There is a reason the white house endures. Not the White House, but the white American home.

It doesn’t really matter if it is clapboard, colonial, or Greek revival, white has proved itself one of the most enduring exterior colors in America.

In the Colonial era, many early houses were left unpainted, and when color was used it tended to come from natural pigments: ochre, iron oxide reds, earthy greens, and muted topes. Paint was often mixed on site from linseed oil, lead powder, and available pigments.

After independence, exterior colors moved lighter, with white becoming increasingly common. White houses dotting the fielded landscapes became part of the American imagination.

White has an ability to reflect the day. In morning light, it feels cool, almost silvery. By late afternoon, it warms and, at sunset, it becomes briefly golden, as though the entire façade has been ignited by honey. Dark houses bring drama, certainly, but white rides the moods of the sky.

White also allows a home’s architecture to speak. A good white exterior accentuates shadow lines. It makes clapboard texture visible. It sharpens cornices, window casings, muntins, columns, and trim. It gives sunlight somewhere to land and shadow somewhere to perform.

On a well-proportioned house, white can be glorious. Conversely, it exposes poor craftsmanship and careless materials. If the form is beautiful, the result is timeless; if the form is weak, white has nowhere to hide the evidence. This may be why older white homes so often succeed. Historic homes were built with shadow in mind. Deep casings, proper sill profiles, layered trim, and real shutters all give white something to reveal. The best houses get the details right and the color white ensures they shine.

Perhaps this is the real reason the white American house remains so beloved. It is adaptable and belongs equally to town and country, North and South, coast and farm. In that way, it’s a democratic hue and difficult to improve upon.

I may be bias, as the home I grew up in and the home I live in are both white, but from my perspective white homes will never go out of style – you should consider cladding your home in white.

Bradford and Barbara Washburn had one of the most unique marriages of the 20th century. They built a union measured in first ascents, aerial photographs, and deep trust in one another.

Bradford Washburn was born in Cambridge, MA in 1910, and was the son of an Episcopal minister. He first climbed Mount Washington at eleven and, by seventeen, he published his first adventure book. As a young man, he became one of the great Alaskan mountaineers, making first ascents and helping establish the West Buttress route on Denali, which remains the mountain’s most popular path today.

But climbing was only part of the Washburn genius. Bradford was also a pilot, photographer, cartographer, writer, lecturer, and museum builder.

In 1938, he became director of a sleepy Boston institution and, across four decades, transformed it into the Museum of Science. For Washburn, it was the respectable day job that supported an Indiana Jones summer calendar.

His aerial photography bordered on lunacy. To capture Alaska’s wildest mountains, he removed aircraft doors, lashed himself to the fuselage, and leaned into freezing air with a 53-pound large-format camera as the plane shook violently. Washburn, wrapped in makeshift sheepskin and fur, waited for the aircraft’s movement to reach the crest of its “bounce” before making the exposure. The resulting photographs were astonishing: ridgelines, shadows, crevasses, and snowfields rendered with the clarity that made them both art and science.

Barbara entered the story in 1939 by applying, at the suggestion of her mailman, for a secretarial position at the New England Museum of Natural History. Bradford interviewed her, said he would call in two weeks, and then proceeded to call every day. They married in 1940.

Barbara later wondered why she had not asked what kind of life Bradford expected her to lead. “But I didn’t ask, and he didn’t bring up the subject,” she wrote. “He must have already gotten a glimpse of my sense of adventure.”

Their honeymoon was spent making the first ascent of Alaska’s Mount Bertha in the Fairweather Range. Barbara had no serious mountaineering background and found herself the only woman on an eight-person team. She ferried supplies, moved camps, endured a nearly twenty-hour summit day. She discovered only after descending that she was pregnant with their first child.

In 1941, she joined Bradford on the first ascent of Mount Hayes. Then, in 1947, after leaving three small children at home, she climbed Denali, becoming the first woman to stand on the summit of North America.

A few steps below the top, a teammate urged her to take the lead so she would be first onto the summit. “Who cares a rip?” she later recalled saying. “I’m perfectly happy being number two here.” But he insisted, and she took the rope. On the summit, she looked down 20,000 feet and stepped back quickly to regain her balance.

Reporters wanted inspirational quotes from her afterward, hoping for some sort of manifesto. Barbara disappointed them beautifully. She said she had simply wanted to be with her husband.

Barbara did not deny the importance of what she had done. She simply refused to inflate herself to fit the moment. “I had no real feeling about being a pioneering woman on a serious Alaskan expedition,” she wrote. “I only knew that as the only woman, I had to measure up.” Measure up she did.

Bradford and Barbara worked in tandem across a lifetime. His was the more famous name, but their projects were often shared. They took enormous mapping projects, including the Grand Canyon and Everest. Together they represented a form of marriage rarely celebrated now. It was a romance of common purpose and shared hardship. Their love gave them courage to tackle the world together.

The Washburns had a gift for not merely reaching wild places, but also of paying attention once there. They studied the mountains, recorded them, and gave them back to the world with greater clarity.

Bradford once declined an invitation to serve as navigator on Amelia Earhart’s 1937 around-the-world flight because he worried about a dangerous radio gap in the Pacific. The relay system he proposed was not adopted and he backed out. It proved to be a wise decision based on a calculated rigor of thought.

Bradford and Barbara understood that wonder and precision are not enemies. They approached the wild as professionals, prepared and purposeful. They acknowledged that summits matter, but they matter less than the person beside you.

They lived full lives, marked by beauty and love. Bradford died in 2007 at ninety-six. Barbara died in 2014, just shy of one hundred. Between them, they left catalogues of routes, maps, photographs, and books. They gave the world institutions, children, and the enduring image of two figures moving upward together into bright, thin air.

**

Check Out an Incredible Book of Bradford’s Photography HERE.

It’s been said that there has been a “Submariner-ification” of the modern dive watch. This is not entirely a criticism, as the formula works so well.

A strong case, a rotating bezel, and black dial featuring geometric plots of lume. The Rolex Submariner set the standard and casts a long shadow. Most divers adhere to the pattern - including the Black Bay, the Seiko 5, the Oceanking, the Hydroconquest, the Pelagos, and increasingly the Seamaster.

Then there is the Longines Legend Diver.

The Legend Diver is a dive watch, certainly; but it does not wear the usual costume. It lacks the external bezel, marking it as a watch from across the room. Its case is slim and polished without the pretense of being a “tool.”

Instead, the Legend Diver offers two crowns, an internal rotating bezel, and a truly unique dial design. It has the air of an instrument you might discover in the drawer of a well-travelled uncle. It’s charming.

On the wrist, the modern 39mm Legend Diver occupies a pleasing place. At under 13mm thick, with 300 meters of water resistance, it possesses the useful contradiction of looking more refined than its specifications suggest.

It can go into the sea. It can also go to dinner.

While the world has become quite casual – sometimes too casual for me – the Legend Diver doesn’t shy from getting formal. On the beads-of-rice bracelet, it is a proper sports watch, ready for beaches and the rhythms of summer. On leather, it takes on a dressier character, the internal bezel lending depth and intrigue. It is handsome with denim or linen and surprisingly credible with a navy blazer.

In a sea of watches riffing on the same few ideas, the Longines Legend Diver feels blessedly unique. It is not trying to be a Submariner alternative, nor is it offering a consolation prize for someone who could not get something else. It is its own thing entirely and it’s the best at it. This is rare in the world of dive watches, as it is in people.

