My son turned eight years old last week. We swam in the lido, ate pizza, and went to see Paddington the Musical in the West End. I’m so grateful for his little life, but I need to be honest with you.

As another year turns, I am hit with the most immeasurable grief.

Albert is autistic, and he lives in a parallel world to the one I inhabit. His form of playing is acting out scenes from his favourite movie and tv shows. He can’t read or write. Hand him paper and pens, and he will scribble on the page, the way a toddler might.

He has a handful of functional phrases that he uses when he needs or wants something. But when you speak to him, he is completely blank. He spends hours repeating scripts from TV, but he’s never had a conversation with me. He isn’t interested in other children.

I take him to beautiful places with children’s activities and he can’t access them. All he wants to do is jump around and wiggle a length of string.

I love him so much, but I’m scared. And sometimes that fear makes me angry. Sometimes I shout, “Why can’t you do it?! Why can’t you just focus?”

I was out with a group of friends recently, and they were imagining what kind of mothers-in-law they would be. And it stung and scared me because the future

When I was pregnant and afraid, sobbing into my grandmother’s arms, she held me and said, “Aimée, it’s life. It’s life. It’s not death.”

I am holding onto that tiny fleck of wisdom at the moment. That whatever I am facing right now, is still life.

But I am still afraid. The world is beautiful, but I know that it’s also an unfair and unkind place, too.

I’m trying so hard, but I don’t know what to do for my child.

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I recently shared this picture over on my notes and so far it has garnered over 11k likes, 150 comments, and 130 reshares. I pass this beautiful old house covered in yellow rambling roses all the time - it is very much the fabric of my everyday life - but I didn’t quite see its beauty until I shared it with you, dear reader.

You see, the thing is that for the last six months I’ve struggled with what to write. I’ve been absent, floating around the fringes of a life. Yet the weather vane has turned, and the wind is blowing me in a new direction.

This “viral” (for me) post is proof that my life is beautiful, yes, and it is worth sharing on here. If it even makes you pause for a moment to - quite literally - stop and smell the roses. Thank you - truly - for still being here.

As we’ve already crossed the midsummer threshold and are barrelling through July, I wanted to take a moment to catch you up on some beautiful moments from February (when I left off writing) until the present.

February 〜 battening down the hatches

Coffee taken in the kirk-grey churchyard, waiting for the daffodils to appear / gleaming jars of orange marmalade on the village ‘stall on the wall,’ making morning crumpets sweeter / feasts with friends (rose trifle made by my lovely friend Joanna featured heavily / cosied up with the Marmalade the cat / wandering through rain-drench Cornish towns, and wondering what the year has in store / curledm in front of the fire with a pint, singing sea shanties with the band

March 〜 a road diverges in the woods

A first kiss under a lamplight in Oxford at 1am and the unfolding of something new / excellent bookshop finds / signs of spring on the canal and a swelling joy in my heart / a very wet duck-race in the village ford / tea and cake at the farm to celebrate lambing / picning in the long barrow bluebell

April 〜 a bursting back into this brilliant life

Walking from Stroud to the Slad Valley, in search of the spirit of Laurie Lee and a very good pint / Tulips, tulips everywhere / dining alfresco on my friend’s barge / rediscovering my passion for bread & pastries in a converted chapel in Frome / the first hot days spent cooling off by the riverbank / suddenly & unexpectedly, falling in love amongst the honey-hued stone buildings

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May 〜 a quickening, a blooming

A posh exhilaration and thunder of hooves at Badminton Horse Trials / evensong in Oxford 〜 fingertips brushing another’s / a new house with the view (my father’s) / the sea, the sea / wandering through manor houses of my childhood / wistera hysteria

June 〜 lingering in the light

Dressing up as my favourite Royal for a party (Anne Bolyen, of course) / the riot of colour and smattering of joy at the village fete / celebrating love / crushing hard over vintage cars during a deluge of rain / wandering through long grass with M for plates of fried courgette flowers and sardines / the jingle-jangle of Morris dancers outside the window

I am so pleased to have shared my six-monthly catch-up with you. I hope to be back soon with more Cotswoldy loveliness.

With love,

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Venice is a fever dream. A mythical place - somewhere not quite real, but somehow I have been down every path in my imagination. A city - not unlike my own home city of Bath - where the streets are made of water.

And there’s the light - glistening off the lagoon, a sparkle of gold from a sun god. It eeks into my bones on those first freezing days of January.

I’m here alone - clearing my head from the tinsel gaiety hangover of Christmas. Once again, at the threshold of the new year, I find myself out of love (again).

But this time, I am not sad. Relief floods through me, and I run headlong into 2026. No better place than Venice then to cleanse the heart of this half-love. My word for the year is ‘Beauty’, and I have to come to Italy to be flooded by it.

Here are postcards of my beautiful Venetian moments:

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An Italian reading list:

This month, all the books I’ve read have been set in Italy. Something to cheer up January, perhaps.

• The Instrumentalist – Harriet Constable
  A gripping, glittering portrait of one of Venice’s orphan girls raised in a prestigious ospedale under Vivaldi’s watch, driven by fierce determination, artistic ambition, and a refusal to accept the limits placed upon her.
  

• The Bookseller of Venice - Giovanni Montanaro
  Set during the 2019 floods, this modern Venetian story captures a community pulling together in crisis, reminding us that books — like cities — can be damaged and become better for it.
  

• Still Life – Sarah Winman
  An achingly tender, forty-year sweep from the Great War into the 1970s. Set between London & Florence, this book celebrates art and the beauty of the family you choose.
  

• The Marriage Portrait – Maggie O’Farrell
  Utterly unputdownable, a tense and intoxicating Renaissance portrait of power, marriage, and survival. It’s a slow-burning read where you aren’t quite sure whether the narrator is entirely reliable.

Until next time, lovelies xx

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I write this from the kitchen sink table. The fairy lights are gently twinkling on the window panes. The brightly coloured paper chains look festive and gay. I have a glass of mulled wine with a splash of brandy, and I’m listening to some Christmas carols on the radio.

It’s been a minute since last I wrote. I have savouring all the simplicity and joy of the season. This year, I have intentionally kept Christmas very low-key and stress-free. I haven’t overeaten (yet), overbought, or overdone it with festive events. Last year, I felt incredibly burnt out / sad / broke by Boxing Day, so I want this year to be different.

I’m always inspired by Christmases of the past. Little Women style Christmases, where there is a stocking full of oranges and almonds, a huge breakfast spread, one lovely present, and carols around the fire. I’ve tried to recreate that simplicity and contentment here in the Cotswolds.

Here are 10 things that are bringing me joy. I thought I would share with you my 10 simple Cotswold Christmas tidings.

1. Christmas carols around the village tree

Parading through the Abbey gates by lantern light. Huddling around the village Christmas tree to sing ‘Once in Royal David’s city’ from the hymn sheet. The church choir belting out the words. Glasses of steaming mulled wine served in the Great Hall afterwards.

