Inspired by a conversation on sustainable building materials with the designer and presenter Kevin McCloud, Jonathan and Sara Banister built a house made from straw bales and lime plaster on the site of a 1960s bungalow in North Yorkshire. Taking nearly two years to complete, the project was finished in 2018 and features in the revised edition of The Buildings of England: Yorkshire.

Straw-bale construction results in super-insulated, highly sustainable and breathable buildings and this structure features stonework crafted by a York Minster mason and handmade bricks. The four-bedroom house, which is set in 4.5 acres, is now on the market through Savills for £2.75m.

The Lime House, which is set in an H-plan over 2.5 floors (there is a mezzanine), is a home designed for entertaining. The heart of the home is a large kitchen/dining/living room that is attached to the entrance hall, while a barn to the rear of the property is adjoined by a studio, providing further space for fun, games or work.

What is so impressive about the Lime House is how it looks like it’s always been there. Inside, a stone staircase is paired with a vast stone fireplace in the entrance hall, while wooden panelling covers the walls and the ceiling. Throughout, the fixtures and fittings are of a period farmhouse style, and it is quite clear that plenty of reclaimed materials have been used throughout.

But while on the surface the house looks old, it is of course very new. The property embraces modern technology throughout, such as a mechanical ventilation with heat recovery system, triple glazing, underfloor heating, a rainwater harvesting system, solar panels, and PIR lighting. It looks like the old vicarage, but without the bills.

Outside, the property benefits from 4.5 acres of gardens and grounds, including a new natural pond fed by rainwater collected from the house that supports a wide variety of wildlife. The gardens close to the house are formal, before blending into the rolling countryside that surrounds the property, and a small courtyard overlooking a ha-ha makes a fine place for al fresco dining and hosting.

The Lime House is for sale with Savills for £2.75 million. For more information and images, click here.

Highland folklore relates that, upon attending the Braemar Gathering in Aberdeenshire, Queen Victoria was disconsolate to discover that her sporting favourite, Donald Dinnie of Balnacraig, had already taken his turn in the stone-throwing competition, the event with which Braemar was most closely associated.

Hurriedly, an official was sent to ask the strapping Scot if he wouldn’t mind putting the 28lb stone again, for the benefit of the Queen Empress. ‘Aye,’ Dinnie replied. ‘For £2 and not a penny less.’ He got his money. That the Widow of Windsor and the stonemason’s son from Aberdeenshire should be linked in this likely apocryphal tale is apt, for the mismatched pair had done much to make the Highland Games — which had been outlawed for more than 30 years under the 1746 Act of Proscription — into something not only respectable, but fashionable, too.

Queen Victoria had been an enthusiast for Highland sports since attending an early iteration of the Games in 1848 (an event for which she would become patron in 1867). Braemar was convenient for Balmoral Castle and Her Majesty would remain an enthusiastic attendee at the gatherings for more than 50 years. Dinnie, meanwhile, lays claim to being the UK’s first global sporting superstar. Brilliant not only at putting the stone, but also tossing the caber and throwing the hammer, the great Deesider’s world tours ensured that he was recognisable to sports fans from New Zealand to Canada and from San Francisco to Cape Town.

In the late 19th century, the remarkable Scot was as much an international paragon of our island’s athletic prowess as Sir Roger Bannister and Sebastian Coe would later become. Although running, jumping, dancing and the music of bagpipes, fiddles and Gaelic harps play their part in the Highland Games, much as they did in the ancient Olympics, the cornerstone of the games are the ‘heavy events’ at which Dinnie excelled.

As their collective name suggests, these involve throwing mighty objects: hammer, stone, weight or caber. The heavy events have a power, grandeur and simplicity that echo the landscape in which they were created and, although there are subtleties to them that please the expert eye, even those watching for the first time can understand them.

There are no complex offside laws, bewildering umpiring decisions or video assistant referee (VAR) reviews. With a history dating back to the reign of Malcolm III (1058–93), the heavy events are as wreathed in legend as the local glens and lochs and they have created many heroes.

Dinnie was the first of them — a wonder of the Victorian Age to compare to Stephenson’s Rocket. Born in 1837, the Scot could sprint, hurdle, jump (long and high, possibly both at the same time) and pole-vault, as well as toss the caber, putt the stone and throw the hammer. He was Highland Games Champion for 21 straight years, from 1856 to 1876. The man from Balnacraig stood about 6ft tall with 15in biceps, a 48in chest and a bristling moustache. ‘He carried his sixteen stone of bone, flesh and muscle with an ease, grace and elasticity of motion rarely if indeed ever seen in a man of his proportions… his dark, finely moulded features revealed intellectualism of the highest order… his flashing penetrating eyes a sharp native wit,’ gushed the correspondent of The North Star.

He also had a swagger that bordered on arrogance. Often, he was so confident of victory he would toss the caber without bothering to take off his jacket. On other occasions, he issued a challenge to beat any other man’s two throws with one of his own. Bets and challenges added to his prize winnings (Highland Games competitors were and would remain professionals) and it’s said that, during his 50-year career, he won more than 11,000 events.

His global tours earned him about £25,000 (the equivalent of about £2 million today). Sadly, as many great sports-people did, he spent merrily and invested unwisely. Shortly before his death in 1916, he was reported to be ‘eking out a bare existence in Croydon’ — a cruel fate for any man.

The tartan-clad gladiators who followed in Dinnie’s considerable shadow might not have enjoyed the same global celebrity, but they were no less colourful. There was the ‘Highland Adonis’, who would go on to have an ill-fated assignation with a Hollywood film star. This was dark-haired Jay Scott, who stood 6ft 2in in his stocking feet and had powerful muscles developed from rowing himself to school across Loch Lomond from the family farm on Inchmurrin Island.

Scott was a superb all-round athlete who excelled not only at the heavy events, but also at running and jumping. Handsome and charismatic, during his 1950s heyday, the rugged farmer was as unstoppable as a runaway train. At the games in Tobermory on the Hebridean island of Mull, he once carried off first prize in all the heavy events, as well as the 100yd and 200yd, the triple jump, long jump, high jump and pole vault.

Scott was handed the award for best athlete at the Aboyne Games seven times on the trot and, if his performances often seemed to be accompanied by the sound of music, that was likely the vibrating heartstrings of watching ladies. Little wonder he was said to have inspired the burly hunk on the Scott’s Porage Oats box (porage, incidentally is an amalgam of porridge and potage that was adopted by the makers in 1914).

The great athlete married the glamorous English actress and singer Fay Lenore after the couple’s eyes locked at the Braemar Games, but she had competition. At the peak of his fame, her husband toured the US and Canada, where his powerful physique and matinée-idol looks attracted the attention of Jayne Mansfield, a film star of such improbable proportions she made Sophia Loren look like Twiggy.

A romantic tryst on Mansfield’s heart-shaped bed seemed set, but, when the Scotsman tried to shoo the blonde bombshell’s yapping chihuahuas from the boudoir, she took umbrage. Her minders were summoned, lifted the thwarted paramour into the air, carried him down the stairs and dumped him in the swimming pool.

In the days when athletics in Britain was strictly amateur, the prize money on offer at the Highland Games made them very attractive to strong men from south of the border, too. Cambridgeshire policeman Geoff Capes was a double European and Commonwealth shot-putt champion and was pretty invincible during the 1980s Highland Games heavy events. Bearded and fearsome, he stood at 6ft 6in and was built like an oak tree. He might have come from the flat country of the English Fens and bred budgerigars as a hobby, but, in kilt and vest, he was every US film producer’s ideal of a Highland chieftain.

Capes followed a trail blazed by another shot putter 20 years earlier. Arthur Rowe was born in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, and worked in a coal mine, training for athletics behind his local pub using weights made from the wheels of pit wagons. He was British champion five times and also won golds at the Commonwealth and European Championships in the 1950s. However, things went sour for Rowe at the 1960 Rome Olympics. Tipped to win a medal, he suffered a terrible upset stomach, lost close to 10lb in weight and failed to qualify for the final. Disillusioned and broke, he quit the rarefied world of amateur athletics and headed for the Highlands, where the best performers were paid in cash.

The gruff Yorkshireman made his debut at the Braemar Games in 1962 wearing a borrowed kilt and promptly broke the all-time record for putting the stone. The offers and money soon flowed in. At his peak in the mid 1960s, the former pitman was being paid £30 appearance fees per event — a substantial sum in the days when an experienced office worker might take home £15 a week.

The burly Yorkshireman struck up a fierce yet amiable rivalry with ‘Big’ Bill Anderson, a mighty slab of a fellow from Bucksburn, Aberdeenshire, who trained on a diet of mince and tatties, worked out in his garage during the winter months lifting tractor tyres and was the first competitor in history to throw the heavy hammer more than 150ft. The mismatched pair pushed each other to greater and greater performances and became firm friends in the process. In one celebrated incident on a rainy day at Lochearnhead, the two giants lifted up a car that had got stuck in the mud ‘as easily as if they were popping a cork from a bottle’. It was a sight that would surely have amused even Queen Victoria.

This feature originally appeared in the August 19, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Riley Harper remembers the first time he saw a professional stuntman at work. He was four years old, he was on the set of the 1995 Kevin Costner action film Waterworld in Hawaii and it was his father. ‘I think that was probably where the seed got planted,’ he says.

Riley is the definition of cool — and not bad to look at either, if you care about that sort of thing. The 37-year-old Los Angeles-born stuntman has been performing daring feats since the age of seven, when he appeared in his first film. Soldier (1998) starred Kurt Russell and saw childhood Riley fall down a set of 20 stairs. ‘I was always pretty fearless,’ he says.

He has followed in the motorbike tracks of his father and uncle, appearing in films such as Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood (2019) and The Dark Knight Rises (2012). ‘Anything with Christopher Nolan as a director is amazing to work on,’ he says ‘Those Batman movies are so fun. Putting on the suit was very cool.’

The job doesn’t come without its risks. Riley describes how, for the ‘really frankly bad remake’ of Point Break (2015), he had to jump down a 25-feet high cliff on a motorbike in the pouring rain, to land in between a cluster of trees. Oh, and roll a car over again and again next to a cliff's edge. ‘There were a lot of scary things that could have gone wrong.’

It’s safe to say that, as he gets older, Riley is (somewhat) slowing down. ‘All through my twenties I was just going from movie to movie to movie, all around the world, nonstop.’ In his thirties he has branched out into photography, directing, writing and growing a social media following to showcase his work — he has 441,000 followers on Instagram at the time of writing and works with brands such as Porsche and Belmond.

This has allowed him to spend more time at his home in Calabasas, which he shares with his wife, model Paige Harper, and their two-year-old daughter. ‘Nowadays I do strive to have a simpler life, because everything is complicating life, you know? For example, phones are supposed to make our lives easier, which they do in a lot of ways, but I think they complicate life more than they simplify it,’ Riley says.

‘Going out of your way to do less. It’s a really strange thing… I think being aware is important because our attention is being stolen, basically all day long, with these tools that we need to survive and make a living.’

Riley has not, however, totally taken his foot off the gas. ‘I’m still doing stunts, but I do more hand-picked jobs now. Usually more driving work. When I was younger I did a lot of motorcycle stunts, which are more dangerous than cars, for the most part, but yeah, it is still dangerous.’

So, where’s the line? Is there any stunt Riley won’t do — particularly now that he is a father? ‘I’ve never said no to anything. Primarily because anyone who’s hiring me understands what I’m capable of.’

Your aesthetic hero

Probably Anthony Bourdain, not really for his aesthetic in the traditional sense, but more for how he lives life and looks at stuff. Outside of him, I would say I usually admire older men who don’t have social media. Just random people, for example, a guy I see in Paris who opens his same store every day and is just bettering himself over time.

An exhibition that has impressed you

I mean, this is kind of corny, but for me it’s the exhibition of life. I love those mundane moments in life that most people don't see, and I like to look for those now and appreciate them.

The last thing of note that you bought for yourself

Well, I’m an extreme car person. I've always been into cars and vehicles and motorcycles, and I would say it's close to a sickness. So, I just bought myself a new Porsche 911. I got to actually build it top to bottom. I’ve ordered a baby seat for the back. I'm biased, because she's mine, but I'm doing my part to make my daughter as cool as possible.

Your favourite painting

I can’t remember the name of it, but I took a photo of one in Reid's Palace [a Belmond] hotel, Madeira. It was a sailboat in a storm, hung over the fireplace in their lobby. Everyday that I walked past I would just stare at it.

A possession you would never sell

I would probably say my 1969 Triumph Bonneville. It’s an iconic British brand. They’re as authentic as it gets. I always loved those as a kid, and dreamed of having one one day. And so I found this motorcycle in pieces, I actually traded a vintage car I had to a mechanic for it. I knew it was gonna be a lot of work but I spent probably a year and a half building it with my dad, my uncle and a mechanic that I used for engine stuff. We basically brought it back to showroom level.

I finished that bike when I was 20 or 21, so I've had it for a long time, and I've now raced it at desert races. I've driven my wife on it for date nights. It's just the most beautiful motorcycle in my opinion, so I don't think I could ever part ways with that. It's too sentimental. Nothing could replace it.

A book you’ve found inspiring

Daniel Klein, Travels with Epicurus, I'm in the middle of that right now, which is fun. James Salter, I'm getting into recently, so I'm bouncing between a few of his. The Anthony Bourdain Reader — I read that when I’m in my sauna.

Another book that comes to mind that I’ve read probably five times is The Creative Act by Rick Rubin. I've always been a fan of Rick Rubin, I've met him many times, and I've always respected what he does — and that book is just so good.

The music that you work to

Mostly jazz. I love jazz.

The last podcast you listened to

I think Rick Rubin’s podcast Tetragrammaton. He always has really interesting guests on, such a wide variety, and he's a great interviewer — a very curious guy.

The person that would play you in a film of your life (and the person that would perform the stunts)

That's an interesting question to have to answer. God, I don't know. That is so hard. I don't know if my life's worth having a movie about. Maybe, if I could go in a time machine, I would say Pierce Brosnan in the 90s. He was my James Bond. And then to do my stunts, maybe my younger brother? We're pretty similar looking and he’s alright at stunts too, I suppose.

What you’d take with you to a desert island

My wife and daughter. Safety in numbers, we would survive.

The thing that gets you up in the morning

Also my daughter, for sure. But probably, more broadly, my curiosity. And a morning coffee, it’s just the most exciting thing. I think about it the second I open my eyes.

The items you collect

Cars and motorcycles.

A hotel you could go back and back to

Splendido Mare [a Belmond hotel] in Portofino. My wife and I got married there. We've been going to Portofino at least twice a year since we met. It's just our favourite place, and we have a lot of friends there.

The most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten

The dinner at our wedding, but also my wife and I used to go on sailing trips and the dinners we’d have on them — local fish that you’re buying off other boats and cooking on the boat — were always such great meals.

The best present you’ve ever received

My wife got me a Cartier tank watch for my wedding and she engraved the back. That’s sentimental, and something our daughter will wear one day.

The Spa at Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park

All too often, Londoners overlook the Mandarin Oriental which looms grandly over Hyde Park’s southern flank. However, the food I had at Dinner by Heston London, on the hotel’s ground floor, is one of the best meals I’ve had in my 15 years living here, and I adore the subtle leaf motifs scattered throughout the interiors whose shapes were directly inspired by the park’s trees.

The serene cream and dark wood spa marries old-school five-star service with Eastern influences to great effect. They currently partner with British brand OSKIA and the signature facial combines facial massage, acupressure work, LED therapy and hot compresses to erase any unnecessary contours. It’s a fantastic non-invasive, all-rounder treatment and while some visitors might not appreciate the warren of subterranean rooms, corridors and facilities, I think it’s an easy way to find some respite from the hectic city one floor above.

Pfeffer Sal

A hidden gem — quite literally, it's hidden at the bottom of a mews street — Pfeffer Sal, takes an individual approach to every client.

It's a particularly good option for facial newbies and brides who want great results without all of the postulating that's sadly part and parcel of the wellness world.

Start with the The Three Sixty complete with skin consultation and skin imaging technology — before advancing to a course of treatment.

The team take customer's health seriously, going as far to install a NASA-specification air purification and filtration system. London grime doesn't stand a chance.

Surrenne Belgravia

Surrenne connects The Emory and Berkley hotels, but operates more along the lines of a private members’ wellness club. Facilities include a 22-metre-long lap pool, sauna, steam room, snow shower, gym, hammams and treatment rooms.