Whether in black, blue, white, terracotta, or green, the layout remains unmistakable and recognizable from a distance. The vintage numerals, elegant script, and purposeful hand give the face motion. There is a vintage aura, giving you the feeling of the past without asking you to endure the inconveniences of it.

I have come to think of the Legend Diver as one of the great watch designs – on par with the Submariner, Speedmaster, Tank, Panerai, and Calatrava. However, while each of those icons are uniquely purpose-built, the Legend Diver is a chameleon. It is like an adventurer with a pressed shirt in his suitcase. Take a look.

*All Photos by Brent Robillard of https://www.instagram.com/calibre321/ and https://thecalibratedwrist.com/

Among the great inherited pleasures of my life, few have proved more durable than the simple art of “putzing around.”

“Putzing” is the simple art of walking around, looking around.

It is not really exercise, nor is it tourism. It accomplishes no errands. It is the noble discipline of being and expecting little. It is movement without aim and observation without research. Putzing is a long walk with no real objective.

On a lazy Saturday morning, I take my Vespa into downtown Annapolis. The breeze in my face as I cross the Severn River alone improves my day by twenty percent.

I park at St. John’s College and stroll past a sequence of the Maryland State House – where George Washington resigned his military commission, the William Paca Garden – where revolutionary conspirators honed their vision for a new nation, the Naval Academy gate – where midshipmen prepare to serve this great nation, local art galleries – where beauty is presented on canvas, the Annapolis Yacht Club – where sailors aspire for glory, and wander over to Oscar’s Coffee.

This is the joy of putzing around: the world becomes interesting because I have decided to see it thus.

It requires no ticket or itinerary. It simply requires curiosity, patience, and time.

I suspect this habit was passed down to me by a father who understood that looking is a form of affection. We still ride bikes past a local campground simply to “see what the campers are up to.”

To putz is to notice the sort of things that our daily efficiency ignores. It means seeing the crooked fence or the new roof on a house 3 miles from home. It means taking a mental note on the way morning light lands on 300 hundred year old brick.

We spend so much of life trying to achieve some sort of arrival. Putzing around reminds me that arrival is often overrated. The better thing may be to wander through the ordinary world until it becomes quietly marvelous.

I highly recommend it. Take a morning. Get a coffee. Walk around and look around. If you can pass water and boats - all the better. The day may not change; you might.

Wordsworth has long been one of my favorite poets. In his small poem entitled The Virgin he attempts to capture, in fourteen lines, the mystery of Mary.

Written as part of his Ecclesiastical Sonnets, Wordsworth considers the strange union Mary represents. She is somehow mother and maiden, human and holy, earthly and celestial. Mary holds together things we ordinarily imagine as opposites. She is, in Wordsworth’s memorable phrase, “our tainted nature’s solitary boast” and a vision of humanity raised toward Heaven.

The Virgin
By William Wordsworth

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied.
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!

Blue is the greatest of all the colors. This is not simply preference.

The sky is blue. The sea is blue. My wife’s eyes are blue. The entire planet, when seen from a distance, is simply “the blue planet.” One suspects that if the Almighty had preferred orange, He had ample opportunity to make it known more forcefully. It is clear: God’s favorite color is blue.

Everyone looks good in blue and it works in all seasons. A navy-blue linen shirt recalls summer afternoons sailing on the Atlantic and Ralph Lauren always offers some version of a blue sundress. In the cooler months, a Navy cable-knit sweater dials-in almost any outfit and a navy suit is the right choice for the city, flattering every skin tone.

Blue has range. It spans the authority of dark navy, the washed softness of chambray, the rustic romance of faded denim, the polish of French blue, and the collegiate sportiness of Oxford’s blue.

Even Cambridge – whose color is clearly some bastardization of green – wants everyone to call their color “blue.”

My closet is predominately various shades of blue. These pieces just work; they have lasted the tests of time. It’s filled with navy sport coats, blue OCBDs, chambray shirts, and navy caps. Were some future archaeologists to unearth my closet, they might conclude that I was a nearly monochromatic creature oriented toward the sea or sky.

I’m not alone; this must be true of most people. Wander into Ralph Lauren, J.Crew, J.Press, J.McLaughlin, or the pro shop at Maidstone and you will find an overwhelming amount of blue. It’s what sells because it’s what people want – since blue is the best color.

My study, which serves as the Atlantic Saints HQ, is awash in blue. The “Hale Navy” bookshelves are as blue as the old cloth-bound books. It’s a comforting setting to enjoy my coffee each morning and to write for this delightful “publication.”

Similarly my car followed the greatest spec available: blue-over-tan. It is the finest combination on the road. Whether it’s an old E-Type, an MG, an analog Land Rover, or anything else with a long bonnet - if it’s got dark blue bodywork and camel leather interiors, it will turn heads.

Other colors have their place: green has charm, red draws your eye, burgundy has drama, and white has summer.

Blue, however, is the foundational pallette for a good life. It’s the sea, the sky, the suit, the shirt, the book, the beautiful woman’s eyes, and the school colors you hope you inherit (sorry Clemson).

Blue is the hue of things that last and clearly God’s favorite color.

I have always loved coffee table books. At their best, they are thumbed through over coffee or pulled down on a rainy afternoon when the mind wants beauty more than instruction. They are also decoration and portals to other worlds filled with stunning homes, gardens, boats, cars, and places one might wish to tarry among for a while. Since people often ask which books I return to and admire, I offer this list of a few favorites here for posterity.

This Atlantic Saints Reading List contains volumes that have shaped my eye and stirred my imagination.

Enjoy.

American Architecture & Design

New Traditional Architecture - By Ferguson & Shamamian: A large and beautiful book which sets the standard for how an architecture book should be crafted, with lush photography capturing the allure of these of exteriors, interiors, and details—as well as original drawings and plans—the book will appeal to architects, interior designers, and homeowners with an eye for fine design and anyone wishing to be inspired by the poetry of history.

Timeless - By Patrick Ahearn: Sensitively balancing historic preservation with contemporary innovation, Ahearn’s timeless houses feel deeply connected to the stylistic character of their locales, even as their programs and plans celebrate how we live now. I come back to this book regularly for layouts, materials, and decor.

Ralph Lauren: A Way of Living - By Ralph Lauren: The cinematic vision of Ralph Lauren is brought to life with a stunning and intimately written book that spans decades of innovation and influence by the iconic American designer. This comprehensive volume is dedicated to the signature style of Ralph Lauren and his pioneering lifestyle approach to design. It’s just perfectly well done.

A Place to Call Home - By Gil Schafer III: This book pulls the curtain back on Schafer’s distinctive approach, sharing his process and taking readers on a detailed tour of seven beautifully realized houses in a range of styles located around the country—each in a unique place, and each with a character all its own.

Collaborations - By David Masello: A tour of country estates and urban dwellings designed by Ferguson & Shamamian Architects, renowned for their classic style and attention to detail and craftsmanship, and featuring the work of such interior designers as Bunny Williams, Michael S. Smith, and Victoria Hagan.

Tradition Made New - By Timothy S. Adams: The first book by Adams features houses that embody the resonance of tradition, the authenticity of craftsmanship, and the lasting beauty of natural materials. The dynamics of the South ring through his designs. It was recommended by a friend and I’ve loved it.

Visions of Home: Timeless Design, Modern Sensibility - By Andrew Cogar: Through engaging stories that inform, the author shows how to reimagine the traditional home to capture one's unique point of view. This book is an invaluable resource for those who enjoy the warmth and charm of traditional architecture.

