, we’ve lost touch with most of our animal past (and usually I think that’s a good thing) but I’m convinced that the instinct to hibernate remains strong.

That is the feeling I’ve been fighting this past week. Moving between wanting to rest, like the plants and trees around us, and then feeling invigorated by the new year and the promise of new beginnings. This urge to be dormant has led to more time at home time than normal and I’m looking forward to getting out more in the coming weeks.

A return to hardback books

The last few days have included the luxury of reading an actual, physical book. Which I’m aware may sound strange to anyone who reads paper copies but if you know me well, you’ll know that I moved my reading onto a Kindle app on my phone and iPad several years ago and I love the experience of carrying my library around with me on one device. I still feel it’s the best way to read novels anywhere I am in the world, but I’m no longer as convinced when it comes to reading non-fiction (and I always have several non-fiction books on the go, depending on my mood at the time). It’s good to be able to view illustrations laid out close to the words they depict. And as someone who has worked in publishing all her career, believe me, that takes skill to achieve!

Watching Wolf Hall over Christmas has re-ignited my interest in the Tudor era. I’m now deep into a hardback copy of Tracy Borman’s Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth I. This is a wonderful depiction of their mother-and-daughter relationship. We learn how much Anne Boleyn loved the girl she gave birth to. A girl who by existing, essentially sealed Anne’s fate with her husband - a King only interested in sons. It also describes how Elizabeth managed to tread a fine line to survive. This necessarily involved honouring her father King Henry VIII (who wasted no time in ordering the killing of her mother) as well as keeping her mother’s memory alive, but in secret.

Hardback books have loomed large on my reading list this Christmas. As part of thinking about new destinations to visit, and conscious of how shamefully little I know about much of Asia, I’ve been reading the excellent The Golden Road by William Dalrymple, which talks about the huge influence that ancient India has had on the world, in both an eastern and a western direction. I’ve read several of his books in the past and they bring their subjects to life in a very compelling way. He co-hosts the Empire podcast with Anita Anand, and Paul and I went to hear them both present a very entertaining podcast show at the Barbican last year.

Another current favourite is Medieval Horizons (Ian Mortimer). I read The Time Traveller’s Guide to Medieval England a few years ago and loved it. So much so that I wrote to Dr Mortimer via his agent and we exchanged a few emails. This book isn’t quite as gripping but still worth it.

By the way, if you think I only read worthy historical tomes, you’d be very, very wrong. On my reading list for this month is Pineapple Street (Jenny Jackson) which promises to be a fun read.

Podcast addiction

When there isn’t time to sit and read, it’s great to listen to podcasts. In the last three years or so I’ve become a huge fan of them . They are a fantastic way to stay informed, entertained and to delve deeper into various topics. I listen in the gym or while I’m driving or cooking. I’ve steered clear of politics in my posts but will say that the past few years in the UK have resulted in such dismal politicians on both sides of the debate, that it’s a relief to tune into high-quality discussion.

Top of my personal leaderboard are Political Currency (Ed Balls and George Osborne) and The Rest is Politics and Leading (Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart).

There are so many history podcasts to choose from. You really can’t go wrong with Empire (William Dalrymple and Anita Anand), The Rest is History (Tom Holland and Dominic Sandbrook) and History’s Greatest Cities (Paul Bloomfield).

Visible women

And as a follow-up to one of the most interesting books I’ve ever read (Invisible Women), there’s the podcast Visible Women (Caroline Criado Perez) about the gender data gap. So much of the world we live in has been designed by, and for, men. Caroline and her team cover this topic with data, wit, and humour. It’s completely eye-opening.

Wishing you all happy reading and happy listening.

Please let me have your recommendations for what I should read or listen to next!

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One of my aims for 2025 is to try new things and prioritise a bit of self-care. A lovely promise to myself, but how does it translate into reality?

I got off to a good start this week by using my lunchtimes in new ways that didn’t involve eating lunch at all. The first was a visit to a personal trainer (more of which in later posts) and the second was to try a Japanese Head Spa.

Until a few weeks ago I had never heard of a Japanese Head Spa. My YouTube habit caught up with me over Christmas though, and the algorithm showed me ASMR videos set in Japanese beauty salons. Once you’ve idly watched one, there will be many more to follow. There is something very relaxing about the clink of the pots, the brushing of hair, and the whispering voices (no I don’t speak Japanese, but there’s still time to learn).

Japan in the Chilterns

A trip to Japan is definitely on the bucket list but staying closer to home, could I experience a similar thing right here in the Chilterns? The answer was yes. I booked it up and travelled to High Wycombe one icy cold day this week to try it out.

Kumiko Japanese Head Spa is located in something called the Des Box. This is essentially a lot of black painted boxes, piled three floors high and home to multiple small businesses. You access it via a code on a security gate.

I limped up the stairs (thanks to the personal trainer – but more on that anon) and sat down for a consultation with my head spa practitioner.

She took out a small camera device, parted my hair, and analysed my scalp, whilst showing me the close-up on an iPad. It’s a bit disconcerting at first but then strangely fascinating. Luckily, she said my scalp looked lovely and healthy (phew) and we could go into the room where the treatments are carried out.

Cosy ambience

The little room was cosy and had starlight projected onto the ceiling. Calm Japanese music was playing in the background. I got comfortable on the treatment bed, with my head resting on a platform above the sink. There are various treatment options available, and I had opted for the Sapporo, which included an eye mask and shoulder massage.

I’d been looking forward to the halo water therapy and it did not disappoint. It’s essentially a shower in the shape of an arch that falls above and around your head, wetting your hair completely and moving around the scalp in a very relaxing way. This would have been worth going for on its own. Then came the massage. Who doesn’t enjoy the head massage you get at the hairdresser’s whilst they wash your hair? Well, imagine that level of relaxation times 10. It’s so blissful that only the fact that the music was prone to suddenly stopping and starting again, kept me awake.

Deep relaxation

The practitioner used two different head massage devices to provide gentle and firm pressure. Hot oil and cleansing treatments were combed through and rinsed off at various intervals. There were so many stages I lost count but the ultimate effect was incredibly relaxing.

I’d started the treatment in the full buzz of the busy day. After about 15 minutes I lost track of the fact that I was essentially lying in a converted shipping container and just enjoyed the experience.

There was only one slight flinching moment when she placed the collagen eye masks under my eyes. I’d forgotten they were part of the treatment and for a moment it felt as though she was placing cold jelly on my face.

Towards the end of the treatment, my scalp and hair were steamed in a large hood, placed over my head. I opted for lavender oil to be used as part of this, and the aroma was amazing.

The last stage was the neck and shoulder massage plus a final rinse in some liquid, the scent of which remains on your hair until you wash it off yourself.

An icy return to reality

I floated out of the salon and only coming back to reality when the cold January day hit my wet hair. Kumiko recommend that you leave your hair to air dry to get the full benefits, which makes sense and is the wake up call you need before you drive home. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure I should have been behind the wheel, my reflexes felt quite slow by then.

If you get the chance to give it a try - then go. It’s an experience I plan to repeat.

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