Membership includes perks such as hyperbaric sessions and Tracy Anderson classes in the UK’s only dedicated Tracy Anderson studio. (Anderson innovated a dance-inspired fitness programme beloved by Gwyneth Paltrow and Victoria Beckham. When I attempted it, I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.)

The massages are my favourite part of their offering. If you don’t quite know what you want opt for the I NEED IT ALL and your therapist will curate an hour-long treatment made up of lots of different approaches, from deep tissue to Ayurveda. The RECOVERY RITUAL is fantastic if you’ve made it through a Tracy Anderson class intact because it incorporates magnesium which can ease delayed-onset muscle soreness and regulate sleep.

Dr Barbara Sturm

World-renowned skincare expert Barbara Sturm made her long-awaited UK debut five years ago with a boutique and spa on Mayfair’s Mount Street.

The ground floor is a sweet shop for grown-ups: row upon row of pristine white bottles lining the walls, a mirrored sink and a green marble ‘discovery’ table, stacked high with the brand’s popular Molecular Cosmetics range.

There are two express treatment rooms — perfect for a quick lunchtime pick-me-up — and four fully-fitted ones, spread across the aforementioned ground and lower ground floor.

As well as the signature Barbara Sturm glow facial, customers can book in for high-tech anti-ageing and body treatments. There’s little reason to deviate from the former, however: an hour of intense facial massage, cleansers, masks and serums that will leave your face feeling brighter and tighter for days afterwards.

There’s also the option to add microneedling or microdermabrasion.

Guerlain Spa at Raffles at The OWO

The Guerlain Spa at The OWO — which comprises a 20-metre indoor pool, vitality pool, nine treatment rooms, sauna, steam room, state-of-the-art gym and experience showers — is ecclesiastical in scale. There aren’t many hotels in this central of a location (Whitehall) that can boast enough space to give away 2,500 square metres to wellness. The pool has double-height ceilings. The plush treatment beds are so thick they verge on mattresses.

The impressive array of treatments includes reflexology with Andrea Hurst who has been practicing for more than 30 years. Extremely passionate about her craft, she maintains long-standing relationships with the majority of her clients, getting to know their lives, families and innermost thoughts. Sessions are part reflexology and part therapy — and part steep learning experience. During mine, I learned that in holistic therapies, the right side of the body and foot is traditionally associated with the masculine, and the left with the feminine.

Melanie Grant

There are facialists and then there is Melanie Grant, whose much-lauded expertise has arrived at her debut UK clinic on Mount Street in Mayfair.

Her reputation is built on treatments combining high-grade technology, innovative formulations and ‘old-school’ techniques, addressing issues from congested complexions and sun-damage to remodelling the skin’s layers from deep within.

I could talk you through the Ultimate Collagen Treatment + Exosome Infusion (stellar for rejuvenation), but no treatment is a set script. ‘Each is built around the skin in front of us on the day, taking into account lifestyle, hormones, seasons, travel and stress,' Grant tells me. 'We are never wedded to a single method or device, but we’re focused on a signature outcome — a healthy, resilient complexion.’

Biome by Corinthia London

Biome is perhaps London’s most surprising spa because its holistic focus and deeply nurturing atmosphere is so at odds with the very elegant and formal hotel that houses it.

They recently partnered with Wildsmith — a Hampshire-based brand from the brains behind biodynamic farm and hotel Heckfield Place (who, incidentally, have their own fantastic Bothy spa). Today, Heckfield is home to the UK’s only biodynamic tree nursery where pioneering horticulturist Wiliam Walker Wildsmith’s ancient trees are propagated for future generations.

There’s an entire facial menu to choose from, but go for the Radical Botany: magic medicine for skin dulled by urban pollution. My favourite bit is when the therapist applies light and sustained pressure to certain points on the head and spine (craniosacral holds to give the action its proper name).

The space itself is a masterclass in urban spa design: the textured walls, rounded treatment pods and brilliantly-thought-out lighting completely distract from the fact that there aren’t any windows. You could easily while away a day here (there’s a heat and water circuit, gym, hair salon and sauna).

Omorovicza

Omorovicza's Andrassy facial is a marvel for sad-looking skin. Therapists use vigorous massage techniques — borrowed from Hungarian wellness practices — alongside Omorovicza’s gorgeous products (my longstanding favourite is Queen Essence) to lift, sculpt and treat.

The setting surely helps, too. You’ll find its standalone Londonstore on Mayfair’s South Audley Street — think blush-pink brick flooring with matching daubed walls and gently vaulted treatment rooms that all act to cocoon you instantly.

The company has a BodySerum that uses sustainably sourced Icelandic microalgaeto target loss of elasticity and is brilliant for toning limbs — ready for those last-minute trips abroad.

The Palace of Bishop Auckland was built for the Prince Bishops of Durham. From the Middle Ages until 1836, these powerful men were much more than church leaders, acting as representatives of the Crown over all the land that lay between the rivers Tyne and Tees. With the power to raise an army, impose taxes and mint coins came ownership of a grand building that sits high above the picturesque valley where the rivers Wear and Gaunless run.

Although an ecclesiastical office still occupies a few rooms in the palace, by the start of this century the grandeur had long faded and the closure of the Durham coal mine in 1968 had robbed all sense of community and purpose from the town of Bishop Auckland. In 2012, in an unprecedented act of philanthropy, the investment banker Jonathan Ruffer and his wife, Jane, founded the Auckland Project, with the aim of restoring the castle and its extensive grounds to attract visitors to the area and, by doing so, bring life and employment back to the town.

An integral part of this imaginative rescue has been the landscaping of the ground around the palace. Cars have been banished and new enclosures created by Pip Morrison, the retained landscape architect for the project. The most dramatic of these spaces is the steeply sloping walled garden, which, since 2024, has been returned to full productive cultivation. In the days of the Prince Bishops, the estate would, as did most large country houses, have supplied all the vegetables, fruit and flowers needed for its owners, but large traditional kitchen gardens are now rare. Of about 600 former walled gardens in England, only about 25 of these in the care of the National Trust are still partially dedicated to productive crops. In private gardens these sheltered places are more likely to contain a swimming pool, a tennis court or some orchard trees, rather than enough vegetables, fruit and flowers to sustain a household.

Some walled gardens open to visitors, such as that at neighbouring Raby Castle, have been elaborately redesigned as ornamental spaces, which include some token crops. Others have ended up being used for grazing or cars. The last time I counted, there were perhaps 20 that might be said to be working gardens dedicated to productive crops left in the whole country. If you want to see fruit, vegetables and flowers grown in an old-fashioned way, the newest and most exciting example of this lost tradition is flourishing at Bishop Auckland in Co Durham. All the produce is used to cater for visitors and any surplus is sent to the local food bank.

Mr Morrison knew that allotments and flower shows had always been a feature of local life, so he wanted the two-acre walled garden to be a straightforward unfussy design that would reflect those ways of gardening, as well as the princely heritage of the place. Remarkably, he took the decision not to terrace the slope, where gradients vary between 1 in 5 and 1 in 3. Instead, curved level paths between steep beds planted with a mix of vegetables and flowers have been created to follow the contours of the hill, linked by short flights of stone steps. The detailing of stone, iron and trellis work, of copper water troughs and terracotta pots on stone plinths, is immaculate. The same materials are repeated everywhere for cohesion. The simplicity of the design is powerful and a walk between the cultivated plants feels timeless.

Perched above the garden is the tower house, home to the Ruffers as they continue to inspire and steer the project. Below the tower lies a narrow wedge-shaped upper garden containing an iron-framed glasshouse designed by the architects Mawson Kerr of Newcastle and built by Serres d’Antan in France. This upper level is more ornamental than the lower garden. Here, there are seats tucked into borders overlooking the slope. The lower garden is difficult to access because of the steps that link the contoured paths, but the view over the whole space with a backdrop of Deer Park behind is matchless.

If the design of the garden is restrained, the ornamental borders banked below the greenhouse are ebullient. Punctuated by figs in pots, the flowers include richly coloured dahlias, nasturtiums, agapanthus, Michaelmas daisies, alstroemerias, sunflowers and gladioli. All the beds in the garden are edged with Euonymus microphyllus, which has proved the perfect substitute for box and, because the beds are raked, the flowers can be enjoyed at eye level. In the lower garden, there are the leeks, gooseberries and dahlias, which were traditional features at northern shows, with rows of bright flowers for picking and plenty of edibles to supply the palace tearooms. The needs of the five gardeners under Andy Nesbitt are as well thought out as the design. Not every garden boasts purpose-built rooms where vegetables can be prepped and wet clothes dried.

Around the palace itself there are several new gardens. Where cars once parked there are lawns flanked by buildings, with trees for shade and seats to admire the view and the remodelled medieval palace with James Wyatt’s Gothic architecture. To the west of the palace, behind the Faith Museum, is the Quiet, or Faith, Garden. This is a cloistered space with a path layout that records the footprint of a medieval chapel destroyed in the Civil War. A grove of gleditsias makes a moving pattern of shadows on the gravel below. Sun, wind, space, greenery, silence, nothing more, except in a corner on a raised terrace, where there is a lavender hedge and seats to sit in contemplation.

In another small area, a pond with fountain is surrounded by formal beds of Geranium Rozanne. The newest of the spaces to be designed and planted is the Paradise Garden, only completed last summer. Here, a wide bed under the south-facing wall is packed with a mix of fruit and flowers grown between yew buttresses.

The aim, Morrison says, was for it to be ‘bountiful, blowsy and scented’. The walls are planted with apples, quince and vines, trained on the same strong trellis that is used everywhere. The borders are abundantly planted with roses, phlox, delphiniums, dahlias and many other favourite summer flowers. Instead of grass, the centre of the garden is sown with an annual cereal crop. This summer, it will be barley and field poppies.

The next phase of work will concentrate on the 150-acre deer park, where several 18th-century features will be restored. Researching the park was transformed when Mr Ruffer received a letter from Dr Dianne Barre alerting him to an account of a visit to Bishop Auckland in 1799 by Elizabeth Hervey, as well as drawings by Harriet Green, an amateur artist who accompanied her. In its heyday, the Picturesque landscape included a moss seat, a root house and a deer shelter, the latter of which can still be seen.

There are ancient hawthorns and stately trees, as well as a tumbling cascade that visitors can walk to see all year long, free of charge. The restoration of the park will, as with the rest of the gardens, be years in the making. The admirable Auckland Project shows how a long and careful process can produce not only changes to a place, but to people’s lives.

Visit the Auckland Project website to find out more.

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

There are horse farms, and then there is Castleton Lyons. Spread across 951 acres of Kentucky’s famously fertile Bluegrass country, this extraordinary estate has been breeding horses for more than two centuries — and is now being offered for sale for the first time in 25 years, for $57.5 million with Sotheby's.

Its story begins in 1793, when the farm was established as a breeding operation. Since then, it has passed through the hands of some of Kentucky’s great horsemen and become something of an institution in the equestrian world.

The Castleman family’s Greek Revival mansion, built in 1840, remains the historic centrepiece — and its interiors wouldn’t look out of place in a grand English countryside manor house. There are ornate mouldings, Victorian-style wall panelling and a sweeping staircase with carved wooden bannister.

The horses, however, are very much the stars. Over the years Castleton has bred and stood thoroughbred, standardbred and saddlebred champions — establishing a reputation that stretches far beyond the Bluegrass. Think 1896 Kentucky Derby winner Ben Brush, and Speedy Scot. Today, its scale is almost difficult to comprehend. There are 16 barns, ranging from four-stall buildings to a substantial 30-stall facility, with 268 stalls in total. A true self-contained equine operation, there are ten homes scattered across the land, including several managers’ houses. There are ponds and water views, too, along with sweeping scenery and the privacy that comes with nearly 1,000 acres.

In 2001, Castleton was acquired by Thomas Ryan (1936-2007), the Irish billionaire businessman and philanthropist who co-founded Ryanair in 1984, from the Van Lennep Family Trust. (Frederick Van Lennep (1911-1987) was an American advertising executive and harness racing figure who founded Pompano Park.) Ryan changed its name from Castleton Farm to Castleton Lyons after his Irish estate and renovated large parts in order to return it to its original roots as a thoroughbred operation.

The challenge for its next custodian will be less about deciding what to do with Castleton than deciding how best to continue its remarkable story.

Castleton is for sale with Sotheby's — see more details here.

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Ever since my book Fashioning the Crown (Faber & Faber, £25) was published earlier this year, I have often been asked to identify my favourite of Elizabeth II’s superb outfits. Although I admire her majestic evening gowns and regal ceremonial robes, I particularly love the off-duty clothes she wore in Scotland. These have a quiet and timeless elegance, as well as being practical, and they remind me of the occasions when, as the wife of Prince Philip’s godson, I saw her on shoot days at Balmoral, wearing a tweed jacket, tartan skirt, woollen stockings and sturdy brown leather brogues.

It has sometimes been said that her heart was in the Highlands and she certainly looked at ease there, as well as beautifully dressed — even in the yellow Marigold gloves she donned to wash up after picnic lunches in a bothy.

After the Queen’s death in 2022, when I was researching my book, I was fortunate to be allowed to study many of her clothes in the archives at Windsor Castle, where they were being catalogued for the current exhibition at The King’s Gallery (‘Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life in Style’).

Amid the magnificent examples of royal couture deployed as sartorial statecraft and dress diplomacy, I was drawn to an impeccably tailored ensemble from the late 1940s, before she came to the throne.

The Scottish tweed jacket was made by Norman Hartnell, who created her fairy-tale wedding gown in 1947 and would go on to design her spectacular coronation robes in 1953. Examining it closely, I could see it was cut along similar lines to Christian Dior’s famous Bar jacket from his debut New Look collection of 1947, with a defined waist, neat buttons and gently padded shoulders.

If a contemporary model were to appear in the same tweed jacket at a Paris fashion show next month, it would look as perfect as it did eight decades ago on the young Princess Elizabeth. Needless to say, it would be no less appropriate on a heather-clad Scottish hillside this season.

The Princess’s Hartnell jacket was paired with a Balmoral tartan skirt: the same distinctive fabric that had been created in 1853 for her great-great-grandparents, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, the year after they had purchased the Deeside estate.

The tartan is relatively discreet, at least by Victorian standards — predominantly grey, with red and black overchecks — and said to be designed by Prince Albert, who was inspired by the rugged granite of the Aberdeenshire landscape.

It was, of course, Victoria and Albert who made this area so fashionable during her reign, drawing tourists and tartan-buyers to the Highlands. The royal couple’s highly romanticised version of Scottish style was writ large in Balmoral Castle itself, which was constructed as a vast neo-Gothic building in the mid 1850s and bedecked with an abundance of tartan upholstery and furnishings to match the swirling royal kilts.

This idealised 19th-century aesthetic, subsequently dubbed ‘Balmorality’ or ‘tartanry’ by its cultural critics, has been derided as inauthentic and sentimental. Yet the decorative Balmoral tartan — which can only be worn by members of the Royal Family and the Piper to the Sovereign — has aged wonderfully well, as is evident in The King’s Gallery exhibition, where visitors can admire the late Queen’s skirt.

Pleated, but with less fabric than a traditional kilt, it has the same ageless appeal as her Scottish tweed jacket and, for me at least, it is impossible to see without remembering the last public picture of Elizabeth II, taken only two days before her death.

Framed in the reassuring surroundings of the Balmoral drawing room on September 6, 2022, as she prepared to meet the new Prime Minister, Liz Truss, the Queen was smiling and wearing her signature pearls, with a soft grey wool cardigan, silk blouse and familiar-looking tartan skirt.

Although clearly frail, she looked every inch our monarch, as she always did, but also a natural Scottish countrywoman, at home in her favourite place in the world.

This feature originally appeared in the August 19, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

It is remarkable to reflect on the cultural stories that attach to our only native breeding goose, the greylag. In classical times, it was a bird sacred to Aphrodite (or Venus). For millennia, it served as an erotic symbol and a faint vestige of this is apparent in the nursery rhyme Goosey Goosey Gander, wherein a male bird is up to mischief in my lady’s chamber.

You could also argue that greylag geese changed the course of Western history. A flock of the goddess Juno’s sacred wildfowl was kept on the Capitoline Hill in Rome and it famously gave the alarm that thwarted the attacking Gauls in 390BC. Less well known is the fact that the species was first domesticated by ancient Egyptians, from whom the practice slowly spread worldwide.