Home at Last: Enduring Design for the American House - By Gil Schafer III: The work of one of the world’s leading experts on contemporary traditional architecture is beloved for its elegance, charm, and strong sense of history and place. This book is a distillation of what he has learned and how he translates it to his work on houses that are adaptive to the evolution of life, depending upon a family’s needs.

The Great American House: Tradition for the Way We Live Now - By Gil Schafer III: This classic features the work of Schafer and covers the three essential cornerstones of creating a great traditional house: architecture, landscape, and decoration.

Alfredo Paredes at Home - By Alfredo Paredes: The first book by the interior designer who made his name as chief creative officer for Ralph Lauren—he brought us the legendary Polo Bar and the Madison Avenue flagship store’s immersive windows and retail environments, and now he shows us how to fashion our own homes to reflect his signature coolly casual and comfortable look. Alfredo is a friend of Atlantic Saints and a visionary. You’ll love this book.

Victoria Hagan - Live Now - By Victoria Hagan: This excellent book celebrates the quiet and extraordinary beauty of the everyday. Open windows beckon, through which we glimpse the ocean, its hues echoed in the interior palette. A chair for reading waits on a patio, overlooking an expanse of hills. Fresh corn and strawberries from the farmers’ market tumble over a kitchen table.

Home: The Residential Architecture of D. Stanley Dixon - By D. Stanley Dixon: The debut book from award-winning Southern architect Stan Dixon, one of a highly influential group of Atlanta-based architects and designers who are revolutionizing the design world with their work. Stan is a friend of Atlantic Saints and you’ll love his work!

British Architecture & Design

The British Stable - By Giles Worsley: The book lucidly examines stables from the 12th century through 1914, with special attention to country house stables including those at Chatsworth and Kedleston, examining the architecture of stables, whether owned by noblemen, great brewing companies, or the British army.

The Country House Past, Present, Future - By David Cannadine: With hundreds of photographs, this visually lavish volume draws back the curtain on important historic homes in England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.

India Hicks: A Slice of England - By India Hicks: This book is a personal favorite and an exploration of Hicks’ own British heritage and how she has expressed it in her newly finished English country house in Oxfordshire. Highly recommended.

An English Vision - By Ben Pentreath: This is the first of Pentreath’s books to present his own output in its entirety—from his personal residences in Dorset, London, and Scotland that brought him international fame to many old and new houses that make his practice unique in the world of traditional design.

Sims Hilditch: Beautifully British Interiors - By Emma Sims Hilditch: Spanning the extraordinary breadth of the studio’s most recent work—projects in townhouses, historic country manors, and seaside villas—the interiors in this book reflect the design philosophy of founder and friend of Atlantic Saints, Emma Sims-Hilditch.

Oxford College Gardens - By Tim Richardson: From the bijou corners of Corpus Christi to the wide open lawns of Trinity, Oxford's gardens are full of surprises and hidden corners - not least the fellows' or masters' gardens, which are usually kept resolutely private.

Photography & Art

Pursuit! - By Georgina Preston: This book of hunting photography stands alone. Offering a unique insight into a rural way of life, it is full of atmospheric, evocative imagery, beautifully presented in a striking linen bound, hardback case. Georgina is a friend of Atlantic Saints and you won’t be disappointed by this book with words by Robin Muir, former Picture Editor of Vogue.

Audubon: Birds of America - By John James Audubon: This folio presents all 435 of John James Audubon’s brilliant hand-colored engravings in exquisite reproductions derived from the original plates of the rare Double Elephant Folio. Although many attempts have been made to re-create the splendid illustrations in Audubon’s masterpiece, nothing has ever equaled the level of fidelity achieved in this edition. It is timeless. IYKYK.

Genesis - By Sebastião Salgado: The GENESIS project, along with the Salgados’ Instituto Terra, are dedicated to showing the beauty of our planet, reversing the damage done to it, and preserving it for the future. He once said that, “In GENESIS, my camera allowed nature to speak to me. And it was my privilege to listen.” Truly stunning photography!

Federer - By Roger Federer: From effortless forehands to red-carpet fame—and everything in between—this visual biography on Roger Federer—produced over two years in close collaboration with the tennis legend himself and his wife, Mirka—offers readers a sweeping look into Roger’s private moments, personality, and record-breaking career. It’s big and really really good.

Sargent: The Masterworks - By Stephanie Herdrich: An ideal introduction to JSS’s work, it features 100 of his most beloved paintings. Illustrating all aspects of his diverse oeuvre—portraits, landscapes, mural commissions—in oil and watercolor, this handsome book includes works from both private and public collections. He sets the standard.

New York by New York - By Jay McInerney: For those of us who have come to love New York. It reveals “the city” through the expert eyes and iconic images of leading photographers from Edward Steichen to Peter Lindbergh, together with texts and quotes from top writers including E.B. White , Edith Wharton, Tom Wolfe and Jay Mcinerney. With a slipcase and typography created especially for the occasion, New York by New York provides ration and will be treasured by lovers of this great City for decades to come.

Cars & Boats

LAND: From Workhorse to Cultural Object - By Jason Rubino: This book explores the evolution of how the Land Rover has become a creative platform for builders, designers, collectors, and adventurers alike.

Ferrari - By Pino Allievi: this stylish edition features exclusive content from the Ferrari Archives and private collections around the world. It brings together many unseen photographs, sketches, and original documents, revealing the stories behind Ferrari’s victories, its key protagonists, and its legacy.

Hinckley Yachts - By Nick Voulgaris III: Chronicling the company's early years, which includes boats used for World War II, to its integral role in the fiberglass revolution and the evolution of today's modern yacht, it offers an in-depth look at some of the most legendary and renowned boats in the world.

Sailing America - By Onne van der Wal: This grand-scale book is a voyage across America, capturing the joy, excitement, and serenity of sailing in the waters of every region of the United States--from Puerto Rico to the tip of Alaska.

The Annapolis Book of Seamanship - By John Rousmaniere: The art and technique of sailing, maneuvering, and preserving a ship or a boat in all positions and under all reasonable circumstances.

Driven: The Road to Iconic Design - By Patrick Ahearn: This book reveals how classic automobiles that have impacted Ahearn's life and architecture, each photographed against the backdrop of one of his homes, creating a dialogue between enduring forms of excellence.

A Man & His Car - By Matt Hranek: Filled with stunning photographs of the whole cars and of the exquisite details that make car lovers’ hearts beat just a little faster, as well as more than 80 personal stories, it’s a joy for everyone who knows that a car is rarely just a car.

Style:

Ralph Lauren - By Ralph Lauren: This book shares the vision of Ralph’s brand, aesthetic influence, unique design sensibility - filled with imagery by fashion’s finest photographers, including Bruce Weber, Deborah Turbeville, and Patrick Demarchelier.

Rowing Blazers - By Jack Carlson: This handsome, eye-catching ode to the classic rowing blazer is a personal favorite, and must-have for anyone who has raced the rivers or cheered on their favorite crew.

Huntsman: Redefining Savile Row - By Tom Chamberlin: A history and field guide for anyone who wants to know what to wear for the right occasion. Photography by Simon Upton illustrates the quintessential town, country, and holiday settings in which one might wear Huntsman.

The James Bond Archives - By Paul Duncan: A wealth of rare photography, set designs, storyboards, and production memos which amount to a delightful tribute to the legend of Bond, James Bond.