2. Pantomime and backgammon in Devon

A late train to Exeter. Carnage on the railways and we are packed into the carriages like sardines. Once in the safety of our pub room, we eat Christmas sandwiches and bars of Fruit & Nut in bed. We wake to the screech of the fire alarm and we hurry down onto the street in the lashing rain lest we’re burnt to a crisp in our beds. In a minute, it’s all over, and I’m back in the room raiding the minibar for a nightcap.

The next morning, after breakfast, we go to the stationery shop to buy gold stars to stick on my Christmas cards. (I always buy Vanessa Bowman’s cards.) The tiny little Christmas market is in the grounds of the Exeter Cathedral and I buy overpriced mulled wine (laced with brandy ofc) and a wooden backgammon board. I’ve never played backgammon, but I like the idea of it.

A ‘panto weekend trip’ has been our tradition these last three Christmases. This year, it’s Jack and the Beanstalk. I never went to the panto as a child, which is probably why I find it quite unsettling as an adult. Never mind, at least I have a nice box of Malteasers.

3. Mistletoe thieving

Sneaking into the Abbey orchard after dark with my basket and secateurs to cut myself a nice big bough of that beautiful festive parasite with its highly poisonous ice-white berries. I’m worried someone will come and tell me off but there is noone here, except the apple trees and I. (Because no way am I paying the green grocer £5 for a bunch when it grows in abundance here in the orchard.) I tie it with a sparkly gold bow and hang it from the kitchen rafter. Cheers!

4. Sparkle walks

Don’t get me wrong, I love a light trail as much as the next person (this year we did Westonbirt Arboretum lights and it was stupendous) but I think nothing beats the dazzling spectacle the villagers put on on their own doorstep. Just take a look at all this twinkly beauty I spotted on one of my sparkle walks.

5. A deliciously snowy reading list

I’ve been reading a lot of seasonal tales this December. If you love cosy, olde-worlde, seasonal tales, then these titles are for you!

The Twelve Days of Christmas — Susan Stokes-Chapman
A frothy, Regency-flavoured festive romp set “below stairs” that retells the classic song in the most original and surprising way.

Ballet Shoes — Noel Streatfield
A deeply comforting and nostalgic children’s classic about ambition, sisterhood, and finding your place in the world.

Christmas Pudding — Nancy Mitford
Sharp, silly, and deliciously snobbish, it’s Miss Mitford at her very best.

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The Jolly Christmas Postman — Janet & Allan Ahlberg
Pure childhood magic in envelope form.

An English Christmas — John Julius Norwich
An absolute selection box of a literary anthology. A very gentle and cosy wander through centuries of British Christmases.

6. Pudding at the pub

I love the pub, especially at this time of year. I could sit all evening with a nice pint and a deeply comforting bowl of sticky toffee pudding.

7. Winter baking

I usually bake my loved ones little homemade treats and give them as Christmas presents. My kitchen gleams with edible glitter that’s baked into the wood.

I bought Skye McAlpine’s new book, ‘A Christmas Companion’, and went along to hear her talk on all things Christmas/festive food when she came to Bath. It’s my go-to cookbook.

Here’s what I’ve been baking and giving to friends:

• Cocoa & Panettone Truffles from

• Mince Pie Truffles from

• Chocolate & Hazelnut Fudge from

  

8. Watching the ballet and wrapping gifts

Watching Swan Lake on the projector whilst I wrap my son’s Christmas present. Two of his presents are shadow puppets and a life-size cardboard cutout of his hero, Puss in Boots.

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9. A goose for New Year’s Day

I’ve been watching Dickensian on iPlayer and have taken a notion to cook a goose — to Mrs Beeton’s recipe, of course. I am going out to the pub for dinner on Christmas Day, so this fancy fowl will be something to look forward to heralding in the new year.

10. A stately home with decked-out halls

I love a country house, none more so than at Christmas. Here’s a few of my favourite pictures of some I’ve visited:

A very merry Christmas and happy new year to you, darling!

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Reader, I did not mean to stay away so long from my beloved little publication, but life has a way of consuming every part of you. Here I am, standing at the threshold between autumn and winter, but before we tip into the darker half of the year, I want to take a moment to appreciate these soft golden months.

Autumn is one of my favourite seasons here in the Cotswolds. The smell of damp air mingled with wood smoke. Root veg blended down into a broth and served with chunks of crusty bread slathered with salty butter. Slipping into bed that hour earlier with hot chocolate and rum.

This year has been slower, softer. My son started at a new school, and so my life has shifted. He gets picked up in the morning and dropped off in the afternoon- my days no longer punctuated by “the school run.” I miss it immensely; the milling around the school gates, talking to other mamas, running back to the house because I forgot his P.E. kit, an impromptu coffee at the pub when the playground empties.

I admit that I’ve felt rather lonely this autumn. I love the micro rhythm of our daily lives, but when I zoom out, the routine makes me feel like my world is shrinking.

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My son is autistic, and my mind has been full of “what ifs.” What if something happens to me? What if he never learns to read or write? What if he never gets a job or lives a life that is separate from me? What if I never meet someone who will love me?

This has been the landscape of my interior world while the world outside turns shades of russet and gold.

There have been lots of lovely things this autumn. Exploring Snowshill Manor - an eclectic collection of oddities and curiosities brimming in every room.

Sharing a mulled cider with my lovely friend & creative partner Kate Cullen at Daylesford.

Trundling down the canal path by torchlight in the lashing rain. Hunkering down in my friend’s narrowboat with cups of cocoa. Reading poetry to each other by the glow of the fire.

Spending a blustery weekend in North Cornwall. Tucking into pumpkin pie and rewatching Far from the Madding Crowd. Exploring the magical cobbled streets of Clovelly.

Going pumpkin picking and decorating my front door.

I hope now to get fully back in the swing of posting here on Substack! I’ve been reading a lot, so I’m hoping to share with you some cosy November reads.

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Summer is at her end now. And it has been a summer of magic here in the Cotswolds. Here are a few postcards of magical moments that I want to share with you, dear reader.

The theatre by the sea. A warm breeze blowing off the Atlantic. The sound of waves and Sheakepeare. An actor, reciting the Bard’s old lines from inside a teacup. A place of wonder carved into rock and cliff. A place so special it can scarce be real.

The circus rolling on the village green, entirely with a magic of its own. Girls suspended from the ceiling like swans, swathed in yards of silk. Boys with bodies as supple as race horses, contorting into all sorts of shapes. Sticky fingers reaching into the popcorn bag as we sit mesmerised. Driving home slowly in the blue-black summer dark with stars still in our eyes.