Alas, none of these reflections has much impact on modern British attitudes to greylags. They are possibly the least loved of our native birds and I must declare my own bias: I cherish the music generated by our avifauna, but not the calls of this species. It may have saved ancient Rome, yet there is a nails-on-blackboard quality to that braying cacophony of a greylag goose flock in full chorus.

It was once a rare sound in Britain. Greylags had been resident across the country until they were largely exterminated by the mid 19th century, primarily by wetland drainage. The only indigenous breeding population survived in northern and westernmost parts of Scotland, although these islands have always been a location for wintering flocks coming largely from Iceland. All this was turned around in the 20th century, when greylags were reintroduced, especially in East Anglia, Kent, southern Scotland and the Lake District.

Wildfowlers seeking to re-establish a valued sporting bird were party to those efforts and they, in turn, were aided by the widespread construction of new reservoirs or the development of gravel pits. A bird that weighs 7lb has few natural predators and, as the Gauls learnt to their cost, it is a hyper-vigilant creature. Greylags soon started to nest successfully at the suite of new wetlands and the sight of fluffy yellow-green goslings pootling in the wake of their parents became commonplace. However, what lay behind that cute tableau was already rather alarming.

Introduced greylag numbers were thought to be increasing at 10% a year: small wonder, perhaps, that the bird was an ancient fertility symbol. By the 1990s, there was a nominally two-part population, with reintroduced feral birds reaching 14,000 pairs and the older native Scottish stock at about 4,000. This century, any sense of separation between the two vanished as the species completed an expansion calculated at 700%. The combined greylag total is 47,000 pairs and only south-west England, south-west Wales and north-eastern Scotland now lie outside its breeding range.

It is mainly in the north that the agricultural impact of grazing geese is contested. Crofters claim that they damage crops and have a disproportionately large impact on their often low-input, low-yield agricultural methods. As recently as spring 2026, the Scottish minister for agriculture announced £1 million would be spent to mitigate damage. Another archipelago adversely affected is Orkney, where there are said to be 24,000 resident birds, topped up in winter by large flocks of migrants.

Farmers complain of their depredations, with one lamenting that his 100 scarecrows were barely deterring them. Another concern — not only in Orkney — is the vast quantity of droppings they deposit. These have been linked to the spread of campylobacter, a contagious pathogen that causes the death of calves or young cattle, but can also infect humans.

One ‘solution’ pursued in Orkney has been ‘hunting holidays’, where excess birds are taken for sport. This has become a source of further discord for those who insist Orkney should be a refuge for birds.

The only point we can conclude about these disputes is a constant refrain about all the species in the Unloved Birds’ Club: an issue presumed to arise in human-bird relations is quickly lost beneath the loud greylag-goose-like clamour between ourselves.

This feature originally appeared in the August 19, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Moving to Wales was always part of the plan. When I married my husband, Ned, there was an understanding that one day we would end up here. His parents' house would eventually become ours and, with it, a future that had already been quietly mapped out.

The trouble was, I don't particularly like being told what to do.

For a good two-thirds of our relationship, I resisted the idea on principle alone. I have a rebellious streak that I blame entirely on my father. The more inevitable Wales seemed, the more determined I became to imagine a different future. Yet life has a wonderful way of softening even the most stubborn of us.

As our children grew older — Lyon now eight years old, Nancy seven and Celeste four — and our four-legged sausage shaped children — Margaret four years old and Marigold one — I found myself looking at London through a different lens. The city that had once felt exciting and full of possibility suddenly seemed less suited to family life. I had grown up in Wiltshire, where childhood meant muddy boots, climbing trees, endless fields, a forever smell of freshly cut grass and the freedom to disappear for hours and return home only when hunger struck. Deep down, the countryside had always made far more sense to me.

I moved to London at 18 to study at the Slade School of Fine Art. I grew up fast, but I loved it. London gave me an education, a career, friendships and a sense of independence. But, after nearly two decades in the capital, I began to feel that perhaps I had done my London time.

My uncle remarked that most of us were living in London for ourselves rather than for our children. It was one of those observations that is impossible to unhear. I found myself asking a question I had somehow avoided for years: why are we still here?

I am fortunate that my work isn’t tied to a particular postcode. I run my own tailoring brand, KIPPER, and can happily do what my children call my ‘wiggling’ — the influencing side of my business — from anywhere with a decent internet connection. Unlike many families, we weren't anchored to the city by work. London was becoming harder to justify.

Life felt increasingly noisy, crowded and relentless. The children were surrounded by advertising, constant stimulation and dirty parks, all peppered with crime. There was always somewhere to be, something to do, something to buy. I found myself longing for a slower rhythm of life and, more importantly, a childhood that felt more like a childhood: carefree and creative. To my surprise, the place I had spent years resisting suddenly became the place I wanted to be.

Ned, characteristically, never pushed me. Looking back, I think he understood that I needed to arrive at this decision myself, otherwise my horns would be permanently out! Once I did, everything shifted. We spent the next two years preparing for the move, which in hindsight was one of the greatest gifts we could have given ourselves. By the time moving day actually arrived, there were no doubts, no dramatic last-minute tantrums and, thankfully, no chorus of ‘Do we have to leave London?’

Our situation was slightly unusual because we already knew where we were going to live. We weren't endlessly scrolling property websites or debating counties over dinner.

A wise family chum once told me that it takes at least a year to settle somewhere new. Armed with that advice we were off to Wales, and not pit-stopping anywhere on the way. We had an extraordinary amount of help from my parents-in-law with the renovations to make the move happen. It was agreed that we would move into a house in the village, before the ‘big house’ move. And then, in time, a swap would happen. Like many people leaving London, I had friends who dreamed of making the same leap. The challenge was never deciding to leave; it was deciding where to go.That, I now realise, was our great stroke of luck.

Our house sits on the edge of a very sweet village and has everything one could hope for: a post office, a butcher, a tea room, a church and two pubs. We are tucked away just far enough to feel wonderfully private, yet close enough to feel connected.

One of my greatest fears before moving was that I would feel as though I were missing out. London has a remarkable ability to make you believe that all exciting things happen within the M25. What I hoped we would gain was time. Time with family. Time with friends. Time to actually finish a conversation. I remember meeting a girlfriend for coffee in London. She was running late, I had another meeting afterwards and, between the two of us, we managed perhaps 20 minutes together before rushing off in opposite directions. In Wales, friends could come for the weekend. Children could disappear into the garden and climb trees. Margaret and Marigold could live their best lives, wandering freely through the woods. We could cook long lunches and simply enjoy ourselves. There would be no need to keep a constant eye on the clock.

In our new life, I saw chickens, alpacas, more dogs and perhaps even a Shetland pony, alongside a vegetable garden. All of this remains firmly on our wish list. I saw muddy boots and children returning home stained purple from blackberry picking. I imagined river swims in summer and penny sweets from the village shop, which sells milk in glass bottles.

I was also excited by the prospect of creating a country home. Not simply decorating one, but building a life around it. A house with character and enough room to evolve alongside our family, and my forever-growing wardrobe! And I yearned for a front door that could be left open.

Of course, there was the practical side of things. Ned still needed to spend two nights a week in London running Not Another Bill and Bespokely. Yet that compromise felt entirely worthwhile when weighed against the life we hoped to create. I hoped there would be something rather wonderful about having the occasional evening entirely to myself. Give me my LED face mask, my decompression boots, Margaret and Marigold and an early night, and I am extremely content.

A lingering fear was loneliness. Would I miss bumping into old pals? Spontaneous luncheons with my sister? The familiarity of city life? Perhaps. But if I was being honest, I knew country life would suit me far more than I had ever admitted. I love entertaining. I love having a house full of people. But I also love my own company. The idea of quiet weekdays spent working, followed by weekends devoted to family and friends, sounded less like a sacrifice and more like a luxury.

If I’m being honest, my only genuine concern was the availability of a decent matcha. Fortunately, before leaving London, I taught myself how to make the perfect one at home. Thus making me an even more independent woman!

Looking back now, I realise that we had simply outgrown London. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because we wanted something different. For years, I resisted the idea of moving to Wales. I thought I was fighting against geography, when in reality I was fighting against certainty.

Now, standing at the kitchen sink watching the comings and goings on the canal and with Margaret and Marigold living their best lives (barking at innocent canal walkers) and the children climbing a tree, sticks in hand — I believe a den is on the agenda ‚ it is hard to imagine our lives anywhere else.

London? Where is that?

Part two will be published on Friday, August 28, and part three on Friday, September 4.

It was the summer of a new Labour Prime Minister (James Callaghan), the birth of punk rock and the film Carry on England; Terry Pratchett released his first novel, appropriately titled The Dark Side of the Sun, and Agatha Christie’s last (Sleeping Murder) was published a few months after her death.

In sport, Sue Barker won the French Open; the West Indies, spearheaded by the incomparable Viv Richards, won the Test Match series, which came as a shock to English spectators; the swimmer David Wilkie won gold at the Montreal Olympics. Extraordinarily, a British band (Brotherhood of Man) triumphed in the Eurovision Song Contest. The Ford Fiesta was launched, creating 3,000 new jobs in Dagenham, Essex. Big Ben’s clock broke down. There was a plague of ladybirds.

The famous heatwave (temperatures peaked at 35.9˚C in Cheltenham, Gloucester-shire) and drought of exactly 50 years ago saw not only hosepipe bans, but queues at standpipes and the unfortunate residents of South Wales had their water supply cut off every night. The problem was compounded by the fact that the drought was preceded by a winter of lower than average rainfall and reservoir levels were dangerously down.

Despite the fact it was widely considered to be a one off, Callaghan appointed a drought minister, Denis Howell, and, hey presto, it began to rain a few days later, over the August bank holiday. However, the population was 20% smaller then and there were no water-sapping data centres. There were fewer arguments about land management, but also fewer wildfires. It was, wrote Herefordshire farmer and author Evelyn Cox, ‘a shared experience unlike any other in Britain since the Blitz’. What has the country learned since?

Not enough, it seems, despite more sophisticated weather forecasting and greater awareness of a changing climate. As we reported last month, there have been no new reservoirs built for 34 years and those in the pipeline are years off completion. Some water companies remain complacent and have done lamentably little to stem leakage. Fish are gasping (the Environment Agency carried out 38 fish rescues on two West Midlands rivers alone) and many city dwellers are blissfully unaware that food shortages could loom as cattle run short of grass and crops wither.

However, as Defra made clear last week, at least the drought is galvanising action: greater investment in infrastructure by water companies, research into desalination and less red tape for farmers and landowners, not to mention a bit of common sense on the part of the public. It even prompted the Prime Minister to send the an emergency alert linked to the wildfires.

Even Natural England is beginning to consider fuel management to combat wildfires. We’re all in it together, just as we were half a century ago.

This feature originally appeared in the August 19, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

It’s the time we look forward to all year: those precious summer weeks when we get to escape our routines and head off on holiday with loved ones. Our busy lives mean it’s rare to get quality time with those we care about, whether you’re enjoying an adventure-filled family holiday or a romantic retreat away from the crowds, the last thing you want is worries about home spoiling the fun.

Imagine it’s your first day away and you’re just getting settled on the beach when your phone pings with a delivery confirmation from a courier company. The photograph doesn’t look anything like your doorstep, and the courier is long gone. Or your neighbour messages to say they’ve seen suspicious characters going door-to-door in the area – when you’re far from home worries like these are enough to ruin a trip.

Indeed, recent research by smart home security experts Reolink found that peace of mind decreases in proportion to time spent away. They discovered that while 70% of individuals felt comfortable leaving their home for a weekend, that figure falls to 58% for a week-long trip, and to 44% for a two-week absence.

Millions of customers worldwide rely on Reolink, and Country Manager Ali Park is all too familiar with the concerns of those heading off on holiday: ‘We always tell people there is plenty they can do before they leave to keep their property secure, and the most important thing is creating the impression that your house is occupied,’ he explains.

‘You can make the house appear lived in with automatic switches to turn your lights on at night, and cancel any milk or newspaper deliveries, redirect parcels to a neighbour and ask a friend to collect your post for you. Always store valuable items in a safe, and make sure all other valuables are hidden from view. You must also be careful not to post anything online which suggests you’re away. And, finally, many people invest in a burglar alarm and/or video surveillance for their property,’ he concludes.

‘Of course alarms are a great layer of security, and a potential deterrent, but technology today allows for so much more,’ continues Ali. ‘Popular options this year include our Argus MagiCam, which provides a live video feed through its app. It is cable free, and can be mounted anywhere inside or outside the house instantly, making it an invaluable piece of kit for temporary security set-ups; meanwhile the Battery Video Doorbell 2nd Gen sends instant real-time video alerts and package notifications straight to your phone as soon as the bell is pressed.’

‘People find it easier to relax when they know they have live eyes and ears on the ground, wherever they are in the world, and we pride ourselves on providing exactly that.’

Going on holiday should be about enjoying every moment you’re there making memories, so taking the right precautions before you leave is worth the effort. And whether you’re the type of person who logs on three times a day to check what the cats have been up to, or just want to know who’s at the door when the bell rings, your future self is guaranteed to be thankful it’s taken care of as they paddleboard off into the sunset.

Visit the Reolink website to find out more about smart home security.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published at 4pm.

Missed a day? Want more quizzes? Catch up with all our previous quizzes here.

There are, occasionally, houses that make you stop and stare. Not the ones often featured in the pages of this magazine; palaces and manors and halls of almost unimaginable provenance, size and history. But rather homes in special settings, decorated with care and places that you can imagine yourself living in. ‘This is the kind of place I would live in,’ you say to yourself. A window into your own future.

I’ve always liked the West Country, and I’ve always liked Gothic revival homes. I’ve always like strong pastels and cast-iron staircases. I’ve always liked the idea of living by the seaside. I don’t know much about Portishead the place but I’m a huge fan of Portishead the band. There is a lot to like about Woodside.

For sale with By Design for offers in excess of £1.5 million, Woodside can be found on Woodlands Road, right on the edge of the Bristol Channel. Built in about 1840 and listed Grade II, the property retains so much of its sensational historical character, but as you can see from the wonderful photos, has been modernised sympathetically throughout.

There’s a lot to like about Woodside. Set over three floors, the property offers five bedrooms and four reception rooms, all of which have been beautifully appointed by the current owners.

The real beauty of the property comes with its quirks. The principal bedroom suite comes with two terraces, one of which can be found in the bedroom and the other in the en-suite bathroom. A balcony can be found attached to the reception room on the second floor, which comes with a spiral staircase that leads down to the garden. There is also an ‘office pod’, which is ideal for the home workers among us.

But enough about the inside, because the outside is equally as elegant. Secluded, but not isolated, Woodside is just that, sandwiched between the Bristol Channel and a sublime leafy setting behind. As the photographs show, the sunsets must be magical.

Portishead itself is on the doorstep (not that you could tell) as are the many amenities on offer from this seaside town. Bristol itself is a 20-minute drive, and the airport is within 10 miles. The Portishead railway is scheduled to reopen by 2028, with direct services to Bristol Temple Meads.

Woodside is for sale with By Design for offers in excess of £1.5 million. For more information and pictures, click here.

'Old old England, lands of golden peace,/Thy fields are spun with gossameres of gold,/And golden garners gather thy increase.’ Thus wrote poet and Nobel prize-winner Sir Ronald Ross in 1914, as war cast a shadow over the British countryside.

The ‘golden peace’ of our cereal fields remains central to our national identity today, spanning three million hectares of land, from the rolling chalk hills of the South Downs to the flat Fenlands of East Anglia, known as the bread basket of Britain. Swathes of sun-coloured crops brighten many of our most beloved artworks, too.

At first glance, Thomas Gainsborough’s Mr and Mrs Andrews, of about 1750, appears to focus on the couple taking repose at their Suffolk farm after a shooting expedition. Then, however, the eye journeys across the fields, following rows of stubble to the fruits of their land: plump sheaves of corn — emblems of productivity, property and pride.

In Reapers (1785), George Stubbs, too, shows the landowner taking in the bounty of his estate. Seated on horseback, the master towers over the workers as they slice into the wheat with their sickles. The reassuringly familiar sight of this honey-coloured landscape lingered in the consciousness of John Constable, the son of a corn merchant.