Watches

Moonwatch: The Ultimate Omega Speedmaster Guide - By Gregoire Rossier: Certainly one of the best books ever written about a single watch model and an indescribable reference work and a true must-have for every Speedmaster collector.

The Watch Book: Rolex - By Gisbert Brunner: It’s just a cool book and the gold standard for enthusiasts of the world’s most renowned watch brand.

A Man & His Watch - By Matt Hranek: One of the best watch books ever, filled with the stories of 76 watches, completed with stunning original photography of every single piece. A reminder that watches becomes talismans of historical moments, pioneering achievements, and lifelong friendships.

Submariner: The Watch that Unlocked the Deep - By Nicholas Foulkes: A wide-ranging account and full history of the Rolex Oyster Perpetual Submariner watch - the greatest dive watch of them all - and a deep dive into the iconic brand.

Longines: Watches that Made History - By Pierre-André Schmitt: This book takes you on a journey through the masterpieces from the Longines brand and the unique stories of those who wear and have worn these exquisite timepieces.

Clubland

The Gentleman’s Clubs of London - By Anthony LeJeune: For those who have never stepped inside clubland's marble halls, there will be many revelations; for clubmen themselves, this is a volume to treasure. You won’t be disappointed.

Yacht Clubs of the World - By Bruno Cianci: A lavish survey of the world’s most prestigious yacht clubs. Yachting is steeped in tradition, and this handsome volume is a gorgeous, refined collection of the world’s top yacht clubs, where sportsmanship is combined with an appreciation for fine living and elegant society.

Legendary Golf Clubhouses - By Richard Diedrich: The golf clubhouse is the private inner sanctum for member camaraderie and refreshment. Focusing on the most celebrated golf clubhouses built from the late-nineteenth century and into the 1930s, this book showcases the golden age of golf clubhouse architecture.

The Explorers Club - By Jeff Wilser: This guided tour of The Explorers Club’s most riveting journeys includes hundreds of photos and fascinating anecdotes about The Club’s distinguished members, including Teddy Roosevelt, Neil Armstrong, and Jane Goodall. As a member, I’m astounded by this little book.

The London Club - By Andrew Jones: From bohemian to bling, shabby to chic, classical and brutal, this is new book is a celebration of variety and beauty, with newly commissioned photographs by Laura Hodgson.

The 19th Hole: Architecture of Golf Clubhouses - By Richard Diedrich: A coffee-table book that shifts focus toward the locker rooms, libraries, grill rooms and parlors of some of the game's most storied American edifices (e.g., Augusta National, Winged Foot, Maidstone, Merion, Shinnecock Hills and Sleepy Hollow).

What should be the goal of our life and work?

This is a fearful question and should be fearfully answered.

Probably it should not be answered for anybody in particular by anybody else in particular.

But the ancient norm or ideal seems to have been a life in which you perceived your calling, faithfully followed it, and did your work with satisfaction; married, made a home, and raised a family; associated generously with neighbors; ate and drank with pleasure the product of your local landscape; grew old seeing yourself replaced by your children or younger neighbors, but continuing in old age to be useful, and finally died a good and holy death surrounded by loved ones.

You aimed to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

These are good goals.

To meet Captain Shannon Carleton, of the Yacht Kelpie, is to encounter a perfect cocktail of passion, vision, and joy.

She speaks of her boat, her crew, and her guests with light in her eyes and a smile on her face. She is living a dream which crystalized nearly ten years ago with a question we have all encountered, but possibly never faced with the same clarity as Carleton.

Working in a restaurant, a dear friend asked Carleton that common question, “If you could do anything, what would you go do?” Without missing a beat, she manifested it, “Imagine I had this classic yacht and did Jackie O–type charters.”

The line sounded fanciful even to her, a hospitality natural who’d spent twelve years running a beloved Hamptons restaurant and a marine-science grad who preferred old boats to new promises. Once said aloud, the idea took root and the charter fantasy quickly hardened into a plan and the plan quickly gathered confederates. She has a way of building fans everywhere she goes.

Seasoned schooner owners mentored her through the practicalities and encouraged a radical first move: fly to Europe to see the only boat that fit the picture—a classic schooner named Kelpie, refit-of-the-year material but heartbreakingly far away. Friends urged her on and Carleton went. The financing was thin, the odds thinner. “I screenshotted my bank account,” she says. “It was every dime I had and everything the back would give me. I would live off chickpeas if I had to.”

The owner accepted, catching some of the joy radiating from Carleton and, agreeing to true gentleman’s terms, offered her a Mediterranean crew for two months so she could learn every inch and quirk of the beautiful schooner.

Getting Kelpie home was rakish in the old sense—more nerve than sense. It needed to be ferried and the heavy-lift ship kept shifting ports. If the upcoming charter season was missed the entire enterprise would be sunk before it set sail. Carleton stalked the ship by AIS, opting for persistence over sleep, and when it finally nosed into La Spezia she spent two hours carving tight, calm circles beside the freighter. “I just kept radioing the loadmaster: for the love of God, please!” They took her aboard.

When the lines were finally cast, the dream behaved like one. Kelpie’s charm sells the first look; her Captain and crew sell the second. Carleton’s brief is Gatsby seen through a working mariner’s eye—white gloves with practical grace. Parasols appear for grandmothers; chilled lavender cloths meet August foreheads; sushi is set on antique crystal sourced from North Fork shops and family cupboards; the first drink arrives as the boarding line is cast off.

“Kelpie is beautiful and magical; she lures people in,” Carleton says. “It’s the crew, however, that keeps them there.” It helps that the crew never thinks of themselves as crew. “It’s not pretend hospitality,” she says. “It’s stewardship. They genuinely care.”

Cody is Exhibit A. He was a barefoot unknown who looked like a cauliflower floret and loitered at the Greenport yard, politely refusing to take no for an answer. During a hair-raising haul-out, he scampered up to the tops and traced the maze of lines correctly by instinct. “If your brain works like that, you’re in,” Carleton told him.

Jodi, a previous shipmate, returned as stewardess; Jack, the second mate, remembers twenty names after a single launch ride; Brooke rounds out a team that will calmly argue the angle of a maki roll until the presentation sings.

This crew pays attention to the smallest details, keeping pours short and consistent so nothing warms, shifting platters out of direct sun without being asked, and recalling that certain families prefer lunch before the first swim. These intangibles set the Kelpie experience apart.

The repeat rate runs north of ninety percent. Royalty book quietly; movie stars arrive without fuss; families treat the schooner as a seasonal ritual. The winter calendar belongs to creative collaborations. Carleton is uniquely gifted at bringing like minded people into her vision. However, Carleton demurs at growth for growth’s sake. “I can’t clone my crew, and that – more than anything – is what makes this so special,” she says.

Passion can be both exhausting and clarifying. Carleton plans her mornings by tide and children, plots routes to keep the engine silent, sets the table herself so the crew arrives to calm, and then disappears from email. She embodies the idea of servant leadership.

Some ventures are businesses; Kelpie is also a community. Names are remembered, anniversaries repeated, children measured by the rungs of the swim ladder. The launch pilots greet regulars like cousins. Crew and guests trade recommendations, then invitations. “Everyone who comes seems to know the program,” Carleton smiles.

