🌅 The Colour of Beginnings I have made these photographs of Rome slightly too golden. Not extravagantly so. The marble has not become amber and the skies remain approximately the skies I saw. But I have warmed them. Travertine catches a little more afternoon light than perhaps it did; interiors glow
🌿 Before I Saw Corsica, I Smelt It Some landscapes announce themselves visually: the severe horizontality of the desert, the improbable green of an English valley after rain, the white villages of Andalusia beneath an intense blue. Corsica has plenty of this beauty. Its mountains rise abruptly, granite shouldering through vegetation;
🌧️ A House That Has Learned to Weather There are some places that seem to resist history. Their stones are scrubbed clean, their roofs carefully repaired, their gardens restored to the geometry intended by the original architect. They reassure us that beauty can be preserved if only enough money, labour, and
I cannot now remember precisely when I first saw the bridge. This is an odd admission. I have a photograph of it. I remember the heat of the afternoon and the brown water of the Avon below. I remember thinking that the gorge was greener than I had expected. Yet
At Barrington Court, the paths seem older than the gardens. This is not literally true, of course. The avenues, orchards, walls, and flower borders have all been shaped by human hands. Yet the paths possess a different quality. They feel less constructed than remembered. The long avenue stretching away from
⚔️ Battle Abbey and the Difficulty of Finding the Dead The day began at Battle Abbey, though I left not entirely certain where the battle itself had actually happened. That stayed with me more than the history. The strange inability to locate violence precisely. Somewhere beneath the soft Sussex slopes men
“A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.” — Arthur Schopenhauer The day began not with cliffs or castles, but with adolescence and consequence. In Weymouth Youth Court, I spent the morning listening to the small catastrophes of ordinary lives. Youth courts possess a peculiar sadness. Nothing
🏛️ Canterbury and the Ache of Home The last time I came to Canterbury, I was with the Vatican cricket team. There is something faintly comic about that memory now, though also strangely moving: priests and seminarians in cricket whites, Roman collars folded into luggage, the Vatican arriving in England not
⚖️ The Week of Lists A week in the magistrates’ court does something to the mind. Not dramatic, not even especially memorable, but cumulative. Lists of cases, each one clipped to the next, each one requiring a kind of immediate clarity. Names, dates, charges, pleas. The language becomes functional, almost hydraulic.
🌿 The Hill Before the City — Old Sarum At Old Sarum, the ground still holds the shape of a centre. The earth rises and curves, enclosing what was once organised, inhabited, defended. But nothing now occupies it. The form remains. The necessity has gone. There is no violence in the transition.
🌿 Sudeley: the discipline of form At Sudeley, nothing appears to have been left to chance. The hedges curve inward with a patience that feels almost moral. Their lines are held, not simply grown. Circles close upon themselves. Paths return. Even the ruins seem to have been persuaded into coherence, their
There are places that present themselves as landscapes, and places that resist that reduction. Greenham Common belongs to the latter. At first glance, it appears almost deliberately unremarkable. A wide, exposed heath. Gravel paths tracing the faint geometry of former runways. Pools of water collecting where the ground has not