‘I live almost wholly in the fields and see nobody but the harvest men,’ he wrote in August 1815, as he worked on The Wheat Field, a subject that his son, Lionel, resumed in his own work. Framed by poppies and featuring children in bonnets gathering discarded crops as if they were bouquets of flowers, the elder Constable scene offers up an idyllic image of the harvest, where even the accoutrements of a picnic appear to loll in the sun.

Fifty years later, with agriculture radically reshaped by industrialisation, John Linnell’s nostalgic Reapers, Noonday Rest is even more storybook, depicting labourers sleeping beneath a shelter made of hay sheaves as their obedient dog watches over the harvest.

By the time Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles came out in 1891, the cereal field had become the site of a battle between tradition and technology. Although his heroine clings to the past, ‘holding the corn in an embrace like that of a lover’, the sheaves she gathers are now ‘gulped down’ by a ‘buzzing red glutton’ in the form of a steam-powered threshing machine.

Later, artists made technology part of the tableau. The bold geometric forms of modern intrusions such as telegraph poles or a wind engine add drama to Eric Ravilious’s ash-blond fields. A cherry-red tractor contrasted against a backdrop of yellow wheat is a recurrent motif in the naive art of Gary Bunt. We experience these scenes through the eyes of a farmer in cap and braces who populates many of his paintings, gazing out at a sea of corn or napping in a squashy haystack.

Cereal fields, so crucial to our survival, have long been associated with reproduction. Romans worshipped Ceres, the goddess of agriculture and fertility (from whom the word ‘cereal’ is derived), and sprinkled grains on the animals sacrificed to her. In Britain and elsewhere, it was believed that the grain spirit dwelled in the fields and so corn dollies were woven from the last sheaf, to preserve its life force throughout winter.

Writers have drawn on this rich mythology, making the grain field a potent symbol of fecundity and passion. For 18th-century poet James Thomson, author of the extended meditation The Seasons, it is the stage for a burgeoning romance. When ‘Autumn nod- ding o’er the yellow plain/Comes jovial on’ and the harvesting season begins, landowner Palemon is drawn to the unassuming Lavinia, a gleaner who is gathering leftover crops in ‘soft-inclining fields of corn’.

In L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between of 1953, there is intrigue at play as the thickly growing crop fields help conceal an illicit exchange of letters between tenant farmer Ted Burgess and his social superior Marian Maudsley, facilitated by the young Leo Colston, a guest at her Norfolk home, Brandham Hall. The cornfield echoes Burgess’s virility and fluctuating power. At first, he is as ‘ripe for reaping’ as the corn he cultivates, we read; but, when he learns of Maudsley’s engagement to Lord Trimingham, he becomes ‘like corn that had been cut and left in the sun… the husk of the man he had been’.

Far away, in the sun-baked Tuscan hills, it was reportedly the lack of a suitable filming location that led Merchant Ivory to reimagine the famous kiss scene in the 1985 adaptation of E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View (1908). However, perhaps it was also the fitting symbolism of a ripening cereal field interspersed with flushes of red that saw a bank ‘carpeted with violets’ replaced by a ‘wavering golden sea of barley touched with crimson stains of poppies’.

In 1832, in Lord Tennyson’s lyrical ballad The Lady of Shalott, the humble cereal was already playing cupid, with the ‘long fields of barley and of rye,/That clothe the wold and meet the sky’ suggesting the sensuous natural world that the Lady of Shalott, imprisoned in a tower, is forbidden to look at directly.

Riding ‘between the barley-sheaves’ as he canters into Camelot comes the handsome Sir Lancelot — an image that is enough to make one blush and does not escape the attention of the Lady of Shalott, who, spying him in her mirror, casts her weaving aside and cranes her neck out the window. Curse or no curse, his ‘coal-black curls’ and ‘mighty silver bugle’ are more than she can resist.

Grain fields acquired a new poignancy in the early 20th century as Britain emerged from the First World War, the calm order of their long, neat lines offering something soothing after years of chaos. In peacetime’s early years, painter John Nash returned to the cereal field time and time again, creating preparatory sketches amid the Chiltern Hills of his beloved Buckinghamshire.

The most famous of these would become The Cornfield (1918): a striped landscape foregrounded by corn sheaves cinched at the waist that bend and tilt like a procession of ballerinas. It was painted, he once remarked, ‘in sheer relief at being still alive and back in the English countryside’. The visual spectacle of our golden crops, stretching as far as the eye can see, still speaks to the most creative spirits.

Often overlooked in the oeuvre of David Hockney, who died in June, are his vibrant wheatfield paintings. Most were made en plein air in the mid 2000s when he returned to East Yorkshire, where, as a schoolboy, he worked in the fields stooking corn. In Wheat Field Near Fridaythorpe, a crisp, uncut crop looms like a giant piece of toast and the energetic strokes of Wheat Field off Woldgate convey the ceaseless movement of the wheat in the wind.

‘The camera can’t get the beauty of this,’ he stated at the time. ‘It just can’t get the space, the thrilling space.’

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

It has been a summer of prickles and rashes, splinters, scrapes and scratches, a season of bites and stings: so let me take you to the kitchen, after dark. A soft batting at the window, against the glass. The shutters are closed, but not fixed, allowing a small column of light from the room to filter out into the night.

The tapping goes on, until I pull back the shutters to reveal a dozen hornets, grinning at me through the glass and crawling up the glazing bars. Gently, I shut the shutters again.

Personally, I am soft on hornets, who munch up caterpillars to feed to their young, and thereby help spare the cabbages, and perhaps the box. Now, however, they are nesting in the outshut roof, members of a class of scratching, stinging, spiky things that has been pursuing me all through the summer and has left me itchy and sore.

For the first time in years, I have been wearing shorts. Nettles plunge at my legs. Brambles reach out from hedges and verges (and even garden borders) to scratch and prick. Thorns sprout from unexpected places, such as plum trees. Gooseberry bushes give a sudden snap. The tip of my thumb, which has been sensitive and sore for a few days, calls for more pricking and poking, with a needle, until the thorn can be squeezed and winkled out.

Yet how lovely are the long dry grasses, susurrating in the summer heat. Into them I plunge with the dogs and on the tip of every waving frond there is a miniscule tick, no larger than the full stop at the end of this sentence, poised to leap as I swish by. Invisible, it scrambles upwards and every day or so a persistent itch reveals its author: the monster insect fattening on my blood.

It isn’t only intractable nature. Inanimate things are out to get me, too. A snapping pair of shears pinched the side of my finger and raised a blood blister. On the beach, as a friend stopped to chat up some lounging girls, I waited with him for so long that my feet got burnt on the flaming pebbles and all my toes blistered. Nature and mechanics conspire.

Riding on the new mower, I feel the horseflies rise indignant from the fallen grass to settle on my neck, arms and legs (we even have a particular local stinger, the Blandford Fly, which does its work silently and discreetly: you aren’t aware of it until it is too late).

This mower has an accelerator where the old one had a brake, so I have driven it hard — and then harder — into a holly hedge, grazing my shins on a hidden branch. I snag long brambles under the front wheels, which then unexpectedly draw tight and lacerate my calves or trail a bunch of nettles across my ankles.

I have been driving splinters under my nails and nails through my shoes. I have been bitten by ants as I lay peaceably on the grass. I have been pricked by holly and mahonia, brambles and briars, wild roses, nettles and echinops. I’ve been all but goosed by Miss Willmott’s ghost.

After I took my Niwaki trowel to the Niwaki emporium and had it sharpened, I immediately slashed my finger and spent an evening at Minor Injuries, next to the VD clinic. Of course, you might say it’s all my fault for being careless and gung-ho, wearing shorts in the heat and not thick gloves. I think it’s nature, tugging at my sleeve; biting back.

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The River Ardle valley in Highland Perthshire, once the hunting ground of the kings of Scotland, is a quietly dramatic landscape of heather hills and open moorland giving way to rolling farmland, riverside pastures and banks of native woodland. It provides a colourful seasonal backdrop to historic, 2,018-acre Balvarran estate near Enochdhu in Strathardle, now for sale for ‘offers over £5.25 million’ through the Edinburgh office of Strutt & Parker.

The property has been owned on and off from the late 18th century to the present day by the Stormonth Darling family and has been a much-loved and cared-for family home. However, it is little known even by those familiar with the local lively sporting scene, observes selling agent Robert McCulloch, who describes it as ‘a hidden gem of an estate’.

Balvarran, 12 miles north-east of Pitlochry, was the ancient home of the Barons Reid from 1554, when the Earl of Atholl granted the lands of Inverchroskie to John Reid, the 4th Baron, who built his house there and named it Balvarran, which means ‘township of the baron’.

The 7th Baron built the oldest part of the present house, which was completed in 1641. However, despite paying his dues to the Royalist Earl of Atholl, he was arbitrarily fined under punitive measures instituted by the English Parliament, which saw Balvarran set on fire by the Marquess of Montrose and his troops in 1644.

The last of the Reids to own Balvarran was the 15th Baron, Gen John Reid, during whose lifetime the estate was put into a trust, with James Stormonth of Lednathie one of several trustees. As the sole surviving trustee, Stormonth sold Balvarran in 1776 to a fellow lawyer, but retained an option to buy it back, which he did in 1781, establishing a new trust for the benefit of the Darling family in 1805. Balvarran was later sold again, before returning to Stormonth’s descendants in 1864, following its acquisition by his great-great-nephew, Moir, Lord Stormonth Darling, a former Solicitor General for Scotland.

The expansion and embellishment of the house, which is now listed Category B, followed in 1895 with the addition of a new porch and billiards room, together with kennels and stables designed by eminent Scottish architect Sir Robert Lorimer. Further improvements took place in the 1960s and the late 1980s, with the addition of an additional reception room and an indoor swimming pool.

Built of stone under pitched slate roofs, the house stands more than 1,000ft above sea level, overlooking lush lawns fringed by rhododendrons and azaleas with the main façade facing south-west across Strathardle.

A striking feature of the exterior is its colour, which reflects its original iron-oxide lime render, a rarity among traditional Scottish country houses. The accommodation is laid out over two main floors with attics above and includes a large kitchen/breakfast room, five good reception rooms (one the billiards room), nine bedrooms and six bathrooms, plus an office, gun room, flower room, plant/boiler room and temperature-controlled wine cellar.

Additional dwellings comprise the original coach house and six further houses and cottages. The land holding is some 55 acres of permanent pasture, 189 acres of rough grazing, 98 of woods, 1,651 of hill ground and 25 of roads and buildings. For fieldsports devotees, there is grouse- shooting on the hill ground; this is managed on a light-touch basis and allows for a few days of walked-up shooting for modest, but hard-earned bags. There is no formal shoot, although the woods and game crops offer scope to develop driven game shooting in the future.

A relatively high deer population in this part of Perthshire means that Balvarran provides unusually prolific red-deer stalking and a mile or so of salmon fishing includes several pools on the upper River Ardle — fishing can take place in appropriate spate conditions during the second half of the season.

For more information on this property visit Strutt & Parker's website.

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

A row over the future direction of the charred remains of the Mackintosh building at the Glasgow School of Art (GSA) is almost as ferocious as the two fires that all but destroyed it in 2014 and 2018.

In July, the GSA, the Mack’s custodian, revealed that rather than pursue a faithful rebuild of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh masterpiece, it would ‘create museum standard interpretations of the building that will exist alongside its retained architectural elements’, so preserving the surviving shell, but replacing the original interior with a new building. It reasoned that the full reinstatement cost of £265 million — the ‘equivalent to five times the GSA’s annual turnover’ — would compromise its financial stability and that it could not contemplate such a project on its own.

Given that the current reservicing of Buckingham Palace is estimated to cost £370 million, the sum needed for the reconstruction of the Mackintosh Building is well within the sort of budgets demanded by major work on historic buildings of this importance (repairing Notre Dame cost about £726 million).

Ann Priest, chair of governors, also stated that the GSA had already ‘demonstrated that its ability to operate — and indeed thrive — is not dependent on the Mackintosh Building’. But, the GSA is responsible for its condition as the custodian of a Category A listed building.

Architectural historians, architects, heritage bodies and members of the public, many frustrated by years of inaction, hit back at the move away from a faithful reconstruction, with the Charles Rennie Mackintosh Society (CRM Society) going as far as to advocate that the GSA transfers its custodial responsibilities and the reconstruction to a newly formed independent body of heritage building experts. Its director Matthew Williams stated: ‘The society… is in the best position to galvanise support and bring together under one banner those who want the Mackintosh building restored to its rightful place as Scotland’s finest 20th-century building.’

The Victorian Society’s director James Hughes said that the GSA’s plans should serve as a call to action: ‘Glasgow School of Art has acknowledged that a project of this scale cannot be delivered alone. We hope this becomes the catalyst for a national — even international — partnership to secure the faithful reinstatement of one of the defining works of modern architecture.’ Paul Sweeney, the Labour MSP for Glasgow, argues that it should be placed into ‘the custody of a new joint venture vehicle, a restoration corporation, to pull everyone together’

Prof Alan Dunlop of the eponymous architectural practice called the proposals ‘utterly soulless’; ‘catastrophic’ was the verdict of architect and former Glasgow School of Art lecturer Gordon Gibb; and Malcolm Fraser of Livingstone Architects wrote: ‘The idea of the Mack “partially rebuilt” in some modern, shoddy way is an obscenity.’ Fraser, together with GSA professor Johnny Rodger, has launched a campaign, Rebuild the Mack, and, on their new online platform, they have contrasted the situation with the swift rebuilding of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris: ‘The comparison… shames us, as France’s most cherished building burnt one year after our second fire, but is now gloriously rebuilt, yet the Mack still stands as four gaunt walls round a sepulchral void.’

They are also in the process of pulling together a consortia that already includes trusts, academics and architects and more than 6,000 signed-up supporters. ‘We believe that the GSA should relinquish ownership, responsibility, optimism and care, plus the amount they settled on from insurers and other relevant sums, to a Mack trust formed with the CRM Society at its core, but as a Special Project Vehicle, with the best advice from Scottish heritage trusts and other building professionals,’ Fraser told Country Life, adding that, following discussions with the CRM Society, a partnership with this body is the obvious next step. A petition to ‘fully and faithfully’ restore the Mack has been launched by Glasgow-based architect Ruairidh Moir, who seeks 100,000 signatures.

A GSA spokesperson told Country Life: ‘The GSA remains committed to exploring every opportunity for the Mackintosh building to be rebuilt. We have begun conversations with stakeholders about potential partnerships and these discussions are ongoing.’

Architect Charles Rennie Mackintosh is best remembered for the GSA, which took shape when John Honeyman & Keppie, a firm he joined as a draughtsman in 1889, won a design competition for a new building. Completed in 1909, the GSA was admired internationally as one of the greatest achievements of the Arts-and-Crafts Movement. The May 2014 fire severely damaged the west wing and completely destroyed the world-renowned library. A £35 million restoration was all but complete when the second fire ravaged the entire building

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Last week, a friend, who shall remain nameless, took his watch, the brand of which will also remain nameless, to the shop that it came from for some necessary repair work. It is an expensive sailing watch, gifted to him by his wife on the occasion of their wedding, so he wore it while competing in a few sailing competitions. It was, unsurprisingly, a bit salty. The shop staff were baffled, but overjoyed. According to them, my friend was their first customer to use the watch as it was intended to be used and to make the most of its extraordinary roster of features.

Sure, these watches work just as well accessorised with a suit in London’s Square Mile, but you wouldn’t buy a speedy sports car and take it to Tesco. Luxury watches and cars are beautiful feats of impressive engineering and not using them to their full potential is a middle finger to the brains behind them. (The exception here is the proliferation of timepieces designed to operate in space. I’m not suggesting you all retrain as astronauts.)

Enter Seiko’s new offering. The Prospex Mechanical PADI 60th Anniversary Limited Edition ‘King Turtle’ watch, designed for another watery pursuit — diving. Seiko is a Japanese manufacturer of watches, clocks and electronic devices. It was founded in 1881 and is probably most famous for producing the world’s first commercial quartz wristwatch in 1969 and Japan's first diver's watch, rated to 150 metres, in 1965. This year, they’re celebrating a decade of collaboration with the Professional Association of Diving Instructors (PADI).

PADI is the world's largest recreational scuba-diving membership and training organisation, and operates through thousands of dive centers in more than 180 countries. It has certified more than 30 million divers globally — that’s a lot of available wrist space.