It’s continuity—the very thing her friend challenged her to imagine before any of this began. The dream, it turns out, was sound: a classic yacht, run with unpracticed grace, by a captain who went all in and a crew who treat hospitality as a craft. In a place crowded with options, Kelpie has become something rarer: a community under sail.

***

Book Kelpie HERE

The WSJ wrote yesterday about “the rise of the unstoppable American tourist.” Other outlets have noted that Gen Z are spending on experiences and making luxury luggage one of the fastest growing segments.

There are, however, few sights more quietly tragic than a beautiful aluminum case being handed over to an airport baggage handler. We’ve all seen Rimowas being treated like silver piñatas and beautifully patina’d Globe-Trotters being flung into an airplane’s hold with the ceremony of a coal sack. This is why I return again and again to one of the great underappreciated objects in American travel: the U.S. Navy seabag.

The Navy calls it a seabag; everybody else calls it a duffel. Either way, it has been quietly hauling the entire contents of a military life for centuries, and it has barely changed. It is neither luxurious nor clever. It does not glide on Japanese wheels or fiddle about with integrated chargers. It is, simply, a bag.

The seabag is a top-loading tube of near-indestructible olive rip-stop fabric, closed by the elegantly primitive system of grommets and hook. It has backpack straps, a handle, and enough room to swallow required gear that attends any sufficiently interesting journey.

There are no zippers to split, no locks to jam, and no wheels to shear off. The bag weighs almost nothing by itself, which means that the traveler may devote the airline’s precious weight allowance to actual belongings rather than the luggage’s self-esteem. When empty, it folds into a drawer. This alone should qualify it for design immortality.

Its greatest drawback is the fact that whatever you need at any given moment can only be found at the bottom.

It is always at the bottom.

For the past twenty years, whenever my travel has required more than a carry-on, my old Navy seabag has been my go-to kit. It has been chucked into trucks, stored below-deck, stuffed into rental cars, and checked onto flights with none of the anxiety inspired by watching a four-figure suitcase disappear down a conveyor belt.

It is a great irony that luxury often promises freedom while creating worry. The seabag does the opposite. It is cheap enough to trust and sturdy enough to survive. In a moment in which Americans are increasingly obsessed with optimized travel, perhaps the best luggage remains the simplest: a twenty-dollar military duffel.

***

Pull yours out of storage or pick one up HERE

Peter Beard lived as though the world were a scrapbook and he had been given too little time to fill it. He moved between Manhattan nightclubs and the African bush with the same loose-limbed confidence; he was equally at home among models, elephants, artists, crocodiles, aristocrats, and trouble.

Bob Colacello famously described him as “half Byron, half Tarzan.” Beard had the appetite of an explorer and the private turbulence of a man who could never quite find peace.

He was born in New York in 1938 into a world of wealth and a paved road toward respectable usefulness. He attended Yale, studied art, and might easily have become another polished gentleman with an inherited apartment, a tasteful wife, and a tolerable career in advertising. Beard had other ideas.

At seventeen, inspired by Karen Blixen’s Out of Africa, he travelled to Kenya and found himself altered permanently. “It was total authenticity — something totally real,” he later said. The path his father had set out for him made him feel “like a robot.”It was safe and overmanaged. Beard wanted life raw, dangerous, and unedited.

After Yale, he returned to Kenya with a Voigtländer camera (a gift from his grandmother) and began photographing a world that seemed both ancient and already vanishing. Before he was thirty, he bought Hog Ranch, beside Blixen’s property near Nairobi. It became part camp, part salon, part theatre, part sanctuary. His African home was a collection of tented rooms filled with velvet sofas, cameras, women, and stories.

Beard swam in crocodile waters. He survived an elephant attack that shattered his pelvis. He continuously courted peril to prove to himself that life was still real.

In his great work, The End of the Game, published in 1965, Beard photographed the mass death of elephants and other animals amid habitat destruction and mismanaged human encroachment. “The deeper the white man went into Africa,” he wrote, “the faster the life flowed out of it.” It remains one of the most devastating sentences ever written about ecological loss.

Beard loved the natural world. He loved it as one loves something powerful and beyond possession. Paradise, he understood, is not lost all at once. It disappears acre by acre, carcass by carcass, concession by concession, until the wild becomes memory and memory becomes art. And what art it was.

Beard’s photographs were only the beginning of his artistic vision. Around these images he built dense, unruly, unmistakable collages of handwriting, newsprint, dried leaves, feathers, insects, bones, maps, ticket stubs, drawings, photographs of animals and women, and sometimes blood. His own blood. Animal blood. Life literally smeared into the record of life.

He once said, “I don’t mind the word ‘dilettante’; to me, it means someone who does what he loves.” It was a characteristically elegant dodge. Beard was certainly a dilettante in the grand sense: a man of curiosity and refusal. But his work was by-no-means casual. His diaries and collages were obsessive acts of preservation, each page a field report from a life lived at full exposure.

Beards social life became part of his legend. Beard hung out with Warhol, Dalí, Bacon, Picasso, Jackie Onassis, Lee Radziwill, Mick Jagger, Truman Capote, Veruschka, Lauren Hutton, Cheryl Tiegs, and Iman. He photographed the Rolling Stones, shot the cover for Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk, and he moved through the high bohemia of the twentieth century like a handsome match dropped carelessly near petrol. In Warhol’s diaries, Mick Jagger is said to have arrived “so drunk from an afternoon with Beard and Francis Bacon that he fell asleep on [Warhol’s] bed.”

As anyone who has spent time with the glamourous know, glamour is rarely the whole story. Beard could be reckless, difficult, self-mythologizing, and intense. He liked the world better when it could be rearranged into legends of his own making.

Nonetheless, Beard remains impossible to dismiss. Beneath the parties, women, and art-world theatre was a man haunted by destruction. “Those who regret the thoughtless destruction of nature,” he wrote, “may have something real to tell us.” He saw what was disappearing and tried, in his fevered and imperfect way, to make others see it too.

His end was tragically fitting and terribly sad. In 2020, at eighty-two, suffering from dementia, Beard disappeared from his home in Montauk. His body was found weeks later in a nearby state park. The man nicknamed “Walkabout” had wandered beyond reach, perhaps he had been wandering all along.

Peter Beard lived an extraordinary life: beautiful, dangerous, irresponsible, generative, and often broken. He gave himself to art and adventure with rare ferocity. He loved the natural world which possessed something he lacked and longed for: an order beyond fashion, fame, and the myth of self. He spent his life chasing it.

In the early 1902s, the Kent School was founded by Father Frederick Sill. He chose to build the fledgling institution on land by the Housatonic River because he planned for his boys to row, and he served as the first coach. Rowing – and its lessons – would serve as a critical part of his curriculum to form boys into men.

What it is that rowing teaches?

Anyone who has spent time in a shell learns quickly that the elegant photographs lied to them. From shore, rowing looks almost serene: long hulls cutting through silver water, oars feathering in unison, bodies moving with the grace of a metronome. It appears to be a sport of balance, rhythm, and collegiate beauty.

Rowing is both beauty and pain. Rowing involves a level of physical suffering almost no other sport can compare with. Pain is not an interruption to rowing; pain is the medium in which rowing occurs.

Daniel James Brown, author of The Boys in the Boat, wrote the following:

What, then, is the lesson Sill (and all the best rowing coaches) hoped his young boys would learn on the river?

Most people act as the goal in life is to not suffer. We orient our lives to avoid pain. The goal is not pain avoidance. The goal is actually a good life. Even God suffers. It’s not a question of if you will hurt, or how much you will hurt, it’s a question of what you will do during the hurt and if you will let pain do its work in you.