Lights strung through the trees in the garden of a Tudor manor. The smell of lavender and that apple-cidery scent of late summer. A travelling troupe with their banjos and lyres. They fly about their wooden stage, showing what a wonderful thing imagination is: a coat hanger that becomes a person, a wooden spoon for a hand. Human creativity is a wonderful thing. We watch the play as we tuck into the goat’s cheese, hazelnut and roasted beetroot tartlet I made. Once the show is over, we stop to admire the hollyhocks in the evening light.

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A Persian feast. A taste from another place, another life: rose and saffron, pomegranate and okra. We gather around the table, filling our plates and celebrating our friend who is half-born from this faraway place. A place she can only hear tales about from her mother because - alas- the world is not quite safe for women like us.

Meandering down the canal on a summer’s day. Sitting abroad, sipping shandies at a gingham cloth-covered table and watching the men and women work the locks. Up, down, down and up again. I am happy to be on this canal boat - a taste of the poetic life I read about in Jo Bell’s memoir Boater. A life on the water, located on a canal pathway that doesn’t exist on regular maps. A life suspended between here and there.

With love,

I hope you are enjoying these last languid days of August. I can feel the light slipping away and there is a distinct crunch of leaf underfoot.

Before August disappears entirely I wanted to share my summery seasonal reading list. I’m down in Cornwall so naturally it’s all seaside themed. ⚓️

Plus, I picked up some other books at The Falmouth Bookseller that I wanted to show you. (It was open until 9pm - that’s a perfect closing time in my books.)

Let me know if you’ve read any of these books and/or your summery, seasonal, seaside reading reccs! Even better if they’re set in Cornwall - it’s my favourite place 💙

Happy reading!

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Persuasion is by far my favourite Jane Austen novel for many reasons, not least because it’s partly set in Lyme Regis. I love the character of Captain Benwick - a reserved bookish sort of man who is recites poetry and is utterly consumed by grief after the death of his fiancée. (Alas, I long for a poetic man who yearns for me!) Here’s a gorgeous little doorway I found in Lyme Regis named after the good honourable captain himself.

When you visit Lyme today, you can see exactly why Austen chose it as her setting. Lyme has still all the charm of a Regency seaside town. With its gloriously romantic windswept cobb, vast stretch of pebble beach, tiny harbour and colourful streets, it’s a little pastel coloured place of dreams. Perfect for a bank holiday bolt hole.

Hot rocks underfoot. The roar of the waves. The golden glow of sunlight on the back of your neck. Iced coffee. Your favourite magazine. I wish all mornings could start like this.

Eating seafood is an imperative when you’re by the coast. And there’s no where better for seafood-lovers than Rockfish. Perched high above the beach with spectacular views, it has a tide-to-table approach with the server scribbling on the menu in front of you what’s been caught fresh that day. I’m also not massively adventrous with fish so having a dictionary like menu in front of me that explains each type and the cooking method is *chef’s kiss*

I went for the grilled sardines, spidercrab croquettes, and a bowl of chips, dunked in the anchovy mayo. (Seriously going to be dreaming about that fishy garlicky sily mayo goodness for years to come.)

They also have an online seafood market that I’m definitely going to try out. I need to incorporate more fish in my diet as it’s not something I cook much at home. One of my favourite ways to eat sardines is roasted in the tin, with olives, chill flakes, mozzrella pearls and chunks of crusty bread. (Recipe from here.)

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They also played the shipping forecast in the loos!

The high-street was bustling with gorgeous little shops, delis and cafes. So joyful!

I picked up a copy of Remarkable Creatures by Tracey Chevalier in the Lyme Regis bookshop. It tells the story of Mary Anning who has a magical gift for finding fossils tucked away in seaside cliffs. Her discoveries rock Victorian beliefs about the origin of life on earth. I didn’t know anything about Mary Anning until I watched this film starring Kate Winslet and Saorise Ronan. It’s definitely a a moody one to hunker down with on a winter’s night with a cup of hot chocolate and the fire burning.

Until next time, may your bank holiday be filled with joy! Here's your gentle reminder to savor fresh seafood, dip your toes in the sea before summer slips away, treat yourself to a new book, and seek all the seasonal magic this moment has to offer.

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Hi dearest,

You might have read the damning post I wrote: I’m Irish, but Ireland has never been home.

There is such a familiar unknowableness about the places that form us that it can be difficult to put that depth into words.

I went back to the North of Ireland/ Northern Ireland for ten days over the summer, and I want to tell you - it was glorious. I loved every minute of it.

So I wanted to use this space to share photos from my trip and a few reasons why I love Ireland

1. The sea, of course

Everywhere you go, the sea is there. It’s not like the sea in Cornwall or Dorset, say. It’s wilder. Rougher.

📍Ballintoy Harbour, situated on the North Coast.

2. All the colours

Although I personally prefer English pubs, Irish pubs are so colourful and iconic. And of course, they’re iconic all over the world. (Here’s a great folk song about Irish pubs.)

📍The Duke of York, Cathedral Quarter, Belfast

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3. By-the-way strawberries

Northern Ireland does not have the vast amount of farm shops that the Cotswolds does. But once in a while, you come past a little gem like this - a vending machine tucked down a quiet country road that offers local seasonal treats. Inside, there were veggies, jars of chutney, sweet treats, and of course, strawberries. 🍓Driving the coastal lanes with the windows down, a punnet of strawberries on your lap and the salt breeze drifting in - sheer perfection.

📍Flavour First, Donaghadee

4. The art

It is a country of murals with over 2,000 murals painted on the side of homes, shops, and buildings. Historically, they were all about territory and identity, and linked to political violence. But now there are lots of really beautiful, artistic, and thought-provoking works of art taking their place, which reflect the progressive cultural hub Northern Ireland now is.

And look here. In a very working-class town full of takeaways, vape shops, hair salons, and fake tan studios, someone has etched a passage from Shakespeare’s The Tempest onto their garden wall. I used to walk past this often when I was a bookish, romantic teenager who felt trapped in her culturally-devoid blue-collar town, and it gave me a spark of hope. Whoever you are who lives here, thank you.

Until next time lovelies, sending you love from Ireland x

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Saturday 19th July

July is a jubilant month. High-summer. The smell of sunlight, warm on your skin. The burst of a nectarine on your lip. The sexual tension of a thunderstorm, waiting to happen. July also happens to be my son and I’s birth month. Mine is the 19^th, his is the 20^th.

This year, I turned 31 – an unremarkable age but I am still so grateful for all this life. On my 30^th birthday, I dressed up in a gold, sparkly dress and gold sparkly shoes. I threw a ‘Golden years gala’ at a big Italian restaurant in Bath and invited all my friends. My ex and I fought over the bill, and my best friend wrote me a 10-minute speech, which was mostly about our shared love of Jane Austen.