The Turtle design is one of Seiko’s most recognisable dive watch shapes and gets its name from the cushion-shape case, which resembles the animal’s shell. This latest iteration is water resistant to 200 metres which is more than you’ll likely ever need because while advanced recreational divers can sometimes reach 40 metres, only extreme technical divers can push past the 100 metre mark.

The day-date display has a handy magnifier tool and the hands and indices are coated in Seiko’s Lumibrite, a luminous paint that absorbs light quickly and glows briefly in the dark, so that you can tell the time in murkier conditions. Most importantly, the bezel can only rotate anticlockwise so you can track time spent underwater, safe in the knowledge that you cannot knock it clockwise, which would make it appear as though less time has elapsed.

The timepiece comes with a deep blue dial, to symbolise the colour of the ocean, and two straps. The silicone one (above) is designed to fit over a wetsuit.

Limited to 8,000 pieces, the King Turtle is remarkably well priced (from £650), especially considering its blue ceramic bezel, scratch-resistant sapphire crystal case and excellent construction.

Before you buy, however, please ask yourself where and when you’re going to wear such a wonderful thing. Afterall, the greatest luxury is not just owning a watch capable of going 200 metres beneath the surface, but having the good sense to take it there.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published at 4pm.

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It’s a question we have all asked ourselves. ‘If you could live in a big windmill, by the seaside, would you do it?’ Surely, there can only be one answer, which is: yes. Who wouldn’t want to live in a big windmill by the sea? It is surely the very essence of the English ideal.

Here is a big windmill by the sea that you could live in, if you like. It is in Cley-next-the-Sea, and it is for sale with Strutt & Parker for the very reasonable sum of £2.65 million. There are, as you might expect, lots of nice views from the windmill, and Cley is one of the county’s better seaside villages, as you can discover by reading Patrick Galbraith’s essay on learning about the lives of the people who live there.

You might say that £2.65 million is a bit of cash for a windmill, but the property is so much more than a windmill. Over the entire complex, nine bedrooms (all en-suite) can be found, with six within the iconic mill, and three further rooms in the outbuildings and courtyard.

The property in its current form is used as a guest house and wedding venue, with plenty of local recognition and repeat business, making it a great opportunity to buy a business and hit the ground running. But I would buy the windmill to make it my home, because I have always wanted to live in a windmill and this is a hypothetical situation where I can do what I like.

The property has been carefully restored, renovated and modernised by its current owners to create a chic, comfortable, rustic and luxurious feel, combining the Grade II*-listed tower’s fascinating history with all the modern conveniences that any self-respecting 21st-century windmill owner would want. Can a windmill be considered a turnkey property? If any can, it’s this one.

The situation sees the windmill within 0.6 acres of gardens right next to the River Glaven and looking out across the marshes to the North Sea beyond. All around you is the Norfolk Coast National Landscape, with the lashings of wildlife and scenery within view in every direction from the tower. All definitely worth getting in a spin over.

Cley Windmill is for sale with Strutt & Parker for £2.65 million. For more information and pictures, click here

Robert Parker stands in the hall by a cabinet that contains 29 wooden dolls, each about 6in high and dressed in the habit of a different religious order or group within the Roman Catholic clergy.

Nuns are grouped to the right and male figures — with two female interlopers — to the left. The figure enthroned beneath a canopy in the centre is presumably intended to represent the Pope, but, confusingly, seems to have acquired the hat belonging to the cardinal dressed in crimson. The set was probably made in the 18th century.

Browsholme, which stands in the Forest of Bowland, has been in the Parker family since the 14th century. Thomas Lister Parker, who became the heir when a minor in 1794, was particularly important in developing its exceptionally rich and diverse collections of art and curios.

An enthusiastic and well-travelled antiquarian, he published Description of Browsholme Hall (1815), which illustrated the building and the principal objects of historical interest on display within it.

‘It is hard to know where, when or why this object was collected,’ notes Parker. ‘A 1777 catalogue of the contents of Cowdray House, West Sussex, noted a glass case in the Breakfast Room “with Figures and Dresses of the different orders in the Church of Rome”. Most of Cowdray’s contents were destroyed in a terrible fire in 1793, but it’s possible that this item survived and made its way to Browsholme.’

For more information and how to visit, click here.

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Turkey’s turquoise coast has long lured sailors with its spectacular waters, leafy landscapes and pristine coves. Ahãma’s setting on Günlüklü Bay delivers all of the above in the secluded embrace of a dense forest of native sığla trees, where red squirrels run and birds gather.

The hotel is rooted firmly in its environment and consists of a village-like sprinkling of rooms, restaurants and recreational extras that run the gamut from a DJ-soundtracked beach club to a specialised sound-healing temple, making for the most well-rounded of stays.

And with a sun-kissed season that begins in early May and extends well into October, it makes for the perfect pre- and post-school-holidays escape when fewer yachts crowd its enviable waters.

The rooms

There are blocks of adjoining guest houses set against rocky backdrops that look out over the pool, a series of standalone cabanas in various sizes are scattered where the treeline meets the beach, and one private villa that sleeps up to six is tucked discretely into the edge of the bay (which comes with its own infinity pool, private beach and butler service).

All are decorated to reflect the natural surroundings — lots of earthy tones, tactile fabrics, worn woods and stone fixtures — and have a seating area out front, ideal for reclining and listening to the lapping waves and the calls of the resident peacocks.

It might take you a minute to get your bearings on site, but staff provide a handy map and can be summoned by WhatsApp at any time (and will helpfully keep you posted on any upcoming activities should you wish to partake).

Eating and drinking

Ahãma’s menu of dining options is impressive and varied. Mezcla is the shoreside beach club where laidback Mexican lunches can be served straight to your sunbed. Ege, on the eastern side of the bay, is the signature restaurant where fresh fish and local ingredients take centre stage. Just behind it, the aptly named Glasshouse is where Turkish breakfasts and mezze lunches are served. Ay, a more modern take on a traditional ocakbaşı grill, occupies the western edge of the bay and is perhaps the most theatrical and convivial where the smell of charcoal is carried on the sea breeze and conversation flows well into the night.

If there’s a chance to join a communal lunch on the remote ‘Silent Beach’ while you’re there, take it — it’s best accessed by boat and allows you to look back over Ahãma while feasting among the forest.

How they’ll keep you busy

While nominally a ‘resort’, the word doesn’t quite do justice to Ahãma which feels more like it has organically evolved around the bay rather than being built upon it.

You can, of course, opt to do very little — lounge by the pool, sunbathe on the beach, indulge in soothing spa treatments. But there’s enough here to keep you occupied for a few days: pickleball courts, an indoor/outdoor gym, bikes to borrow, hiking trails, secluded beach lunches, morning yoga sessions in a clifftop shala, a sound-bath temple, a marble-hewn hammam (the best I’ve ever experienced, for what it’s worth), evening fire rituals, stargazing by night and, quite incongruously, a pair of rescued and rehabilitated emus to befriend as they roam around the grounds.

What else to do while you’re there

You absolutely must take to the water. Whether you’re a veteran sailor or a casual sea-splasher, the crystalline waters in every shade of blue imaginable have to be seen up close to be believed.

The hotel can arrange four-hour boat excursions past verdant islands with the opportunity to swim, paddleboard, snorkel and toast the pastel-pink sunset.

The harbour town of Göcek, 20 minutes drive to the west, is a buzzy yachtie hub and a gateway to a string of picturesque islands. Fethiye, 30 minutes east, is built upon the Lycian city of Telmessos and is suitably rich in history with a charming old town, ancient tombs and ruins, and a protected lagoon.

Who is it for?

The appeal to the yacht lot is evident — it couldn’t be easier to anchor in the bay and hop ashore for some on-land relaxation. But it holds equal appeal to those seeking a wellness retreat with a natural connection, or anyone craving some coastal seclusion without scrimping on potential activities.

What gives it the ‘wow’ factor?

Not only do you have an entire sweeping bay to yourself at Ahãma, but the way the secluded forest gives way to that sparkling shoreline is quite the natural spectacle. The ducks, swans, peacocks, emus and other abundant birdlife seem to agree too.

The one thing we’d change

Breakfast can occasionally happen at quite a languorous pace — fine if you’ve got a plan-free day but worth being mindful of if you’re on a tight schedule.

For more information and to book, visit the Ahãma website.

There was once a French nobleman by the name of the Marquis d’Albignac. Impoverished by the Revolution, he fled Paris for London and one day found himself in a tavern renowned for roasting the finest beef in town. As he was polishing off his superlative piece of sirloin, a well-bred young man approached, and asked whether he was French. ‘Mais oui,’ he replied. ‘Well, then,’ came back the Young Buck, ‘we hear that your country excels in the art of making salads. Would you be so kind as to make us a dressing?’

After a little hesitation, the Marquis agreed, mixing his vinegar and oil with expert élan. The dressing was a resounding success, the gentleman took his address and he was tipped most generously for his efforts. A few days later, the Marquis was summoned to dress a salad in one of London’s grandest houses. Stocking up on ingredients, he arrived on time and whipped up another stirring symphony, which was met with an even more rapturous response — as well as an even more lavish tip.

From that moment on, D’Albignac became known as the ‘fashionable salad dresser’, quickly becoming the darling of London’s beau monde. Such was his renown that he struggled to keep up with demand, racing from one mansion to another in a brand-new Brougham carriage, specially fitted with a bespoke mahogany work box. This contained oils of every hue and flavour, rare vinegars, caviar, truffles, ketchup, meat essence, egg yolks and everything else needed to work his magical melanges.

Soon, his clients begged him for their own versions of his box. He duly obliged, knocking them out by the hundred, and quickly amassed a small fortune. He returned to France a rich man, retiring to a small country estate in Limousin — which goes to show that salad dressings are always a serious business.

A dressing can be as simple as a sprinkle of salt and a dribble of oil — the sweetest summer tomatoes, picked warm from the vine, need nothing more — or as fiendishly, fantastically complex as a Diophantine equation.

You’ll find them in every culture, made with oil and vinegar, sour cream and mayonnaise, soy sauce, tahini, lime juice and sesame. They use pine nuts and cheese, spices and herbs, buttermilk, ketchup, anchovies and eggs. Without dressing, salad is little more than an incongruous jumble of clueless vegetation, a listless rabble of gormless green — the dressing’s job is to unite. Like a brilliant conductor, great dressings draw together dissonant noises into one harmonious whole.

Classic vinaigrette

As ancient a combination as bread and olives, the alchemical emulsion that the French call ‘vinaigrette’ is perhaps the most classic and best known of salad dressings. I prefer one part vinegar (red or white wine are the French classics, although sherry, balsamic and apple all have their fans) to four parts oil.

I know, I know, many recipes recommend three to one, but dressings are an intensely personal thing. One man’s mellow is another’s overbearing. Sometimes, I feel an urge for walnut oil, others, a peppery Tuscan Laudemio Frescobaldi or something fresh and fruity from Provence.

I use what is good and close to hand — the joy of vinaigrette lies in the endless variations on a theme and the final call is yours. Always start by mixing the vinegar and salt, then add your flavourings (mustard, perhaps, or minced garlic). Pour the oil in a slow stream, mixing or whisking all the time. Keep tasting.

This will keep in the fridge for up to a week, although anything involving fresh herbs and garlic is best used within three days. When dressing the leaves, use the biggest salad bowl you can find (preferably wooden) and mix with your hands (or salad servers if you must) at the last possible moment before eating. You want enough to ensure each leaf glistens like a Greek warrior, but not so much that they drown. Eat sharpish.

Spring

Wild-garlic vinaigrette is the very essence of spring and is as good on crisp endive as it is on cold asparagus.

Ingredients (enough for two big salads)

• 1tbspn white-wine vinegar
• Big pinch of salt
• Hearty screw of fresh black pepper
• 1tspn Colman’s English Mustard powder
• 4tbspn good olive oil (I like something soft and easy, such as Perelló Extra Virgin Olive Oil from Brindisa)
• Handful of wild-garlic leaves, roughly chopped

Method

Mix vinegar, salt, pepper and mustard in a small bowl or clean jam jar with lid.

Add the olive oil in a gentle trickle, mixing as you go. Or simply put all the ingredients into a clean jam jar, screw on the lid and shake.

Mix in chopped wild garlic and serve.

Summer

South-East Asian dressings are all about punch, acidity and vim, usually involving some combination of fish sauce, lime juice, sugar and chilli. One of my very favourites is the prik nam pla used to dress a Laotian larb, or minced meat salad.

Just combine equal amounts of fish sauce and fresh lime juice and throw in as many bird’s eye chillies as you dare.

Nuoc mam cho goi (fish sauce for salad)

The recipe below comes from a brilliant book called Vietnam: The Cookbook by Anaïs Ca Dao Van Manen. It’s rather more mellow and works wonders on noodle salads with prawns and fresh trout. Better still, it can be easily transported in a bottle to Ascot and Glyndebourne, where it adds instant zing.

Ingredients (enough for two big salads)

• 35g garlic, finely minced (I use a fine Microplane grater)
• 1 long red chilli, finely sliced (or 2 bird’s eye chillies, for more of a kick)
• 85ml fresh lime juice (about 3 limes)
• 75g white sugar
• 65ml fish sauce

Methos

Mix garlic and chilli with fish sauce in a small bowl. Add the sugar and lime juice and stir until the sugar is completely dissolved.

Autumn

As nights draw in, all thoughts turn to comfort, but it’s not quite time to bid summer adieu, hence an iceberg wedge salad with blue-cheese dressing, where the pert and crisp meet the creamily soothing.

With the obvious exception of that Tijuana-born beauty, the Caesar salad, I have little time for creamy dressings and I find the popularity (in the US, at least) of ranch and thousand-island dressings baffling. Made properly, they have their place, I suppose, but too often, they’re a cloyingly gloopy mess, bound together with cheap emulsifiers and second-rate ingredients.

Iceberg wedge salad

This is an American classic, from food writer Marion Cunningham in Saveur Cooks: Authentic American.

Ingredients (serves 2-4)

• 1 head iceberg lettuce
• 120ml sour cream
• 120ml mayonnaise
• 2 spring onions, minced
• 2–3tbspn lemon juice
• 120g of mildish, creamy blue cheese (Dorset Blue Vinny is ideal)
• Freshly ground black pepper

Method

To make the salad, remove the core from the iceberg lettuce by banging the core end sharply on a counter. Then, grab the core, twist and pull. It will separate cleanly. Plunge the cored head of iceberg forcefully into a sinkful of cold water. Drain, wrap in a towel, and refrigerate overnight.

Combine the sour cream, mayonnaise, spring onions and lemon juice in a bowl and mix well. Stir in the cheese, cover with plastic wrap, then refrigerate for at least four hours.

To serve, cut the lettuce into four large wedges, spoon the dressing over it and season generously with pepper.

Winter

It’s cold, it’s dark and you’re looking for something with a little more heft. Pasta salad, I hear you cry. Get thee away, Satan. The only place for a pasta salad is the compost heap. Beans? Well, that’s a whole different matter, tumbled with masses of herbs and chillies, in a sharp, lemon-heavy dressing. Bliss.

Better still, is the recipe here, made with bacon fat. I stumbled across it somewhere down in the Deep South of America, a place not exactly known for the delicacy of its salads. The hot dressing wilts the leaves, hence the name ‘killed’. This recipe comes from my book Let’s Eat Meat.

Killed salad

Ingredients (serves 4)

For the salad

• 8 rashers of smoked streaky bacon
• 2–3 romaine lettuce hearts, pulled apart
• 3 tomatoes, each cut into 6 wedges
• ½ red onion, thinly sliced

For the bacon vinaigrette

• 2tbspn white-wine vinegar
• 1tbspn runny honey
• Big pinch of mustard powder
• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
• About 6tbspn extra virgin olive oil

Method

Fry the bacon in a heavy-bottomed pan over a medium heat until crisp, then drain on kitchen paper, pour off the fat and reserve for the dressing. Crumble the bacon.

To make the vinaigrette, heat the vinegar, honey, mustard and salt and pepper in a small pan until warm, then whisk in the reserved bacon fat and enough olive oil to make up to 100ml/3½fl oz, until smooth and emulsified.

Arrange the lettuce leaves in a bowl, add the tomatoes and red onion, sprinkle with the bacon, then pour over the hot dressing. The leaves should wilt. Eat immediately.