How will suffering shape you? How has it thus far?

Pain can deform as easily as it can form. But endured faithfully, it can carve away vanity, deepen courage, widen compassion, and teach the soul to move in rhythm with the divine.

Father Frederick Sill was right to build his school by the river. Perhaps more schools and more lives would benefit by orienting toward the river’s flow.

Today’s automotive front ends are increasingly bland and confused. The latest designs from BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar cannot figure out what they want to be. The face of Tesla’s cybertruck is a slab of metal with a light in it. The early motor car, by contrast, embraced elegance and theatre.

They began as rolling acts of self-expression – and there are few more charming expressions of British eccentricity than placing a small animal on the hood (or bonnet) of a car. This is the world of Louis Lejeune.

Founded in London in 1910 as A.E. Lejeune, the company began with small bronzes, architectural fittings, and, with the rapid spread of the automobile, motor car mascots. By 1929, Lejeune was described as the world’s largest motor car mascot manufacturer.

Naturally, the Royal Family understood the appeal of the mascot – particularly the late Queen Elizabeth II. Famously at ease behind the wheel and trained as a mechanic in her youth, she was known for driving through private land with a bonnet mascot fixed not at the nose, but rather proudly in the center of the bonnet. The Queen’s choice was a Labrador carrying a pheasant.

The Royal collection has included other mascots too: Britannia on a Rolls-Royce, St George and the dragon on a Bentley State Limousine, and, for King Charles, a polo player. Princess Diana enjoyed a diving frog. That is the great pleasure of the custom bonnet mascot: it tells you something the registration plate cannot.

The Labrador nods to a love of fields, dogs, and wet November mornings. The polo player hints at a sporting calendar structured around weather and social obligation. A hippo recalls mornings among the mists of Leander. Lejeune’s wonderfully improbable “pigasus” whispers that one has decided seriousness is overrated (which may be a beginning of wisdom).

In 1978, the company was bought by the sculptor Sir David Hughes and moved to Wilburton in Cambridgeshire, where the craft continues. Lejeune still carries hundreds of original patterns, available in various finishes and mounting options. Some models have been in production for more than a century. Others are new commissions, trophies, gifts, animals, emblems, and private jokes made permanent in metal.

A custom mascot is a rare thing in modern luxury. It belongs to an older grammar of taste in which objects could be beautifully made, faintly absurd, and entirely sincere. It is there simply to delight oneself (and maybe one’s friends).

Perhaps that is why these mascots still charm. The world has enough blacked-out grilles and carbon fibre. Bring back the bronze dog.

***

Find Louis Lejeune at https://louislejeune.com/ or https://www.instagram.com/louis.lejeune.ltd/

Time was once a public good and a source of civic beauty. It looked down from church steeples, rang from town halls, glowed in railway stations, and stood above schools, courthouses, factories, and village squares. The hour was there, offered freely to anyone with eyes to look up or ears to hear.

The public clock offered both information and a rhythm to one’s day. The clock tower told the butcher when to open, the schoolboy when he was late, the sailor when to mind the tide, and the parishioner when to hurry toward the pew. It coordinated life before the calendar invite and the push notification. It made punctuality possible for people who did not own anything more complicated than boots and a coat…and it did it beautifully.

The tone’s of the bells were carefully chosen and they brought everyone hearing them into the same passing moment. They turn private life outward and make time communal. Whereas my watch tells me the time, the public clock tells us the time.

In London, the morning bells still give the city a kind of ancient pulse. Big Ben, which everyone calls the tower though it is really the bell, is a national metronome. It has marked empire, war, funeral, coronation, lunch, and the persistence of Tuesdays. Millions of people have arranged their lives beneath its sound. Its craft matches its importance.

At Oxford, the dreaming spires give rhythm to the academic life beneath them. Bells ring over the colleges like weather. They summon, bless, and occasionally annoy. They remind the brilliant young that even genius is expected to arrive on time.

On military bases across the world, time has always been sounded as much as displayed. The rituals of reveille in the morning and taps at night give the day moral architecture.

Cities once understood this deeply. They competed in time. They built clock towers as civic declarations. Churches offered clocks in glory to the God who set all time into motion. They placed them high enough to be seen, loud enough to be heard, and handsome enough to suggest that knowing the hour was both useful and a critical part of an ordered civilization.

Every aspect of the design mattered. The face, hands, numerals, and bell were taken seriously because it reflected the town itself and its values. A town that took its clock seriously was saying something about itself, namely that it was ordered and virtuous enough to make even the passing hour handsome.

The story of public time is also the story of modern life becoming coordinated. Railways required standard time. Ports required precise time. Factories required shared time. At Greenwich, the time ball dropping at one o’clock allowed ships on the Thames to set their chronometers before departing into a world where a minute could mean miles. It is hard to imagine a more elegant piece of public horology than a ball descending from a mast so that sailors might know where they were upon the earth.

The great irony is that we now possess more timekeeping devices than any civilization in history and perhaps less sense of time. Time has migrated from tower to pocket to wrist to phone. On our screens, the time lives beneath messages, headlines, photographs, alarms, maps, market updates, group chats, and a dozen little red circles insisting that life is one long emergency.

We have never had easier access to the time, nor a poorer relationship with it.

While it’s true that a public clock interrupts our privatized frenzy. It also asks us to look up. Its brass tones harken that the day is alive, and you are not alone in it. It’s a beautiful camaraderie of time, yet we have mislaid the idea that public life should be beautiful.

We ought to remember the value of public horology and restore within ourselves that older and better civic imagination in which even little things can be dignified. Even a bad day is improved by good design. There is mercy in walking through a difficult hour and finding, above you, something artfully made.

We do not need public clocks because we lack the time. We need them because we lack shared reminders that time is precious and even the worst day can delight in an encounter with beauty and every town deserves at least one clock worth looking up to.

In Part 2 – We will consider the role of the current watch industry in Public Horology.

A good dog, a linen shirt, or a bottle of cold Mexican beer sweating on a picnic table, these are the sort of things that almost universally improve a day. A simple surfboard also belongs among this pantheon, notably for its ability to make even the coolest car even cooler.

An old Land Cruiser is already a handsome thing. It is square, honest, and slightly agricultural. It has the feel of a vehicle that might equally be heading to cross a desert or to the hardware store. But strap a longboard to the roof and suddenly it becomes mythological. It belongs somewhere with salt in the air and a sandy dog in the back.

A Defender (unless it’s in the Hamptons, the Vineyard, or Nantucket) suggests sheep, aristocratic neglect, or a guy named Giles with a shotgun and a complicated family tree. Add a surfboard and the whole thing relaxes, the grouse moor moves to Baja, and the waxed jacket comes off. The driver is still probably impossible to insure, but now he seems like he might also know where to find fish tacos.

Even a Jeep, that cheerful little democratic mule, gains an extra note of charm when a board is sticking out of the tailgate. Jeeps, already informal creatures, look best doorless and with sand in the footwells. Add a surfboard and the Jeep stops merely saying “weekend” and starts saying “call in sick Monday.”

Even a vintage Porsche can benefit. A 911 is cool on its own, of course - too cool, sometimes. It can feel too informed by Instagram or a bit too precise. At worst, one might image the 911 owner saying something like, “my chronograph collection has its own insurance rider.” But put a surfboard on top and the Porsche becomes less hedge fund and more Endless Summer. It is still potentially ridiculous, but now it is ridiculous in a beautiful way.