But my 31^st is more intimate. I dress up in this fabulous circus tent of a dress from Boden and invite my nearest and dearest village pals to a country inn, three villages over, for supper. We share olives, a carafe of wine, bread for the table. I order steak to celebrate. My friend Hannah has made me a three-tiered birthday day thick with strawberry jam and butter cream. I blow out my candles and feel very loved.

And there were such lovely presents: vintage sharing plates, little silver earrings made by my jeweller friend, a pot of lavender, a whistling kettle, a candle that smells of Cornwall and perfume that reminds me of home, to name but a few.

31 is a quiet age. It’s not as bulshy as 30. I am home and in my pyjamas by 10.30. My mother and watch The Edge of Love. We help ourselves to another slice of cake.

Sunday 20 July

It’s the busiest and most anticipated time in the village calendar - the scarecrow trial. The money raised goes towards the village school. This year’s theme is ‘names of pubs.’ We choose a pub off the list and have to re-create it in scarecrow form: The Red Lion, The George & Dragon, The Royal Oak and so on.

Visitors flock to the village, purchase a trial sheet for a couple of quid and all proceeds go to the school. On the cricket pitch, there is a Pimms tent, old fairground rides and, of course, as much Victoria sponge as one cares to eat.

It’s tremendous fun making a scarecrow and quite challenging to get it to stay upright. My pub is “The Duke”, so I fashion Prince Philip (Duke of Edinburgh) out of hay and dressing up attire. I attach him to a hoe, using baylor twine to keep him vertical and ensure his trousers don’t fall down. It’s such a wonderful weekend and I feel so proud to be part of village life. Nearly 13k is raised as funds for the little school.

Monday 21 July

My friends take me to Iford Manor as a treat. It’s a beautiful garden with an excellent restaurant, straddling the border of Wiltshire and Somerset. It’s famous for its jazz festival and was in the news recently because someone stole the bronze statues from the grounds. It’s such a feminine place with lots of lovely soft planting and hidden nooks. It also feels quite Italian in style - a gorgeous birthday.

In the evening, we go out to a gastro pub and get rip-roaring drunk on little pink glasses of Cosmopolitans.

Wednesday 23 July

School’s out for summer! I throw my son a seventh birthday party, which doubles up as an end-of-term celebration. I rent out the village hall, hire a bouncy castle and order lots of pizzas from Papa John’s. All the children are wildly excited as the holiday stretches out in front of them. In the evening, we go into the fields and blow bubbles, dreaming of the summer still ahead.

Friday 25 July

We gather for our supper club in the garden. I make pistachio pasta and a blood orange, beetroot and feta salad. There is cold chicken with dollops of mayo, roast potatoes with truffle oil.

We sip margaritas by candlelight. We each take turns to weep about something. I cry over my pension (or lack thereof). The joy of turning 31!

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I’m reading a lovely cosy book called The Second Chance Supper Club by Caroline Roberts. If you’re looking for a light tonic of a book that has gorgeous foodie descriptions, this is it!

Saturday 26 July

I feel like I am in Italy. But I’m not - I am just here in Cirencester, the capital of the Cotswolds. It’s 4 pm and even though it’s July, there is definitely a change in the light. It seems lower in the sky somehow, foreshadowing the arrival of autumn. My son and I sit down on a little cobbled side street with tubs of pistachio ice cream and watch the world go by.

We stop in at Octavia’s Bookshop - the most magical children’s book store that feels like stepped into Shop Around the Corner from the You’ve Got Mail film. I purchase a copy of Wives like Us by Plum Sykes. I’ve wanted to read it for ages and it seems like the perfect summery read.

We put on our swimming things and take a dip in Cirencester Lido. I’ve been reading Libby Page’s novel The Lido, and it’s on my July could-do list to go for a swim in one. It’s late in the day now - just an hour before closing time - and there’s barely anyone else here. I love this open-air swimming pool. It dates back to the 1800s, but it’s so clean and modern and offers a spectacular view of Cirencester Castle.

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The day has been awfully hot and clammy and the water is refreshingly cool. I float on my back and look up at the clouds. This summer moment feels a core moment of utter and blissful happiness.

We dry off and head back into town. There is a twilight market on at the Cathedral square, and the streets are alive with music, the smells of food cooking, and chatter. There are all kinds of cuisines to choose from: Middle-Eastern, Jamaican, Italian, as well as gins in all kinds of flavours.

Full-bellied, happy and with a stash of Dubai-chocolate cookies, we head back to the hotel for the evening. We’re staying at The Fleece - a boutique inn in the centre of town. Life is lovely and I’m so sleepy.

Until next time,

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Saturday 28th June

What better way to spend a bakingly hot afternoon in June than in a beautiful garden learning about the miraculous little honeybee? My gorgeous friend Beckie runs a plot-to-plate restaurant in Bath, and they have a beautiful kitchen garden just outside the city. Beckie invited me along to an event they were doing with Rachel de Thample from River Cottage.

Like all good events, it starts with cake. Plates are passed around the garden as we stand amongst fennel and thyme. The honey-soaked, pistachio-studded baklava is the most erotic thing I’ve ever eaten; now I know what people mean when they say food is better than sex.

We stuff fat bunches of chamomile and lavender and bright pink gooseberries into a jar and smother them with honey. Rachel tells us to keep them in the fridge. I seal the lid, bottling up this taste of a summer country garden until the dead-dark of winter.

What amazes me the most is that honey really is a jar of liquid gold - a mere 5g is the lifetime’s work of a dozen bees. It makes me think then of our hustle culture, the more more more approach we’re taught to reach for. Maybe 5g is all we need to be happy.

That night, I make honey and tahini halva - a recipe taken from Rachel’s book. I eat it slowly, thanking the bees for every drop of honey, and thanking God for creating honeybees.

Sunday 29 June

There is nothing more joyous than hearing the church bells ring. They are the soundtrack to my Sunday morning as I potter around the cottage, cup of coffee in hand. Church has always been part of my Sabbath day rhythm. Today, I worship in an ancient little chapel which has existed since the 12th century.

The chapel is set within a beautiful medieval manor house in the midst of the countryside, with one of the most romantic rose gardens I’ve ever seen. I love the scent of roses, and touching their buttery soft petals, it makes me feel that I am the pre-Raphaelite subject of this painting by John William Waterhouse.

Wednesday 2 July

Move over, brat summer. It’s a Nancy Mitford summer here. I lie in one of those big round swings, the evening sun dappled through the trees and begin reading Love in a Cold Climate. I read the first book in the series - The Pursuit of Love some years ago and absolutely loved it. (I equally devoured ’s modern retelling Darling - every bit as charming as the original with thee most darling front cover.)

But beneath that signature Mitford wit, there is a dark side to her stories - child grooming, incest, and prejudice. Nevertheless, it’s laugh-out-loud kind of funny, and no one is quite as eccentric or batty as the English upper classes. I finish in the pub, daydreaming about wearing a smoking jacket, playing the gramophone on the lawn when I’m in a terrible rage and running a secret society from the linen cupboard. Ah, to be a Mitford sister!