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published at 4pm.

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There is no noise except the rush of exhaled bubbles and the loud hiss of breath, the deep water near the sea bed muting and magnifying the sound. Contrast that with loud voices bouncing metallically off stainless-steel surfaces, the dull thud of a knife on a chopping board, the jarring clatter of a saucepan meeting a hob and the explosive hiss of oil as cold, raw ingredients hit a searingly hot pan.

These two opposing worlds — one serenely and coolly underwater and one within the heat and clamour of a professional kitchen — blend in one man, Andrew Baird, executive head chef at Longueville Manor Hotel and Restaurant, which has three AA rosettes.

Most chefs worth their proverbial salt understand intimately how to curate, coax and compose ingredients to create a formidable dish, but Baird, who has worked at Michelin-keyholder Longueville for four frenetic decades, takes this several steps further and occasionally dives for the scallops that he serves up in the restaurant at supper time.

‘If there’s one area where I feel totally in tune with my ingredients, it’s with a scallop,’ says Baird quietly, the antithesis of many booming television chefs and a man more in harmony with the natural world than most. ‘I can be at the market and look at one and know immediately whether it’s fresh or has been defrosted.’

Three decades ago, this father of two — who is married to Eilish, a lawyer — began to collect these delicately sweet cylindrical shellfish nestled in fan-shaped shells himself. His partner in dive was Bob Titterington, a virtuoso at finding the best Pecten maximus Nature has to offer on the sea bed.

Today, a blindingly sunlit Tuesday in June, Baird has arranged to take me to the reefs and islets that make up Les Écréhous, six miles from the shoreline. We will rendezvous with Titterington and his nephew, Toby Woolley, plus Toby’s friend Harry Jones, on their rigid inflatable Humber, The Black Knight, before they backflip into the relatively shallow waters that encourage scallop growth in search of encased booty resting on the seabed.

Sitting on a bench seat on one of a trio of rigid inflatable boats (RIBs) run by Jersey Seafaris and with a font of local knowledge, co-director and skipper Dan Luce, at the helm, my cheeks are suddenly tugged taut, hair instantly untamed, sunhat sent skittering across the deck as he applies the throttle and Seafari Phoenix races effortlessly across the silken, still waters.

As we slow to a near halt and hear the piercing chee chee chee of oyster-catchers, an unexpected (for me anyway) smattering of houses that now function as holiday homes or fishermen’s refuges, comes into view. Luce reveals that one Philippe Pinel lived on this archipelago, initially on Maîtress Ile and then on Blanque Ile, for nearly half a century from the mid 1800s. What isolation, what fear when wild seas rose and all but engulfed his remote outpost.

Even before Pinel became a resident, this area was a magnet for oyster fishermen, but unregulated dredging devastated the beds and today’s key captures are lobster, crab and scallops, the latter often collected by hand. We pull alongside The Black Knight, the Seafari Phoenix bobbing in unison with her.

‘We dive four days a week and you’ve got to take the rough with the smooth. In the winter when it’s blowing, it’s not quite so wonderful. It’s also time-consuming and labour- intensive. They’re 14-hour days,’ shouts 64-year-old Titterington across the boat divide.

He began diving aged 13, in part to escape his land-locked allergies. He points out the nets and lift bags in which the flat-lidded, curved-bottomed scallops will be collected, the bags inflated underwater and sent to the surface when ready, the scallops being counted on the boat and placed into bins, sometimes graded and shelled, then delivered fresh that evening to restaurants.

There is a size restriction. Every shell collected must be no less than 105mm at its widest point. ‘Stocks are very good due to this warming, but the biggest threat is the predatory octopus that is now in the deeper waters of Guernsey,’ explains Titterington, adding that chef Baird has capitalised on the current boom time for scallops.

‘Andrew understands all about the tides and the weather and he used to do a lot of scallop diving himself so he gets the notion of the sustainability of picking by hand. Since we’ve been diving here, stocks have gone up in this area.’

Conversation over, Titterington slips beneath the sea’s surface and vanishes into the deep blue; Seafari Phoenix is throttled into life and we return rapidly to St Catherine’s Bay, unable to make ourselves heard over the roar of the wind and the engine, except that I catch Baird saying: ‘It’s not just a scallop to me any more. I know the blood, sweat and tears that goes into capturing every one.’

Back to the relative serenity of St Saviour and the luxury oasis that is Longueville Manor, Baird, nestled into a sofa, explains that, as a teenager, a stint of part-time work in a Cantonese restaurant close to the Sheffield home that he shared with his four siblings and divorced mother, a nurse and accomplished cake-maker, brought him into contact with never-before-encountered ingredients, igniting a life-long passion for food.

A touch of the rebel in him didn’t want to follow his father into cheffing — he was the head chef on The Master Cutler train service from Sheffield to London St Pancras — but the pull was too powerful and eschewing an almost equally strong desire to be a silversmith, he headed to catering college, where the new head of department was Kevin Woodford, later the BBC’s Ready Steady Cook frontman.

‘Within a couple of weeks I was enjoying college and starting to shine. I’d be making a consommé or a stock and whereas other people weren’t getting it, I was thriving.’ At 18 he found himself at The Ritz, where he honed his craft via ‘larger than life’ head chef Michael Quinn, at one point cooking for the Queen, and then he followed another culinary wizard, Barry Foster, to Jersey. ‘I’d never even heard of the place and the only way I could find out about it was to visit a travel agent and pick up a brochure.’

He arrived, lived in bedsit land and, aged 23, secured a job at Longueville Manor, also immersing himself in the local environment, learning to scuba dive, joining fishermen on their trawlers, foraging and studying the moon and the tides.

‘I looked at how I could take the ingredients around me and make them work for the hotel. A lot of chefs have come to me from some wonderful places and you send them to the garden to get some chervil and they’ll come back with carrot tops.

'Seeing people stumble made me realise that you can be a great chef, but it doesn’t mean that you understand where your ingredients come from and, until you do, I won’t say you’re fake, but you don’t know the whole package.’

This evening, in Longueville’s restaurant, where the diners murmur in low tones and my table is swathed in pristine white linen, I ponder whether I’ll plump for a starter of ceviche (raw) hand-dived local scallops, served with pickled rhubarb, blood orange and seaweed tuile, or hand-dived local scallops with salad leaves sourced from the hotel’s kitchen garden and drizzled with a smoked aioli dressing.

I choose the latter and discover from Baird after he has emerged from the kitchen in his chef’s whites that these were ‘cleaned and lightly seasoned, then placed in a heavy cast-iron pan with a drizzle of oil and pan fried for 40 seconds before being finished with homemade garlic butter’. However, the handling of the 50,000 scallops consumed here each year is every bit as important as the cooking.

‘We buy them by the bongo [drum load], and, as I like complete control, we open them all by hand. That way, I know how fresh they are.’ Not that Baird is a one-trick scallop pony. Far from it. My main course — griddled local aubergine with marinated cauliflower, garden squash, creamed cashew nut and lentil dahl — makes for a balanced celebration of Jersey produce, each element bringing texture, depth and divine flavour.

Pudding, a caramelised garden lemon tart (the lemons grown in the greenhouse here) with garden rhubarb and hibiscus sorbet, is refreshingly zingy for the perfect finale.

Talking of finales, it will soon be time to leave my chic room at this friendly and fabulous hotel and, as we say goodbye, Baird drops into the conversation that he will be doing a spot of foraging on his way home this evening. That comes as no surprise. In fact, I wouldn’t expect anything else.

Rooms available at Longueville Manor Hotel in October from £160 a night. Click here for more information.

his feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Here's a look at some of what you'll find inside.

The legacy
Kate Green hails Gavin Maxwell’s Ring of Bright Water, a remarkable tale of living with otters.

Fifty years young
The King’s Trust is celebrating half a century of supporting young people. Ambassadors explain the secrets of its success and longevity to Paula Minchin.

Country-house treasure
Intricate decorative ceilings at Thirlestane Castle, Berwickshire, catch the eye of John Goodall.

Alexander Campbell’s favourite painting
The Royal Academy of Dance artistic director is moved by a compelling nocturnal scene.

A tower house reborn
Mary Miers explores how the derelict tower house at Balgone in East Lothian has been transformed into a Classical seat.

Whisky galore
From illicitly distilled dram to tipple of choice around the globe, Henry Jeffreys raises a glass to the world’s most popular spirit.

Winging it
Mark Cocker adds the greylag goose to his Unloved Birds’ Club.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss
James Fisher welcomes Joe Root back to the helm of English cricket.

Interiors
Arabella Youens admires a Blenheim estate house in Oxfordshire and Kuba is king for Amelia Thorpe.

Cool as a cucumber sandwich
This refreshing staple of English picnics is no sarnie-come-lately, reports Deborah Nicholls-Lee, as she reveals its Indian roots.

Arts & antiques
Allan Scott, the scriptwriter and executive producer, tells Carla Passino why he will never part with a prized perpetual calendar.

Luxury
New columnist Justine Picardie admires the Highland influence in the late Queen’s wardrobe and Amie Elizabeth White presents a bonnie Scottish selection.

Clash of the tartans
What does it take to toss the caber and putt the stone? Harry Pearson muscles in on the heavyweight Highland Games.

Heart Nouveau
Robyne Calvert reveals how the bold Glasgow Style of art and design conquered Europe.

Travel
Rosie Paterson experiences the ultimate in luxury camping when visiting a conservation success story in Tanzania.

Rhythm and views
Three decades of dramatic planting has paid off at Craichlaw House in Dumfries and Galloway, as Kirsty Fergusson discovers.

Summer of love
A double bill of innovative open-air Shakespearean comedy benefits from dream casting, suggests Michael Billington.

And much more

Having picked up the keys to what Studio Vero’s co-founder, Romanos Brihi, describes as a ‘white box’, his client felt rather underwhelmed by her purchase. ‘It felt as if it could’ve been anywhere in the world,’ he says. ‘What she wanted was somewhere with warmth, comfort and character.’

His solution was twofold: to soften the existing space by introducing architectural focal points and to source elements that would give the apartment a sense of place that rooted it to its location in the historic heart of London.

The oak bookcase was designed to fit around various panels required to access services such as the air conditioning. Described by Brihi as ‘a wall of interest’, it took its cue from the work of the Italian architect Gio Ponti. The team at Ultimate Library was commissioned to curate a selection of books that would reflect the interests of the well-travelled owner. ‘We also added mouldings to the walls, which helps to give the apartment its own distinct identity.’

The dining table, with a solid-oak top, was also designed in house and made by Treeslounge. The dining chairs, with their cane backs, are by the Danish mid-century furniture designer Niels Møller. Above hangs a pendant from the American lighting designers Urban Electric.

On the right-hand wall is a work by Leila Bartell from Tristan Hoare. ‘Then, we sourced lots of decorative accessories, ceramics and sculpture to bring in colour, texture and crafted details that would soften the formality and bring soul to the space,’ adds Brihi. ‘Ultimately, it’s a space that tells the client’s story; every element reflects the places and people that matter to her.’

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

If I asked you to name something that floats, what would spring to mind? A boat? A paddle board, perhaps? But a house? No, me neither. Yet Formosa is exactly that: a house that floats. In fact, it is believed to be the UK’s first amphibious house.

This innovative home sits on Lock Island in the River Thames in the upmarket Buckinghamshire town of Marlow. On a normal day, Formosa rests firmly on the ground. But during a flood, it rises in its own wet dock and floats.

It’s no wonder this ambitious project caught the eye of Channel 4's Grand Designs. Presenter Kevin McCloud followed Andy and Nicki Bruce’s journey to build their flood-proof home in an episode that hit screens in 2014.

The Bruces had always dreamed of living by the river, but the steep house prices along the Thames made it difficult. So, they bought a riverside plot on Lock Island, knocked down the rundown bungalow that sat on the land, and set about building a new home from scratch.

But this was no mean feat. For starters, the flood-proof design was brand new to the UK. The island itself presented a logistical headache too: it can only be reached via a footbridge. The solution? A 46-year-old NATO pontoon from Holland — complete with an instruction manual in German. This was transformed into a chain ferry to shuttle equipment and materials between the mainland and the island.

It was, at times, a rocky road. In McCloud’s words, the couple were ‘beset with misfortune and logistical adversity like no other project I can remember’. And that’s quite something coming from McCloud, who has fronted the popular TV show since 1999.

But Andy and Nicki got there in the end. You’ve got to admire their ambition and tenacity. The question is, does this gutsy design actually stand up to the test? The answer appears to be a resounding ‘yes’. During flooding in 2019-20, the house ‘rose and fell exactly as intended, a quiet triumph of design over disaster’, according to Baca Architects, which designed Formosa, which is now on the market for £2,500,000 via Hamptons.

Putting the flood-proof design to one side, Formosa has impressive green credentials too. According to Hamptons, these include high levels of insulation, low energy systems, high-performance windows and a biodigester drainage system.

The house is a contemporary beauty in a market town that's brimming with historic buildings. It is all clean lines and vast slabs of glass, including an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bifold doors. After all, with a riverbank setting like that, why wouldn’t you?

The interiors are understated, with engineered wood floors and neutral-coloured walls and cupboards, allowing the river views to take centre stage, says Hamptons. The three-storey house has a slightly topsy-turvy layout, designed to make the most of the setting.

The ground floor comprises two bedrooms (one with an ensuite) at the front of the house and a large living space, incorporating the kitchen as well as dining and sitting areas, at the back. This light and bright part of the home offers stunning views of the river.

On the lower ground floor, there’s a rather versatile-sounding ‘cinema/games room/bedroom’, a utility room, another bedroom and a bathroom. Meanwhile, the whole of the first floor is dedicated to the main bedroom, complete with a dressing room and a bathroom featuring a sauna and steam room.

Outside, the garden steps down to the river, where there’s a private mooring. And a pergola acts as a ‘virtual’ room. Andy says: ‘We love living on the River Thames in Marlow. Eleven years ago, we were given the opportunity to build something really special, and Formosa is just that. You might recognise it as the “amphibious house” from Grand Designs. It allows us to live right on the river without any risk of flooding. It’s given us the most peaceful spot and beautiful family home, yet it's just a 400-metre stroll into Marlow High Street.’

Charles Wellbelove, an associate director at Hamptons, adds: ‘Built on a specially engineered hull and joists, [Formosa] offers the reassurance of waterside living without the concerns that typically accompany it.

‘Beyond its remarkable design credentials, Formosa enjoys an exceptional setting on a private island community and is just a short walk from the popular town of Marlow. I have sold many beautiful riverside homes over the years but never one that floats!’

Formosa is for sale via Hamptons — see more details here.

'Experts say…’ The Editor looked up from his newspaper with a sigh. ‘I keep coming across this phrase, but who actually decides whether someone is an expert or not? It’s meaningless — we need to be more precise.’

English allows for precision. It’s often described as the world’s biggest language: the Oxford English Dictionary lists more than 170,000 words currently in use, with at least 1,000 additions every year. Why, then, does it feel as if everyone’s vocabularies are shrinking?

In a very real way, they are. The algorithms that control what we see online reward predictable linguistic choices, rather than inventive ones. Then, of course, there’s AI. The generative models increasingly being used to ‘write’ are not capable of original thought: all they can do is regurgitate the training data they have been fed, with predictably bland and woolly results.

To worsen matters, each AI model also has its own irritating stylistic tics — ChatGPT famously relies on the ‘rule of three’ and ‘it’s not X, it’s Y’ constructions — which are now actually starting to shape human writing. The snake takes another bite of its own tail, becoming ever smaller.

We can’t go back in time, but there is a way of inoculating ourselves against this deadening algorithmic creep. As a nation, we not only used to read more, but more widely and with greater courage. A glance at the 1956 O-level English Literature syllabus is salutary: how many of us now would be willing to give Francis Bacon’s 1626 utopian fever-dream The New Atlantis a go?

This is the National Year of Reading, ‘a UK-wide campaign designed to inspire more people to make reading a regular part of their lives’. Children who have been turned off it by relentless exams are a focus, but most of us could do with reminding ourselves of the magic of getting lost in a world built entirely from words.

Swapping a screen for ink and paper can get around digital distractions, but it isn’t mandatory: listening to an audiobook counts, ditto reading e-books (and, of course, magazines — including digitally).