This is the magic of the surfboard. It lends its romance freely. It suggests some of the best things in life:

• dawn departures

• damp towels

• bare feet

• roadside fruit stands

• wet hair

The simple board nods to the possibility that life is not merely something to optimize. It implies that the owner has surrendered, at least briefly, to forces of nature which operate larger than himself.

Surfing is among the few activities that makes nearly everyone look foolish before it makes anyone look elegant and it places man in (not just among) the elements. The board on the car hints that you are willing to be tossed around by creation in pursuit of joy.

Perhaps this is why the image works so well. The car represents control, capability, and power. The surfboard represents play, buoyancy, and risk. Together they form one of the great visual equations of modern leisure.

Beyond all these ruminations – they just look damn cool. So, if you’re thinking that your car (or even your minivan) might be missing something, do not overthink it. Put a surfboard on top. Whether you can surf is, frankly, beside the point.

***

All Photos by Kristen M. Brown

@sambatothesea

https://thesunsetshop.com/

Race Committee began with a phone call between Paris and New York. Sloane Carlisle Kratzman was living in Paris; her brother, Reid Secondo, was in New York. They had been circling the same idea for years . It was the sort of sibling conversation that keeps returning at odd hours because neither person has quite let it go.

One night, sometime around 10 p.m. in Paris, inspired by a heavy rainstorm requiring storm gear in the city, the name came to her: Race Committee. With the name in place, the rest began to take shape.

Reid and Sloane grew up in the world of competitive sailing and both sailed at Brown. Reid has remained close to one design sailing, team racing, and classic yacht racing, with a nexus in the Newport orbit that regularly brings him racing throughout international time zones. Sloane spends considerable time offshore, including distance racing and deliveries. Their common language is not merely clothes; it is wind, varnish, wet decks, early starts, strange weather, and the fraternity of people who have been changed by them all. Together, they carry a close view of the sport's codes and its peculiar beauty.

The phrase "Race Committee" has the right kind of privacy. A race committee is known to sailors, noticed by sailors, trusted by sailors. It reads the weather and keeps order while everyone else tries to gain an edge. As a name, it says something about Reid and Sloane's instincts. They are not trying to borrow sailing as scenery. "We're coming from inside the sport," Sloane says.

Race Committee is not a fantasy of sailing, as others have done before. It is not the cream-trousered dreamworld of nautical leisure, although it understands the charm of that dream. It is also not pure foul-weather kit, built only for usefulness and then abandoned to the lazarette. The brand lives in the space between the yacht club photograph and the offshore jacket. It asks what sailing clothes might look like if they were allowed to be useful, handsome, historically literate, and wearable away from the dock.

The brand has no interest in flattening sailing into a mood board. If the sailing-curious arrive, they are welcome. If old hands recognize a reference, a burgee, or a joke, so much the better. The door is slightly ajar, but Race Committee is not begging anyone to come in.

The two siblings share an instinct for what Race Committee should be and the disciplines needed to get there from their careers across venture, creative, and consulting disciplines. That the brand is, at present, largely the work of two people is something they mention without apology or elaboration. “Most people are surprised to hear that it’s just the two of us operating behind the scenes,” Reid says.

The surprise is understandable. Race Committee already feels larger than a two-person shop because the world behind it is large. There are archival garments, a bespoke program, and plans for a produced collection.

They have also launched a media arm taking shape around Dispatches - the brand’s recently launched editorial publication, alongside regatta storytelling. Race Committee is not simply covering sailing; it is documenting it. Reid describes the bespoke work as creating “regatta artefacts,” the objects that preserve the stories of boats, crews, clubs, and races in forms that last.

Sloane speaks about the archive with the focus of someone building a record. She mentions Shamrock V and Sir Thomas Lipton as evidence that sailing history is still afloat and still relevant. The brand's production philosophy follows the same instinct. Race Committee is committed to locality, intentionality, and circularity, with a particular interest in American-made garments. That is harder than it sounds. Many domestic mills and factories are gone. The remaining ones require patience and higher costs, but what is produced is timeless. "Clothing is supposed to last," Sloane says.

Reid and Sloane do not want the brand to become a stage for themselves. "We are the stewards of it," Sloane says. Reid agrees. The work should outgrow its founders. That framing, which is more custodial than promotional, may be the clearest signal of what Race Committee actually is: a brand that intends to outlast its founders, built by two people who understood the sport of sailing well enough to know what it was missing.

Learn more about Race Committee here:

https://race-committee.com/

There was a time, not so very long ago, when people thought “college gear” meant plates.

While this likely sounds insane to the modern undergraduate (in their sweatpants and hoodies), in 1927, Josiah Wedgwood & Sons issued its first set of American college plates. It included twelve views of Harvard University rendered in blue, bordered with a fruit and floral pattern taken from old Harvard dining hall china of around 1840. It was sentimental, handsome, and useful - precisely the sort of values universities once understood and embodied.

The following year brought a series for St. Paul’s School, framed with oak leaves, acorns, and squirrels to reflect the school’s rural character. By 1930, the fashion had taken hold.

Colleges across America were commissioning their own sets: twelve views of chapels, libraries, gates, dormitories, quadrangles, seals, and historic scenes. Duke issued a twelve-plate series in 1937. Others ordered matching cups, saucers, bowls, platters, and serving pieces. One could, in theory, take luncheon from Harvard, pudding from Princeton, and rolls from Dartmouth, all while maintaining a perfectly defensible air of civilization.

The plates were usually made in Staffordshire blue, that deep and romantic shade which lends an aspect of antiquity. Some, however, appeared in mulberry, green, or purple. Each school had its own decorative border, and the reverse typically bore an engraved backstamp naming the building or scene, along with the Wedgwood mark. They were souvenirs in the older and better sense.

Their American champion was the Boston firm Jones, McDuffee & Stratton, sole United States agent for Wedgwood pictorial plates. In a 1931 pamphlet, the company described these college plates as “a means of stirring alumni affection, raising funds, and keeping campus scenes before graduates and their friends.” One university hostess claimed the plates had “saved” a difficult dinner party before the soup had even been served. This may be the highest praise of tableware.

The college plate was not mere merchandise. It was alma mater translated into clay. It invited conversation and allowed institutional affection to sit on the table beside silver, candlelight, and roast beef.

Compare this to the modern college hoodie. Don’t get me wrong, the hoodie has its virtues; it is comfortable, forgiving, and excellent for crossing campus in November with one’s hair is in a state of rebellion ... but it almost never elevates anything. It does not ask for good posture. It does not prompt a friend to pause over soup and ask about Harkness Tower. It rarely suggest a belonging or a memory.

One imagines a young man leaving Cambridge or New Haven with a box of plates, carrying away twelve blue-and-white windows into the life he had lived there. It’s a pleasing picture worth reconsidering. Let’s bring these beautiful collections back!

At Goodwood, Badminton, Windsor, or Burghley - amid the tweed, dogs, battered Defenders, and the faintly competitive art of looking as though one has not tried very hard - a new article of clothing has been staging a quiet coup.

It’s the Peshawar Jacket. Standing collar, sleeveless, clean-lined, and just unfamiliar enough to make the typical country uniform look suddenly expected. The old “Chelsea Life Jacket” may not yet be dead, but one suspects it’s looking over its shoulder nervously.