Saturday 5 July

We wake early to a slate-grey kind of summer’s day. I jump in the car, blast Johnny Flynn through the speakers and head to Tetbury for a coffee at Chavenage House. I’m a big Poldark, so being at ‘Trenwith’ in person was a dream.

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A flat white + pain aux raisin = Saturday morning perfection.

If you’re curious about what living in a manor house is like in the 21st century, Chavenage’s new owners have a cinematically eye-opening YouTube channel that showcases the highs and lows (ft v. cute dogs).

Driving home from our morning coffee, we happen upon a Strawberry Fayre hidden tucked away on the village green. It’s the most wholesome event ever, with plates of gleaming ruby-red strawberries served with dollops of cream and cups of sweet strawberry tea.

Strawberries are at their most delicious in late June - early July, so it’s nice to dedicate a whole fair to celebrate the queen of berries. Speaking of strawberries, here’s one of my favourite poems. (I read this in an anthology in the school library when I was 18 and I thought it was the sexiest thing ever.)

There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you

let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills

let the storm wash the plates

- Edwin Morgan

Tuesday 8 July

Went to the most gorgeous, understated little Cotswold village today to meet my lovely, very pregnant friend. It’s baking hot, so it’s very quiet and there aren’t many people out of doors. We walk slowly, popping into the tearoom to quench our thirst. The beauty of where I live never ceases to amaze me.

The village has the most darling little country store.

This Wimbledon wreath makes me laugh. So utterly charming.

Thursday 10 July

Reader, I think I have died and gone to heaven. Tonight’s event is a dream of a summer outing. We’ve come to Stourhead Estate to see an outdoor screening of the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. Even though I’ve watched this movie 100 times and know every word, the cinematography still gives me goosebumps.

So many Austenites grew up with the Colin Firth P&P. But Matthew MacFadyen was the first Mr Darcy I ever knew. It’s hard to believe that it was twenty years ago that my mum took me to the late-night showing at our local cinema. It was the first period drama I ever saw, and there began my love affair with Jane Austen. Reader, it was every bit as beautiful as you can imagine, made even better with a cheese and charcuterie board and a bottle of ice-cold rosé.

Until next time, lovelies,

P.S. - If you’re looking for some seasonal inspiration for July, I’ve written this post just for you:

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July is my son and I’s birthday month. Our birthdays are only a day apart. B is turning seven this year. Here’s the cake I made for his first birthday. I put so much lavender in there that my auntie told me it was ‘like eating Sudocrem’, ha!

A could-do list for July

1. Take a dip in a lido.

2. Pack a picnic and watch a cricket match on the village green.

3. Romanticise your life by sprinkling all your meals with edible flowers.

4. Collect seaglass and make a simple pendant.

5. Find a day-long music festival. You don’t have to camp or get wasted to have fun. Sprinkles and sequins encouraged.

   

6. Whip a teaspoon of rose water through double cream. Serve with strawberries.

7. Read one of Jane Austen’s novels. Emma is particularly summery.

8. Organise a back garden ceilidh.

9. Go into your nearest city and pretend you’re somewhere exotic in Europe. Take yourself to museums and wine bars.

10. Fall asleep listening to this (free) adaptation of Wind in the Willows.

    

11. Hire a rowing boat and crack open a bottle of fizz.

12. Make a playlist and go for a long drive in the countryside, windows rolled all the way down.

13. Eat gooseberry fool for pudding.

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14. Go and watch an outdoor theatre production.

15. Spend a morning at a car boot sale hunting for vintage treasures.

    

16. Visit a different city for the day and send a postcard to your best friend

17. Learn three new knots and practice them while sitting by water.

18. Lie in the grass and watch the clouds float past like you did when you were seven. See what shapes you can find.

19. Cool yourself down with watermelon prosecco slushies.

20. Go fruit-picking.

    

21. Spend an afternoon at a country pub with a beer garden, playing cards in the shade.

22. Treat yourself to a new straw hat. The bigger the better.

23. Have a campout. It doesn’t need to be anywhere exotic. Sometimes the campsite down the road (or your back garden) can be adventure enough.

24. Pick an author and read a collection of their work. (I’m having a Nancy Mitford summer.) Preferably read them lying on a blanket under a sun-dappled tree.

25. Dance in a summer rainstorm. It doesn’t rain often in July, but by jolly, it’s magnificent when it does!

More birthday cake spam. I bought two cakes from M&S, added extra cream, and piled them on top of each other before decorating them with edible flowers and berries. A beautiful centrepiece for a summer tea party.

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Monday 23rd June

I sleep fitfully in floaty cotton nightdresses. I keep the window open until I hear my attic mice begin to stir. I close the window, for fear they might get in. I’m woefully afraid of mice but I imagine them up there, decked out in a green overcoat with brass buttons and a pink apron and frilly white mop cap, going about their errands like characters from a Beatrix Potter story. The image makes me less afraid.

I wake just after 5, leave my son sleeping in our bed and slip downstairs. I push my barefeet into my garden clogs and nip outside. There is a little brook at the end of my garden. I pull up my nightie and step down into the water, still cool in the pre-dawn air.

My son and I always go to the bakery on Monday morning to buy a fresh loaf of sourdough, still hot from the oven, before school starts. We take it home, cut huge chunks and slather it with butter and rose petal jam.

Tuesday 24th June

I am deadheading the roses and I peer over the fence to see my neighbour’s magnificent hollyhocks. They must be well over five foot tall. It makes me smile, They make me think of tall buildings and skyscrapers and I feel that pang. I never did the London ‘thing.’

Since adulthood, I’ve always lived in and around Bath. Bath feels like the city-in-the-countryside and that has always been enough. But sometimes I do feel like I missed out on something.

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Maybe we humans always feel like that - that there is something better in that field yonder. Perhaps it’s because I’m turning 31 in a few weeks. I haven’t found that life partner yet, haven’t published that novel. Perhaps it’s because I watched Glastonbury on TV, saw the euphoria of all twenty-something festival goers and it made me feel very boring.

Wednesday 25th June

The door knocks. It’s my friend Rosie come up from Cornwall to surprise me. She’s one of the most contented people I know. One of those people who are good for the soul. We sit out in the garden and eat plates of cold chicken, dolloped with silky mayonnaise and a platter of potatoes with truffle and fennel. We crack open a bottle of orange wine and talk about opening a publishing house. One day. Rosie goes home and I plan a trip to Falmouth.

I sneak into a National Trust property after hours. I sit in the orchard with my final brew of the day - a cup of lavender tea with a spoonful of honey. It’s strange being here when everyone else has gone. Everyone, that is, except my ginger cat Marmalade. I spy him sitting on the wall, his tail slowly flicking, like the pendulum on my new grandmother clock. It is nice, to hear the birds sing.