Cinema, too, can be a springboard: in an otherwise critical review of Christopher Nolan’s summer blockbuster The Odyssey in the London Review of Books, classicist Emily Wilson reported that the film was causing the ancient text to fly off the shelves. ‘Nolan, who studied English at University College London… is doing his best to get the general public reading again, and I am grateful,’ she wrote.

Dr Wilson’s own version of The Odyssey provoked heated debate for its rendering of Homer’s famous opening address to the Muse as ‘Tell me about a complicated man’. In fact, casually comparing translations in this way is one of the most powerful reminders of how exhilaratingly kaleidoscopic language can be — regardless of whether or not you’re an expert.

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published at 4pm.

Missed a day? Want more quizzes? Catch up with all our previous quizzes here.

The earliest residents of Great Budbridge Manor, which is mentioned in the Domesday Book, can be traced back to the reign of Henry III. William Urry owned the property on the Isle of Wight, which is for sale with Strutt & Parker for £2 million, in 1280, and his son Robert would be convicted of murdering the constable of Carisbrooke Castle.

Things are altogether more serene these days at this eight-bedroom Jacobean manor house with a carved-stone arched entrance dated 1668. The formal reception rooms benefit from views of the garden, including the dual-aspect drawing room and the dining room, which has eye-catching exposed beams and high ceilings.

Great Budbridge Manor, set in the Arreton Valley between the town of Newport and the south-east coast of the island, enjoys 8½ acres and has ponds (including an ancient carp pond).

There is also a partially walled garden in which grow roses and fig trees, a vegetable garden, areas of lawn and meadows that border the Eastern Yar river.

Beyond the main house is a two-storey coach house, a tithe barn and an office building.

In total the properties have eight bedrooms, three bathrooms and five sitting rooms. The Grade II-listed home also has ample oak flooring, exposed beams and impressive fireplaces, as well as an Aga and bread oven.

Great Budbridge Manor is on the market with Strutt & Parker — see more details.

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

When Marie-Caroline of Bourbon-Two Sicilies, Duchesse du Berry held a costume ball to mark the arrival of Mary Stuart of Scotland at the Tuileries in 1829, she insisted on a quadrille (a dance performed by four couples in a rectangular formation) that could only be done if one carried a fan.

It revived a fashion lost during the French Revolution and transformed Jean-Pierre Duvelleroy’s dream into an illustrious business.

The 25-year-old éventailliste (fan-maker) established his company in Paris in 1827 to produce hand fans from fine materials using artisanal techniques.

Designs were inspired by artists, the natural world and culture, painted onto paper or threaded with feathers. Mounts (the part held in the hand) were made with wood including birch, ebony and beech; mother-of-pearl, ivory, and galalith can be chosen today.

In 1843, Duvelleroy patented a mould that made it possible to cold-pleat delicate fabrics enabling silks, lace and tulle to be painted or embroidered, at the same time as preserving their lightness.

About 2,000 métiers, including gilders, plumassiers, mirror-makers, painters, embroiderers, goldsmiths and engravers were sourced by Duvelleroy (up to 20 artisans worked on each fan), earning his metaphorical reputation as an orchestra conductor.

Materials are still decorated and individually hand-pleated, fold by fold, on an identical model.

Queen Victoria was so taken by the collection shown at the Great Exhibition of 1851, which included a fan made especially for her, that she swiftly appointed Duvelleroy as supplier to the Queen, and the European courts followed.

The London boutique opened at No 167, Regent Street in 1861 and published a booklet explaining the coded messages of fan gestures, such as twirling in the left hand (‘we are watched’) and carrying in the left hand in front of the face (‘desirous of acquaintance’).

The company maintains young Jean-Pierre’s founding vision: to craft exquisite fans and return them to the hands of all.

Duvelleroy's couture fans, handmade in Paris, start from €950; Fashion fans, handmade in Spain, start from €67. Visit the website for more information.

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe

The Gibbs family fortune was made in shipping and banking — and an exclusive concession on extremely profitable Peruvian guano. (Guano is the accumulated nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium-rich waste of seabirds. It is one of the most powerful organic fertilisers in the world and helped to fuel the First World War thanks to its use as an ingredient in gunpowder.)

When his father died, Henry 'Hucks' Gibbs joined the family business. In time, he would take complete control of it and work as the director and then governor of the Bank of England.

Among all of this work, Gibbs did find time to play and indulge his passion for gardening. He certainly had the fertiliser required to adequately feed one.

In 1869, he acquired Aldenham House — an imposing Queen Anne-style, red brick manor house in the commutable district of Elstree, Hertfordshire. The land was flat. Unrelentingly flat. And the soil was heavy with clay. This, however, was no problem for a man with Gibbs’s vision.

He laid out impressive formal gardens and acquired neighbouring parcels of land. One of these included part of the town's High Street which he rerouted away from his home and sunk into a 10-foot cutting so as not to spoil the view from his pleasure grounds.

James Pulham and Sons — the brains behind a form of decorative concrete called Pulhamite — were called in to create a water garden. They used rubble as a base and fashioned small hills out of Pulhamite with waterfalls cascading down them, and Pulhamite old-world-style bridges.

Pulham and Sons and Gibbs were assisted in their endeavours by the latter's son, Vicary, a confirmed bachelor, head gardener Edwin Beckett, a shrubs and trees expert called Arthur J. Sweet, and a team of 58 gardeners.

Together, Hucks, Vicary, Beckett and Sweet amassed a mind-boggling collection of plants that was so vast and so varied that Aldenham was said to rival Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew.

Vicary — a disqualified MP who would go on to be editor of the first two editions of The Complete Peerage — was an obsessive plant collector, collating rare specimens of trees, shrubs, and flowers from around the world for Beckett, Sweet and the team to tend.

Hucks died in 1907, but his horticultural legacy was secure and the team went on to win numerous awards including RHS Victoria Medal of Honours for Vicary and Sweet, and multiple RHS Chelsea Flower Show medals for Beckett (specifically for his work with vegetables). All three men wrote articles for Country Life and published books on their specialist subjects.

Upon his death in 1932, Vicary had collated more than 10,000 species of trees and shrubs at Aldenham, including more than 200 varieties of oak trees alone. It was truly unique.

In 1933, Vicary’s older brother, Lord Aldenham, rented out the house and it was converted into a club. Auctioneers were called in to dispose of the plants and, very sadly, 60 years of extraordinary horticultural history were brought to a close.

The house was requisitioned by the BBC for the duration of the Second World War. It went on to serve as picturesque backdrop for television shows such as The Saint and The Avengers and an MGM film called The Village of the Damned and was then turned into a school. It is still one today.

The playing fields are surrounded by some impressive specimens of trees, a small reminder of Hucks, Vicary, Beckett and Sweet.

The Country Life Image Archive contains more than 150,000 images documenting British culture and heritage, from 1897 to the present day. To search and purchase images directly from the Image Archive, please register here.

Can you believe it is already mid August? For many of us at Country Life, the thought is unfathomable. Our inbox is already full of emails warning about Christmas. Blink twice and it will be September.

The name given to the feeling that each year whizzes by faster than the last is Janet’s Law. A tribute to 19th-century philosopher Paul Janet, it explains the phenomenon via mathematics. One year feels like a long time when you’re 10. By the time you’re 40, it is a drop in the ocean. Many drops blur into one. It makes sense, to a point. I wish to offer a different explanation: that a year goes by faster when you’re busy.

Modern life — of which Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times offers, to date, the most searing critique — ensures that we are busy with every waking minute. Chaplin himself could not have anticipated the horrors of the 21st century: the endless news cycle; a different app for everything; the British Airways indemnity form; too many options on Deliveroo.

I often return to a line spoken by Phoebe Waller-Bridge in Fleabag, a show every writer at the Edinburgh Fringe is still trying to ape: ‘I just want someone to tell me what to do.’ Amid the tribulations of our humanoid age, it is a statement I end up making daily. Paying an invoice? Returning a hire car? Claiming money back on a delayed flight? It takes three webpages, four departments and about 10 years off one’s life. Someone, please, please tell me how to get this off my plate.

Our lack of time boils down to a lack of autonomy. Surrendering all human processes to a device is no good. The programs get things wrong. They are lazier than us. I now have to get through three different automated voices merely to contact my GP receptionist.

Writing in FT Weekend earlier this year, Janan Ganesh lamented a world in which he believes there is too much spare time. Childlessness and the absence of grunt work — his projections for the West — will eventually render us idle. To me, this isn’t the case. If technology has sped up some processes, it has more often lengthened them. I have no reason to believe AI will be different. It took the chatbot Claude nearly three minutes to answer my question about Janet’s Law, by which point I’d read more than half of Psychology Today’s article on the subject.

Time is a funny thing. It speeds up and slows down. It is relative and potentially infinite. It is something we all wish we had more of. The longevity movement, although problematic in many ways, recognises that we could all benefit from a few more years on Earth. Some of these, one hopes, will go more slowly than this one.

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

The luxurious two/four-seater Aston Martin DB4 represents the logical climax of the many years of sports and Grand Prix racing carried out by the makers. Their intention has obviously been to produce a car that would combine the comfort and convenience of a grand touring saloon with the qualities and performance normally associated with a racing car. There are no features of the design that can be described as revolutionary, but its cohesiveness is based on the hard experiences of international racing.

The remarkable power output of 240 b.h.p. is obtained at 5,500 r.p.m. from the six-cylinder twin-overhead-camshaft engine, which is of light-alloy construction. A most rigid crankcase is employed, and there is a seven-bearing crankshaft. The bore and stroke are both 92 mm, to give a total capacity of 3,670cc. The compression ratio is not unduly high at 8.25 to 1. Two S.U. carburettors are fitted; on the engine of equivalent capacity used for the shorter Gran Turismo and for sports-car racing, three twin-choke Webers are used. The sump has the large capacity of 17 pints, and a full-flow Purolator filter is incorporated in the lubrication system.

Though the engine is at its best on the highest-octane fuel, it will run happily on any premium-grade petrol. On many modern cars the engine compartment is largely filled with extras, but, with the Aston Martin, when one opens the forward-hinged bonnet, little else is revealed but essential mechanism, and accessibility is good. The gearing is such that an engine speed of 5,300rpm gives a cruising speed of 120 mph. The engine is fitted with chrome-vanadium wet cylinder liners.

Front suspension is by coil springs and transverse wishbones, and large telescopic hydraulic dampers are incorporated. The suspension at the rear is by coil springs, trailing arms and piston-type dampers. The rear axle is located transversely by Watt's linkage.

Rack-and-pinion steering is used and exceptional care has been taken to eliminate friction and wasted effort by the driver. The steering requires only 2½ turns from lock to lock, and just over 32 feet is required to turn the car.

The four-speed gearbox has a remote control of sports-car type, but synchromesh is provided on all four gears. As one would anticipate on such a fast car, Dunlop disc brakes are fitted, and a vacuum servo is incorporated in the hydraulic system to prevent the pedal pressure from being too high because of the fade-resistant linings used.

The car's fuel tank has the sensible capacity of 19 gallons, which, with an average consumption of 17 mpg, gives a range of over 300 miles, even allowing a gallon for fuel-gauge inaccuracy; in fact, there is a controlled reserve of three gallons.

The body can almost be described as integral with the chassis, as a framework of steel tubing on the Superleggera principle is connected to the chassis and covered with aluminium panelling. Apart from the principle of construction used, the lines of the DB4 owe much to Latin artistry. The air entry on top of the bonnet is not entirely necessary to feed air to the carburettors, but, as it fits over the leading edges of the overhead camshafts, it allows a lower general bonnet line to be achieved.

Most owners of such a car will doubtless regard it as a two-seater, as its performance almost demands the modern long-arm driving position, with the seat set well back, which reduces knee-room in the rear to a great extent. The interior of the car is most luxuriously fitted, and the equipment includes two bucket seats of Reutter type, on which it is possible to adjust the rake of the squab instantaneously and while in motion. Both front seats are well shaped to resist lateral force, and the driving position approaches perfection because of the well-placed pedal controls and gear lever. A valuable detail is that it is possible to transfer the right foot from the full-throttle position to the brake without having to move one's heel from the floor.

Despite the car's clean and sweeping lines, skill has allowed a large luggage boot to be provided, and the rear seat can be used to increase the luggage accommodation. A complicated system of levers controls the heating system, but once understood it works remarkably well. The fascia and instruments are well laid out, with materials that prevent any danger of irritating reflections appearing in the wraparound windscreen. With the large doors fully open entry is very easy, but some effort is required to get out with any degree of decorum.

As the induction system is not pre-heated, it is necessary to warm up the engine before expecting it to pull cleanly after it is first started up; a radiator blind is fitted to make this more rapid. There is no danger of being caught napping by the great power of the engine; it is so apparent that even the most careless driver could not inadvertently give too much throttle. In town driving it is best to make full use of the gearbox and, in fact, to ignore top gear and use the silent-running third gear instead.

While I would not suggest that the DB4 is in any way intractable, even its most enthusiastic user would not suggest that it is the perfect car for everyday town use. It is meant for use on the open road, where it comes into its own. Its makers have advertised — and the performance can be repeated at any time — that it can be accelerated from 0 to 100 mph and braked back to 0 in under 30 seconds. This is a truly remarkable performance.

Theories about overall performance and potential average speed have to be looked at in a completely new light when one is considering a car capable of 50, 75, 105 and almost 140 mph. on the four gears. The ease and accuracy with which the race-bred Aston Martin can be handled makes all normal cars appear clumsy and sloppy, and, although the suspension has clearly been set with high-speed stability and perfect adhesion in mind, it is interesting to note that it can be most favourably compared with softly suspended touring cars built for comfort only.

The car is not as silent as one might expect, but this is a small price to pay for such outstanding performance, and what noise there is is indicative of mechanical efficiency. The overall efficiency of the engine is shown by the similarity of the times required to accelerate through widely varying brackets of speed in top gear. Even without using the gearbox it is possible to leap ahead of other traffic with the greatest ease, and, what is perhaps more important, without ever feeling that one is driving in an exceptional manner.

On suitable roads previous conceptions about cruising speeds can be ignored and anything between 100 and 120 mph can be accepted as reasonable. The car is equally at home on a wide variety of road surfaces, and corners can be taken at high speeds in safety and easy comfort. On everyday roads one probably tends to take corners more slowly with the Aston Martin than one might with a slower car; the dazzling acceleration out of corners soon whirls the speedometer needle back to the selected cruising speed. Because of the reflection-free instrument lighting, the excellent headlamps and the comfortable and secure seating, night driving is especially pleasant.

It was not possible in the time at my disposal to find an opportunity to check the car's maximum speed with accurate timing, but there is no doubt in my mind that the claim of 140mph is justified completely. Apart from my feeling that a car of this price and quality would be better were it more silent, my only criticism applied to the gear lever. While excellently placed, its movements were rather lumpy, and it was essential to depress the clutch fully on every occasion if a clean gear change was to be obtained. It was interesting to note that with the engine switched off, the vacuum servo thus being made inoperative, greater pedal pressure could keep the brakes effective.

Combining almost racing-car performance with the standard of comfort associated with a town carriage, the Aston Martin DB4 represents truly first-class travel. It must be close to the ideal for the motorist anxious to travel far and fast without strain or fatigue.

‘My dog Sirrah,’ once wrote the ‘Ettrick Shepherd’, James Hogg, ‘was beyond all comparison, the best dog I ever saw. He had a somewhat surly and unsocial temper, disdaining all flattery, and refusing to be caressed; but his attention to my commands and interest will never again be matched by any of the canine race.’

The breed has been valued for its strength and hardiness in the field since its arrival in Britain, most likely with the Celts during the invasions of the third and fourth centuries BC. The sheepdog Hogg describes is said to have been a bearded collie, a breed once highly prized in Scotland on account of its ‘sagacity and indifference to the demands of the climate’, Country Life reported in 1914.

Geographic conditions have undoubtedly had a considerable effect on types of working dogs and, in the Scottish Highlands, a profuse and weather-resistant coat was required to give the dogs protection when they stood guard over their flocks at night.

Gainsborough’s portrait of Henry, 3rd Duke of Buccleuch and 5th Duke of Queensberry (1770), depicts an early example of the large, shaggy dog, which can also be seen in Philip Reinagle’s well-known painting, an engraving of which appeared in The Sportsman’s Cabinet.