While the weaving of its fabric takes place in Peshawar, its origins lie farther north in Chitral: a city tucked along the Kunar River near the Afghan border and in the shadow of the Hindukush. This is a land of hard winters, hot summers, mountain roads, and old ways of making useful things. It is not a place particularly interested in “seasonal collections.” The items chosen there are chosen for utility and endurance.

While some brands begin with a mood board and a pitch deck, this one started with a man returning from the mountains with something his friends will not stop asking about. Bertie Alexander had spent much of the past five years in Pakistan leading riding and hunting trips. Soon after arriving in Chitral, he found a local tailor and stumbled upon the timeless jackets being made by local artisans. “I had one of these made and all my friends started saying, I want one of those,” Bertie recalls.

Together with Jonty Hall, Bertie founded Peshawar Jackets to bring these handcrafted Nehru-style jackets from Pakistan to the UK and beyond. The name may point to the famous frontier city, but the cut belongs to Chitral. Locals have worn versions of these jackets for generations – primarily because they work. It is warm without being cumbersome, breathable enough for summer, and hardy enough for rough use. The lines are simple, upright, and flattering; the collar gives it elegance without fuss.

The wool comes from the sheep and goats that graze high in the Hindukush. It is dyed with natural ingredients, including walnut husks, then woven into durable cloth before returning to Chitral to be cut and stitched by hand. Each jacket carries the slight individuality of human making: a line, a texture, a shade, a small irregularity that distinguishes it from the flat perfection of machines.

Bertie speaks of seven full-time tailors working in Chitral, producing around one hundred and twenty jackets a week between them. He and Jonty’s endeavor sustains a small, living network of local skill and craftsmanship. Peshawar Jackets supports the local economy, employs local artisans, and has begun sponsoring games in a region where polo is not merely sport but culture. “Polo’s the big game up there,” Bertie says. “Almost like a religion.”

This all works beautifully well because the jackets are just darn handsome. They have the rare advantage of looking equally at home over a shirt in town, under a coat in winter, or beside a truck in a muddy field. They are worn by men and women because they simply possess the triad of shape, usefulness, and character. They are also beautifully affordable at £145, something very important to the founders.

The Peshawar Jacket – with its Chitral cut - feels like something better than most mass-manufactured goods. It’s like a garment with its own passport, memory, and reason for existing. It came from the mountains; it arrived in our towns and, by the look of things, it intends to stay.

I’m rooting for the team at Peshawar Jackets and glad to call them friends.

Check them out at

https://peshawarjackets.com/

@peshawarjackets

Jason Heaton has spent the better part of two decades doing what most guys wish they had been doing. He’s been writing about adventure, travel, gear, watches, and the strange romance of useful objects. His work has appeared in the sort of publications guys read when they are meant to be answering emails: Outside, Gear Patrol, Men’s Journal, Wired, Hodinkee, and others. The New York Times once called him “a test pilot for the world’s most illustrious undersea timepieces,” which is a rather magnificent job description.

This dive watch expert’s story begins not in Geneva, but at a Jared Jewelry store in Minnesota. Heaton had seen Casino Royale, noticed Daniel Craig’s Omega Planet Ocean, and bought one on credit. It was, by his own admission, an act of cinematic contagion. “Once I had the dive watch,” he recalls. “I realized that I should probably learn how to dive.” So he did.

That decision opened the door to a career that made him one of the most distinctive voices in the modern watch world. While others examined bezels beneath loupes, Heaton took the dang thing underwater. He has never been particularly interested in watches as portable declarations of wealth. He was interested in the last vestiges of the mechanical “tool watch” and whether they can survive saltwater, pressure, darkness, and the sort of circumstances for which they were supposedly designed.

“A watch - to me - is a piece of gear,” he says. This view is why Heaton has always seemed just slightly out of place in the watch world, and all the better for it. He does not speak in the hushed tones of the boutique salon. He writes from the boat deck, the trailhead, the mountain hut, the cold edge of a lake. His best stories are rarely really about watches at all. They are adventure essays with a timing device strapped somewhere to the wrist. The watch is the doorway into Heaton’s world.

This sensibility might just be traced back to Minnesota. Heaton speaks of the Upper Midwest with the affectionate defensiveness common to those of us formed by the beauty and sanity of “flyover country.” There is, he suggests, a certain humility baked into the place. Flashiness is not admired and Rolexes are rarely spotted over lunch. People are more likely to discuss dogs, cabins, and whether someone’s snowblower started. It is difficult to overstate how refreshing this is.

In a culture that has managed to make even ruggedness performative, Heaton’s love of nature and suspicion of preening feels almost radical. He is drawn to men and women who do interesting things, not those who simply possess interesting objects. He loves the story of oceanographer Sylvia Earle diving with the gold Rolex Datejust she wears everyday, so absorbed in her mission that she forgets whether the crown is screwed down. That, to Heaton, is the perfect watch story. It’s the wrong tool for the right person, which inadvertently tells you something about both the tool and the person.

This storytelling thread runs through his work, his podcast The Grey NATO, his blog Swimpruf, and his novels Depth Charge and Sweetwater. He is fascinated by motion, competence, and the quiet dignity of getting on with it.

Heaton’s own path has been anything but linear. He studied English literature, worked as a technical writer documenting packaging machinery, passed through translation firms and regulatory affairs, then found himself freelancing for the early men’s lifestyle blogs that would help define a new digital era. Gear Patrol gave him a start. Hodinkee gave him a platform. Revolution helped him make his simple idea real: take a dive watch diving somewhere and write about it.

Following this idea, Heaton swam from Alcatraz, climbed Rainier, tackled military-style endurance challenges, went diving from the Galapagos to the Caribbean, and built a career around the physical act of testing things in the world. But now, he finds himself increasingly interested in a different kind of depth. “The next chapter,” he says, “is more about vulnerability and the inner world than how I interact with the outer world.”

Heaton is not giving up adventure, rather he is rightly expanding the definition. The young man seeks summits, crossings, wrecks, and miles. The older man begins to understand that there are equally treacherous descents within the self. Changing ambitions, releasing reputation, selling off possessions, and hunting for the things that matter – these might be the greatest adventure of them all.

Upon reflection, Jason Heaton – the test pilot of the world’s finest watches – has never really focused on watches, exactly. Nor diving, nor travel, nor gear. His true subject is a life made larger by curiosity and motion. Buy the watch if it makes you happy, then follow Heaton’s lead and go outside.

Follow Jason’s story and stories here:

https://www.instagram.com/jasonheaton/

William Butler Yeats’s poem, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” hints at the stubborn geography of longing. Written amid the noise of London, it imagines a small island in Lough Gill where life might be reduced to its first principles and the slow passage of light. Yet Innisfree is never fully attained; it survives as an inward country, heard “on the pavements grey.”

Most of us have such a place: somewhere half remembered / half invented, where the world seems quieter and the self more whole. Yeats reminds us that peace sometimes begins as an interior summons. It’s like a sound beneath the noise, calling us through the hustle of the day and back to the life we were meant to live.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Yeats’ words transport me - nearly instantly - to the lapping waters of places I love. Lake Michigan in Summer, when the waves are drowned out by the laughter of children. Annapolis, with its sailboats bobbing in the early morning light. A dock in the Abacos hiding conch in the crystal waters below. A secret California surf spot, known only to a few lucky friends. A beach for domingueros. These are places I hear in the heart’s core, reminding me of simple delights of being still and calm and near the water.

I, too, will arise and go now.