Thursday 26th June

I stay at my friend Jo’s house. I curl up on her velvet sofa while she sits cross-legged on the floor, making paper laterns for the festival she’s creative director of. We watch Cranford on YouTube and reruns of Come Dine with Me. We pass the evening in companionable silence. I think that maybe it would be nice to live with a friend again when I’m old.

Friday 27th June

I bought a second-hand grandmother clock. I wrote this note about it.

“Objects are meaningless without stories. On Friday, I drove across the Cotswolds to pick up a grandmother clock. The man who owned it had died very suddenly. Inside the clock were original instructions from when he bought it in the 60s with some scribbled notes. The door to the pendulum was blue-tacked shut. All these little reminders that a man once held those very instructions in his hand, unboxed his new clock, lost the key. And now that person is gone but the clock remains and it’s found a new home in my house. People die. Objects that were once treasured are sold for pennies on Facebook marketplace-meaningless. That is, until we share an object’s story, its memory, its history lives on with the person who loves it next.”

Friday 27th June

Tonight is our village book club. We all bring snacks. I split open a bag of posh salted crisp, push olives, cheese and chorizo in and give it a shake. A lazy girl snack. We’ve been reading The Mad Women’s Ball by Victoria Mas. It’s set in a French asylum in the 1800s. It’s still over substance, really. But it does make me long for my university days where I would while away the time reading books and penning essays about them in dusty libraries.

Until next time, lovelies x

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Dearest reader,

It’s been months and months since last I wrote. I’ve stayed away because I suppose I didn’t know really what to do with my Substack. When I first started out writing here, I wanted it to be a place where I could generate work. I dreamt of crafting this impeccably researched piece on the future of stately homes and Country Life would be begging me to write for them. For a while, that was my motivator, but it didn’t bring much joy.

And what seems to resonate mostly with you, dear reader, are my pieces about life in the countryside. So I’m going to lean into that more. I’m deeply inspired by and her chronicles of life in a French chateau. Flourish & Fare will become a piece of a slow life lived here in Cranford (my fictional name for the Cotswold village I live I.) It will include thoughts and recipes, day-to-day activities and country pursuits, reading lists, and seasonal inspiration. I hope you’ll stay. I want to catch you up on what I’ve been doing the last few months, starting with gardens and food.

Blooming marvellous gardens

A romantic sight at Tyntesfield, Somerset.

This year, I finally got round to tackling my wild garden. My grandparents kindly gave me some money to lay a turf lawn. My love affair with hydrangeas continues and I planted these two beauties in huge pots outside my front door.

It’s such a delight to take all our meals out into the garden.

The garden looking magical at night.

The National Garden Scheme is my favourite thing ever to have existed. I love seeing inside people’s gardens and how they work with colour, shape and form.

Just look at these blue Delphinium beauties in Sophie Conran’s garden.

My garden reading list:

Rough Patch -
The Jewel Garden - Monty Don
The Gardeners - Salley Vickers

Food, glorious food!

I’ve got really into cooking fish recently, thanks to whom I had the pleasure of meeting in Bath. We weren’t huge fish eaters in my house when I was growing up, so my experience with fish was limited to tasteless battered cod and anaemic tuna pasta bakes at school. But I’ve been cooking with hake and haddock more this spring. I’m absolutely loving Emily’s Sardine Margheritas, served up with thick slices of sourdough bread.

Name me a more heavenly combo than pan-seared scallops and a glass of quince gin?!

Short but punchy, wild garlic season is heady. I usually make the usual garlic pesto, but was delighted to discover these moreish little wild garlic pasties made by Studio Pastry at Stroud Farmer’s market. Already dreaming of the first goldeny-green bite next year. Absolutely delicious!

Ah, rhubarb. The tart, tangy promise of the summer just ahead. This dessert from Emberwood, Bath was utter heaven. I wish you could taste it, dear reader. It’s poached rhubarb with a white chocolate bomb full of hot, sweet custard. My body is aching at the memory of it.

I pretty much make these Seasalt, Dark Chocolate and Oat cookies every Saturday. I bake half in the oven and enjoy with a pot of coffee. I roll the rest into balls and freeze them. I eat them straight from the freezer during the week. Dare I say that they are even more delicious in their frozen form.

My kitchen reading list:

Home Shores and Sea & Shore – Emily Scott
Around the table – Diana Henry
Piglet - Lottie Hazell

Until next time,

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1. Hang out your linens to dry on the line on the next fine day you get.

2. Put jars of daffodils in every room.

3. Every day is pancake day.

4. Listen to French jazz while you run errands - just to romanticise the mundane.

5. Host a seed-starting party.

6. Plan your spring reading list.

7. Put rhubarb on everything: on porridge, in tarts, in gin.

8. Have a go at making your own butter.

9. Forage for wild garlic and turn it into a pesto, butter, or soup.

10. Revisit a childhood book that feels like spring (The Secret Garden, Anne of Green Gables, Wind in the Willows)

11. Watch Miss Austen.

12. Swap out winter’s deep, smoky candle for something lighter like neroli or green fig.

13. Walk the garden with a notebook, noting what’s emerging and what needs tending.

14. Make a hellebore posy.

15. Watch an adaption of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. "Beware the Ides of March." is a line from Act 1, Scene 2. In the play, a soothsayer warns Julius Caesar to be cautious of March 15th - the day he is ultimately assassinated in 44 BC.

16. Do something bold and rebellious. The Ides of March were once a day for settling debts, so why not close a chapter or break a small rule?

17. Bring out the picnic basket for its first outing, even if only to the garden with a wool blanket.

18. To celebrate St.Patrick’s Day, make a simple Irish soda bread. Serve it with lamb stew and a pint of Guinness.

19. Seek out ghost signs—those old, painted advertisements clinging to brick walls, half-vanished names of long-closed businesses. We have so many of them in Bath, and I’m always discovering new ones.

20. Buy a lovely spring-coloured textile for your home. (I love Susie Watson Designs.)

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January stretched on like a hallway of closed doors, each one leading nowhere I wanted to go. The month felt long and grey, and I moved about in an endless fog. I needed a change of scene, a sharp sea breeze to cut through the heaviness.

Whenever I feel untethered or disgruntled with the world, Cornwall always calls me. I love Cornwall in wintertime, it is quieter, softer. The cobbled streets t, the beaches, and the cliffs exhale after a torrent of summer visitors. The air is salt-tinged and peaty. The ice-cream parlours and paddle board shops are boarded up for the season and everywhere, and there is a gentle lull - like when the tide goes out.

I spent my days there with an old friend—one of those rare people who make the world feel steadier just by existing. We lived together during my third year of university, and I remember how she'd cut out our much-neglected lawn with a pair of kitchen scissors or lock herself away in her room to paint.

She’s Cornish through and through, and now, at thirty, she’s restoring a house in North Cornwall that dates back to the Battle of Waterloo. She’s filled it with treasure:, old ship parts for beams, Cornish slate for alcoves, a herringbone floor she found on Facebook marketplace. and laid herself. Layers upon layers of history peeled back by her wildly capable hands.

Spending time with my friend, I noticed how contented she seemed. She restored her house, walked her dog along the shore, spent slow weekends with books or making cocktails for her parents.

Contentment is a strange thing in today’s world. We’re told to chase more—climb the ladder, get the 100k salary, buy the house, find the great love, have neurotypical children, shape the perfect life. The expectation hums in the background, always.

For someone like me, who leans towards a slower life, balancing ambition and contentment feels like a delicate thing. How do you hold both at once—wanting more while still living in your fullness?

My friend wasn’t caught up in what she didn’t have. Instead, she paid attention to what she did. There was something beautiful in that.

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And that’s when I realised: contentment is catching.

It’s a state of being rather than a finish line. But spend enough time with someone who has it, and you start to absorb it. Although you can catch contentment, it is also something you can cultivate. It’s a quiet choice, made over and over, to notice the good, to settle into the present, to let what you have be enough.

Here are the moments that filled me with that feeling this week:

~ Eating crab linguine in a cosy bistro in Port Isaac.
~ Playing a game of drafts over a cocktail.
~ Riding a bus across Bodmin Moor in the lashing rain while reading Daphne du Maurier.
~ Eating heart-shaped waffles with pistachio spread and watching Clarkson’s Farm.
~ Stomping across February fields and ending up by the fire in a pub.
~ Washing my hands in the sea.
~ Eating prunes in earl grey syrup.
~ Finding the perfect pink hat in Boscastle.
~ Driving through Cornwall with Fisherman’s Friends playing on the radio.
~ Falling asleep to church bells ringing every quarter hour.
~ Buying a perfectly formed oyster knife.
~ Eating Rick Stein fish and chips on a little silver tray.
~ Walking around the harbour by night in the glow of the street lamps.
~ Pulling on my wellies and letting the wind tangle my hair.
~ Tucking into crab and saffron sandwiches on the train ride home.

Maybe contentment is about finding pockets of stillness and joy and staying close to people who feel like sunshine.

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Dearest reader,

I’ve been struggling with my singledom this month. I broke up with someone (I thought I was going to marry) a few months ago, and although my heart is fine, it is a little bruised.

All the Valentine’s marketing is getting to me. So, I thought I would turn my monthly ‘could-do’ list into a form of self-love.

1. Buy rhubarb, not roses. The leaves and stalks look beautiful in jars.

2. Visit a specialist bakery for pastries. (I love Landrace in Bath).

3. Re-watch the 1995 adaption of Pride & Prejudice.

4. Write your future lover a letter.

5. Buy a magnificent silver tray from a charity shop and have a scrumptious breakfast in bed. I’m thinking lemon curd yoghurt, golden croissants stuffed with goat’s cheese, blueberries and a drizzle of honey. (Served warm, of course).
   

   

6. Put on a long coat and go stomping across a heath.

7. Read ‘Fair Rosaline’ - a Romeo & Juliet retelling.

8. Bake these simple Persian love biscuits.

9. Buy yourself Cornish daffodils.

10. Ask your friends round for a girl’s night.
    

    

11. Paint something. (I’ve just redone my living room in this glorious colour from Edward Bulmer).

12. Go and watch a matinee at the theatre.

13. Have a dance party in your kitchen. (This song is currently my favourite to dance to. )

14. Buy a tiny box of champagne truffles and devour them as you do the crossword.

15. Remember that real love is out there. You haven’t missed it. It’s coming.

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At the beginning of January, I escaped to Aix-en-Provence for a long weekend. I stayed with a writer friend in her beautiful apartment, tucked away in this French-honey-stone city of fountains and cobbled streets.

It was a slow, thoughtful few days that gave me space to reflect on 2024, soak in the rhythms of Provençal life, and decide how I want this year to look.

Here are three things that struck me while I was there—lessons in living that I hope to embody in 2025.

#1. Food shopping is a way to connect

France has a marketplace mentality. Locals head out with wicker baskets in hand to gather their essentials: bread from the boulangerie, vegetables from the market grocer’s stall, cheese with stories spun by its maker. It's a slow, purposeful rhythm that feels like a gentle rebellion.

The French don’t just buy food, they connect with it in a way that we Brits don’t. French housewives squeeze tomatoes, eyeing them up with serious precision as they select the perfect red jewel for the day’s lunch.

Meanwhile, back in the UK, we pile into supermarkets under the hum of fluorescent lights, pushing trolleys full of shrink-wrapped convenience. The dehydrated goat’s cheese looks a million miles away from the creamy wheels on offer in the French market.

Maybe we need to weave a little more market-day magic into our daily lives:

• Make a ritual out of small errands. Instead of doing a big weekly shop, try visiting a local butcher, greengrocer, or bakery. Let these visits become part of your routine—a time to slow down, connect, and savour the experience.

• Bring the market to you. Create your own ‘market day’ by buying directly from local producers where possible. Seek out farm shops, markets, or florists in your area.

#2. Simplicity (and French cheese) is best

In England, a cheese board is a fancy affair. It’s carefully arranged with meats, olives, and artisanal crackers. In France, cheese isn’t an ‘occasion’. It’s an everyday pleasure served without pretension.

While I was in Aix, my friend’s French boyfriend arrived with a raclette machine in tow. We sat around the table, ladling gooey cheese onto mashed potatoes, adding slivers of meat and spoonfuls of chutney, tearing apart warm baguettes and dunking it into the delicious, cheesy goodness.

French cuisine is hailed as the best in the world, and it’s easy to see why (I ate the best burger of my life in Marseille). But what struck me most was its simplicity. Most restaurants offer just a few classic dishes. English food often takes the adventurous route, mixing flavours boldly and presenting menus bursting with creativity.

But there’s something undeniably special about the quiet confidence of French cooking: humble ingredients, beautifully prepared, served without fuss.

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Sharing cheese and wine with friends, tearing bread, clinking glasses—proof that the simplest things bring the most joy food:

• Host your own raclette night or share a simple cheese board with friends—skip the frills and focus on flavour.

• Pick one excellent ingredient and let it shine.
  

#3. Slow down and savour life

In Aix-en-Provence, takeaway coffee was almost non-existent. Cafés weren’t places to rush through but spaces to sit - with friends or alone. The cafés were brimming with life, with people sitting at little round tables, sipping espressos, eating pastries, and flicking through Le Monde as if time had stopped for them.

In Britain, busyness is a badge of honour. We rush around with our takeaways, sprinting from one thing to the next. Feeling stressed and overwhelmed is somewhat sought after because - *reality check* - we think it makes us important.

But what about if the important thing was going slow, savouring life, taking time over your coffee?

The slower pace of life in Aix felt like a gentle reminder: life isn’t a race. There is much beauty to be found in stopping to smell the roses:

• Create a ritual of slowness. Whether it’s enjoying breakfast without distractions or stepping outside with a book, build small moments of stillness into your day.

• Resist the glorification of busyness. Not everything needs to happen at full speed. Take a page from Provence and let some things take their time.

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January is often a month of grey skies, chilly mornings, tangled fairy lights, and a pervading sense of gloom.

But it also offers something quietly beautiful: a pause, an invitation to lean into the stillness of winter and get lost in the pages of a good book. I love reading books that reflect and illuminate the season I’m in.

Here’s my winter “could-read” list, carefully curated just for you. Here, you’ll find stories that capture the magic of rural life, tales of resilience and hope, and novels full of eccentric characters. Perfect for the long, dark evenings of January. Here are my picks for the season—books to uplift, inspire, and keep the candle burning and the darkness at bay for a little while longer.

The Whalebone Theatre - Joanna Quinn | Set against the rugged beauty of the Dorset coast, this is a richly atmospheric tale of family, imagination, and adventure. When a whale washes ashore near her crumbling manor home, Cristabel Seagrave transforms its skeleton into a theatre, sparking a life shaped by creativity and quiet defiance. With its bohemian charm and eccentric cast of characters, this novel is perfect for those who love windswept seaside settings, old houses, and the enduring magic of childhood dreams amidst the perils of WWII.

A life in Nature: Or how to Catch a Mole - Marc Hamer | A tender and meditative reflection on a life shaped by nature. Drawing on his early years spent walking and sleeping under hedgerows, brings a quiet reverence to his work as a gardener and molecatcher in the Welsh countryside. This beautifully written book offers a gentle perspective on the misunderstood mole, exploring its curious ways and the myths surrounding it. More than just a celebration of this “little gentleman in velvet,” it’s a gentle reminder of the contentment to be found in living simple, seasonal living. My dad chose this book for me, so that it made it an extra special read.

The Lamplighters - Emma Stonex | Suspenseful and hauntingly beautiful, The Lamplighters is a mystery wrapped in an ode to the quiet, unspoken lives of lighthouse keepers and their families. It tells the story of three men who vanish from a remote lighthouse off the Cornish Coast, leaving their loved ones to piece together the truth. With striking prose, Emma Stonex explores the isolation and inner lives of those who keep the light burning, the resilience of the women who loved them, and the rhythms of rural communities shaped by the sea. Atmospheric and deeply human, this is a winter read to lose yourself in.

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Down in the Valley: A Writer’s Landscape - Laurie Lee | Full of anecdotes and memories, A Writer’s Landscape reflects on Laurie Lee’s life in the Slad Valley with warmth and simplicity. Through vivid and humourous stories of rural England, Lee captures the old ways and the deep bond between people and the land. It’s a relatable, heartfelt book for anyone who feels the pull of the countryside and longs for a return to yesteryear.

Darling - India Knight | A sparkling, modern reimagining of Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love. blends sharp humour, romantic misadventures, and vividly drawn characters. Marooned in a crumbling Norfolk farmhouse, Linda Radlett dreams of a life beyond her eccentric, maddening family- a former rock-star father who terrifies suitors, and a bohemian mother whose advice on love is hilariously unhelpful. Escaping to London, Linda’s search for love leads her to a flashy marriage that doesn’t quite deliver the happiness she craves. Faithful to the spirit of the original yet refreshingly updated, Darling is an utter joy to read. (I devoured it in a weekend!)

A Year in Provence - Peter Mayle | A charming and sun-soaked memoir that transports readers to the heart of rural France. With Britsh wit and warmth, Peter Mayle recounts his first year in a Provençal farmhouse, navigating quirky neighbors, local traditions (like goat racing), and the slow, delicious rhythm of life in the south. Full of mouthwatering meals, idyllic landscapes, and laugh-out-loud, this book is a perfect escape that will leave you longing for sunnier climes and a simpler way of living. I recommend booking a trip to Provence straight after reading and ordering a bottle of Pastis.

*I dream of one day owning my own bookshop. But for now, a digital one will have to do. If you purchase any books through my link on Bookshop.org, I will earn a small commission.

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1. Remind yourself that you do not need to start anew.
   

2. Buy yourself fresh flowers every week. Put them in the hallway so they’re the first sight you see when you come home.
   

3. Don’t rush to make New Year’s resolutions on the first day. Let the month settle.

4. Sleep with the window open.
   

5. Keep a Commonplace book. (I don’t know about you, but sometimes listening to myself prattle on while I journal makes me sick of myself. A commonplace book is such a nice alternative to focusing on my whimsy and woes.)
   

   

6. Make marmalade while the oranges are ripe.
   

7. Go to a tea shop and pick out a new herbal tea to try.
   

8. Join the fancy, posh gym that costs a bomb if you want to.
   

9. Reflect: What are you grateful for? What did you achieve in 2024? What lit your soul on fire? What do you regret (because we all have those, despite what people say.) What do you want more of?
   

10. Read the Roman myth of Janus. Approach January with duality - one face turned towards the year just gone, the other on the year that lies ahead.

    

11. Carbs are your friend, especially in the long, cold stretches of January. So, take yourself out to a pasta restaurant (I love Solina in Bath) or make yourself a big deep bowl of it to eat in front of the TV).
    

12. Remind yourself that Champagne is acceptable to drink at any time of the year.
    

13. Begin spring cleaning early. Donate anything you don’t want.
    

14. Write a letter to the person who broke your heart / hurt you. Tell them you forgive them. Send it, if you like. Or don’t. It’s up to you.
    

15. Write a letter to yourself to read at the end of the year.

    

16. Challenge yourself to spend a certain amount of time outside each day. You need all the vitamin D you can get in this country.
    

17. On that note, don’t forget to take your actual vitamin D tablet.
    

18. Organise some lovely days out on the weekends to have something to look forward to.
    

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19. Sign up for a National Theatre subscription and honker down on cold nights when the theatre feels too far away.
    

20. Challenge yourself to do something for a whole month if that feels good to you.

    

21. Choose a guiding-star word for the year.
    

22. Make a vision board. I like to a collage on Canva and use it as my phone
    screensaver.
    

23. Pour over seed catalogues with a good gardener’s brew to hand.
    

24. Go wassailing. Wassailing is a traditional celebration where folk gather to sing to the orchards and bless the trees so a good apple harvest ensues.
    

25. Skip the wassailing and just drink the cider.

    

26. Pick an author and dive into all their work over the coming twelve months.
    

27. Start the thing you’ve been meaning to. .
    

28. Plan to cook at least two plant-based meals each week.
    

29. Host a Burns night supper complete with whiskey, Scottish folk music, and poetry recitals.
    

30. Book a trip for later on in the year. Something to hold onto, perhaps, when January feels endless.