The rugged charm of the breed was captured by Country Life in 1898, when the magazine visited the kennels of Panmure Gordon. The first breed standard was drawn up in 1912, but the bearded-collie population was in rapid decline and, by the 1940s, it was very scarce indeed.

In 1954, Country Life reported that ‘a great loss would have been that very charming old Scottish gentleman, the bearded collie — a breed which has had a very close shave in the battle for survival’.

The Kennel Club gave recognition to the breed in 1959 and, today, bearded collies sit on the vulnerable native breed list.

‘A keen, intelligent dog, still physically and mentally capable of doing a good day’s work with the minimum of training,’ Country Life said of beardies in 1960.

This is an extract from 'The Country Life Book of Dogs' (Rizzoli, £50) by Agnes Stamp.

If there’s one thing that the Scots do well, better than anyone you might argue, it’s build castles that look like castles. By that, I mean buildings awash with turrets, towers and floors that don’t really line up in a straight line. Not only do they build them well, they build them bountifully.

It is the fantasy of many to get themselves a slice of the action. Should you be one such person with one such fantasy, then look no further. Annabel Blackett of Strutt & Parker seeks ‘offers over £950,000’ for picturesque, 16th-century Category A-listed Allardice Castle, set in three acres of lovely gardens and grounds overlooking the Bervie Water, two miles north-west of Inverbervie on the north-east coast of Scotland.

Historically, many of these castles remain family heirlooms of former clan chiefs or Victorian industrialists, so it is rare that they come on the market. But when they do, it is always worth having a browse online and imagining yourself roaming your very own halls of power.

Allardice Castle is listed grade A, and can trace its roots all the way back to the 16th century, when it was the chief seat of the Barons of Allardice, who first appeared in a charter from 1197. Are they any relation to Big Sam Allardyce? We can’t know for sure, but this is very much the kind of house I can see him living in. I digress.

Dating from 1542, the castle has undergone many changes and alterations over the years, which is to be expected, considering those years run into the hundreds. Most importantly were those made at the end of the 19th century, which turned the castle from a fortified keep and tower house and into a family home.

Beautifully restored by the current owners, who bought it in the 1970s, the castle, built of harled stone under a slate roof, offers 4,553sq ft of comfortable accom- modation on four floors, including spiral staircases, a vaulted entrance hall, three fine reception rooms, a library, home office, six bedrooms and three bathrooms. It goes without saying that each room, each stair, each floorboard and every window is lashed with centuries of history and character. There is no grey furniture here.

Alas, the many lands of Allardice have somewhat shrunk in recent years, and the castle now comes with three acres of gardens and grounds, which lead down to the Berview Water — the castle benefits from riparian fishing rights.

Situated south of Aberdeen, the castle is only a few miles from the coastal town of Inverbervie, which also provides plenty of amenities within easy reach. Heading west will take you into the glories of the Cairngorms in no time, a delight for those who enjoy walking, hiking, or the many other kinds of adventurous activity that can be found in the UK’s largest national park.

Allardice Castle is for sale with Strutt & Parker for offers over £950,000. For more information and pictures, click here.

Buckinghamshire – £3.5 million

Prestigious and Milton Keynes are not two things that usually go together, but The Old Rectory on Shenley Road certainly shows that to be untrue. A finer rectory you will struggle to find.

The home, listed Grade II, features seven bedrooms, seven bathrooms and eight reception rooms, and has been restored and refurbished to an exceptionally high standard. Amenities include an office, cinema and gym, as well as 1.8 acres of gardens and grounds. Heavenly.

For sale via Michael Graham — see more details and pictures.

Wiltshire – £2.25 million

With 118 acres, Fox Mill Farm is just that, centred around a beautiful four-bedroom home in the beautiful Wiltshire countryside.

With 118 acres, Fox Mill Farm is just that, centred around a beautiful four-bedroom home in the beautiful Wiltshire countryside.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

Norfolk – £2.65 million

Recently mentioned in Patrick Galbraith's beautiful feature about Cley next the Sea, Grade II*-Listed Cley Windmill is one of the most iconic landmarks on the north Norfolk coastline.

It's also got potential to become a stunning family home, restored and currently run as a guest house and wedding venue. With 10 bedrooms and nine reception rooms, it's a considerable property that yearns for a new lease of life.

For sale via Strutt & Parker — see more details and pictures.

Isle of Man – £8 million

Dating from 1813, Kirby Park is a distinguished historical home just outside of Douglas on the Isle of Man. It features all the trimmings: a gatehouse and extended drive, 48 acres of land and a glorious country home at its centre.

The main house features 10 bedrooms and a wealth of grand reception rooms, and a variety of outbuildings include a gate lodge of two bedrooms. The River Dhoo meanders through the estate, with double-bank trout fishing on offer.

For sale via Knight Frank — see more details and pictures.

West Sussex – £3.65 million

We've long been big fans of Arts & Crafts, and Skyfall in Prinsted is a fine coastal example.

The property has been completed to a stunning specification, with five bedrooms, five bathrooms and 5,000sq ft of space, it's not just a seaside retreat, but a glorious family home that mixes heritage and contemporary comfort with ease.

For sale via Strutt & Parker — see more details and pictures.

It's a sunny June afternoon in the Cheshire village of Willaston and something strange is afoot. Or, rather, underfoot. The community primary school’s playing field is a hotbed of activity. Children and adults traipse the grassy expanse — painted with three-metre-square plots and bounded by cake tables and craft stalls — all carting strange equipment, from garden forks and foam cudgels to ukuleles and power drills. These are tools for a peculiar, soil-flecked competition, for which Willaston is ground zero. Welcome to the World Worm Charming Championships.

Worm charming is the act of vibrating a patch of soil, causing earthworms to squirm up through the turf to be collected. In 1881’s bestselling The Formation of Vegetable Mould, Through the Action of Worms, pre-eminent worm hype-man Charles Darwin hypothesised that the worms believe that ‘they are pursued by a mole’.

In the US, it’s known as ‘worm grunting’ and most associated with the Florida Panhandle, where it’s long been employed to source fishing bait. There, its practitioners bow a short wooden stake (called a ‘stob’) with a ‘rooping iron’, sending low-frequency drones into the earth to flush out the slippery invertebrates.

Cheshire’s version is less mercenary: a jolly bash in which no worms are harmed. It was founded in 1980 for the school summer fête by then-deputy headmaster John Bailey, who drew 100 three-yard-square plots on the playing field with an old tennis-court marker.

The inaugural winner was farmer’s son Tom Shufflebottom, who enticed a cracking 511 worms — an auspicious start. Bailey soon ceded control to Gordon Farr — a former headmaster, now long-time organiser and founder of the International Federation of Charming Worms and Allied Pastimes (or IFCWAP) — and village policeman Mike Forster.

A few years later, the pair got wind of a rival contest in Blackawton, Devon, also calling itself the World Championship. The Willaston boys took them to task. ‘We realised we had to take on the responsibility of the worm-charming fraternity,’ says Forster. They founded IFCWAP (of which they’re the only members) and set out their official rules of worm charming, one of which is a ban on using liquid to soak the soil — a technique still permitted at the Devon event, now known as the International Festival of Wormcharming. Its organisers declined to comment.

Little has changed in the years since, save for a shift from imperial to metric measurements (‘to bring us in line with Europe,’ confirms Farr). It’s now a competition of such prestige that Guinness ratified a world record here in 2009 — 10-year-old Sophie Smith coaxing up 567 worms — and it has gained international traction, the rules translated into multiple languages (Fijian, Korean and Icelandic among them) in case any foreign delegations fancy a pop. Russian, Farr adds, was tricky, as the language lacks a word for ‘charm’.

As well as the liquids ban, IFCWAP maintains a staunch ‘no digging’ rule. ‘It doesn’t matter how old the competitor is, it’s a red card,’ sighs Forster. He also raises the pervasive issue of ‘premature worm grasping… when people go for the worm too soon and he either goes back in or you get a tug of war.’ (The RSPCA, it should be noted, has commended the event’s high worm welfare.)

Almost anything else is fair game and, inevitably, Farr and Forster have seen some bizarre things — not least the participation of a horse named Flicker, trained to hoof the earth. ‘He had to have a corner plot,’ remembers Farr, ‘because any excrement had to fall outside the charming area.’

They’ve had to stamp down on some flagrant cheating, too. ‘One year, a guy arrived on a bike,’ says Forster. ‘During the charming, he was doing a rain dance, unclipped his bicycle trouser clips and worms began cascading down! That was banned straight away. Shocking.’

Back to the field. At 2pm, a bell rings and a 30-minute charming window commences. A cacophony of psychedelic earth-thumping rises and, soon, gleeful squealing as the worms begin to emanate from the grass. Many participants are using garden forks — stuck in the ground and their tines or handles bashed to judder the soil beneath in a method known around here as ‘twanging’.

Some of the gathered masses are more creative. As veteran Matt Sefton rhythmically smacks his fork prongs with two sticks in the classic style, his son William, 13, blasts a rousing and mellifluous rendition of the Indiana Jones theme at the grass with a trumpet. Erik Satie’s lilting piano vignette Gymnopédie No 3 is also on the sheet, but, Sefton explains, it lacks the tumult to startle the worms into action. ‘We wanted maximum aggression.’

Three plots away, university student Millie Searing is also on a twanging bent, albeit aided by some doofing drum ’n’ bass from a portable speaker. Nearby, a slight man with an overhanging mop of hair prostrates himself on the ground, surrounded by wind-up bath toys. A few feet across, a woman lays down a small wooden board and elegantly tap dances atop.

Finally, I locate Forster’s son, Tom, and his grandsons, Ted and Sam. The centrepiece of their square is a wooden box, raised on four legs with a disembodied, Monty Python-style mannequin’s foot protruding beneath, the stamping motion of which is controlled with a pulley.

The bell rings; the contest is over. Was it a vintage year? ‘I’m not sure we’ve a winning number, but it’s a lot — more than 100,’ notes Tom, sweat-flecked and visibly pooped. How did the Python foot fare? ‘Oh, it broke, but we got two worms with it,’ Ted, 13, adds stoically.

After all the charming brouhaha, the counting table is more hushed. A whiteboard of plots is being filled in as cups of soil and worms are tipped onto plates and carefully picked at, the worms then gently popped into a nearby trench for safekeeping until the birds have gone to bed, thus avoiding any massacres. There are many zeros, but the majority of the almost-complete board is in double digits.

One strip — in the south-western part of the field — is all that’s left. ‘It was a wet corner,’ someone in the crowd says; this is where they’re expecting the big numbers. Some fevered muttering implies it could be tight — there’s even talk of a five-minute ‘worm-off’, if it’s too close to call.

When all but three squares are filled, it’s time for the big reveal. The prospect of a tie is ill-founded: Archie, 10, and Sienna, 11, have prevailed with a nifty 164 worms, much to their friends’ euphoria. Their technique? ‘We just banged the grass!’ they say in unison, grasping a gleaming trophy. They’re not giving any more away; understandable reticence in victory, their secrets preserved for next summer’s title defence.

As proceedings wrap up, Forster mulls over worm-charming’s evergreen appeal. Community spirit aside, it’s the raw spectacle that he finds astounding, year on year. ‘There’s a few minutes where everything has to wake up. Then it’s almost magical — as if they’re coming out of a sponge.’ As well as Blackawton, the UK has a third contest.

Founded in 2021 by Georgia Gendall, the Falmouth Worm Charming Championships operates with a comparable ‘Charm, don’t harm!’ credo, but is an even more outré undertaking than Willaston’s, with elaborate fancy dress folded into the mix. As an artist whose work ‘celebrates, challenges and disrupts interspecies dependencies’, Gendall’s take on the calling is more holistic than the joyfully irreverent philosophy espoused in Willaston.

‘Worm charming creates a kind of shared attention on something usually overlooked: earthworms, which are essential to healthy soil and ecosystems — celebrating the hidden labour of the natural world,’ she explains. ‘[It’s about] participating in a slightly absurd, very human ritual that reconnects you to your body, to other people and to the ground beneath your feet.’ What could be more charming than that?

The article originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

In a letter of October 1750, the agent of the Earl of Tyrone, Thomas Rogers, described a bizarre visit to Curraghmore by Archbishop George Stone, the Primate of All Ireland. Arriving unannounced, Rogers reported, the Archbishop’s party had ‘forced the lock and bolt of the gate and rode into the front up to the door. Betty the housemaid was opening the windows by lifting up the sashes to air the house, when the Primate alighted at the door and he spoke to her. She said she would go for the key and open the door directly; he said he was in haste and desired her not [to], but to hand him out a chair, which she did and he went into the window with the gentlemen’.

Once inside, the Primate demanded to see ‘the new room… and the new apartment below’. His curiosity satisfied, he was in such a ‘great hurry’ that he ‘went off through the dressing room door and would not suffer the maid to go for the key’. Then, either he, or some in his company, ‘undescreetly rode their horses down the slopes in the fountain garden and all through it and through up to the shell house.... So great was their hurry that they would not give themselves time to walk, but trampled about on horseback and rode off’.

It’s not impossible, given the conflicting political sympathies of the Earl and Primate, that this visit was a calculated affront. Whatever the case, it was also flattering in that the house and its gardens were revealed as objects of outstanding interest. That still holds true today. Curraghmore is set in a spectacular landscape and preserves some of the finest Georgian interiors in Ireland (Fig 3). It also remains in the hands of the family that created it, their local connections stretching back to about 1200, when King John granted one Henry le Poer the barony of Donoyle (now Dunhill), Co Waterford. Henry was one of several Poers — or Powers as the name became — involved in Ireland at the time and whose descendents integrated into local society. So widely and deeply did the family penetrate eastern Waterford that it was known by the 16th century as ‘Powers Country’.

The precise origins of Curraghmore as a family seat are obscure, but, by tradition, the tower fossilised within the present entrance front was built by Richard Power (d. 1483). It was not until 1535, however, that his grandson and namesake was created Baron le Power and Coroghmore. Sir Henry Sidney, Lord Deputy of Ireland, visited ‘the house that the Lord Power is Baron of’ in 1575 and was pleased with the hospitality he received here. By this date, the late-medieval tower was almost certainly connected to one or more domestic ranges beside it, much like the nearby Ormond Castle, Co Tipperary. Certainly, that was the arrangement implied by the Civil Survey of 1654, which describes the Waterford property as ‘a fayre Castle and a goodly stone house’.

The survey also sheds an interesting light on the setting of Curraghmore, the name of which means ‘the great bog’. It describes the Barony of Upperthird, in which it stands, as possessing ‘coarse, barren, and mountainous soil (for the most part)’. In this bleak landscape — hard to imagine today — the castle enjoyed an orchard, meadow and a ‘fine wood’. The account goes on to note the ‘River Clodeth running within a musket shot thereof on the south, upon which there is a bridge not very far from the said castle’. King John’s Bridge, so called, still remains.

In 1654, Curraghmore was in the possession of John, 5th Baron. He is simply described in the survey as an ‘Irish Papist’, but, crucially, he must also have been what others termed ‘distracted’. His mental incapacity, which lasted until his death in 1666, was seemingly protection from the upheavals of the civil wars. Certainly, the family avoided either committing itself or being dispossessed afterwards. That said, it may have been with an eye to survival that, in the 1650s, John’s son, Richard, married Dorothy, the eldest daughter of Arthur Annesley, 1st Earl of Anglesey, who was also his father’s guardian.

Whatever the case, Richard began to engage with English politics and culture. His career prospered following the Restoration and, in May 1673, he attempted to engineer a match between his seven-year-old son, John, and niece (his ward), the 12-year-old Katherine Fitzgerald of Dromana. The union, solemnised by the Archbishop of Canterbury at Lambeth Palace, promised to link his own property with the neighbouring Barony of Decies. Two years later, Katherine successfully secured an annulment, asserting that she had been forcibly married. Shortly before this, on October 9, 1673, Richard was created Viscount Decies and Earl of Tyrone.

The fortunes of the new Earl fluctuated wildly. In 1679, he was implicated in the Popish Plot and imprisoned in Dublin Castle and then the gatehouse at Westminster until 1684. Under the Catholic rule of James II, he was made Lord Lieutenant of Co Waterford, raised a regiment of foot and sat as a peer in the Irish Parliament. Then, he was captured by the forces of William III at Cork and taken to the Tower of London, where he died in 1690. He was succeeded in quick succession by his two sons, both Protestants. In 1692, the elder, John, 2nd Earl, successfully restored the family title and lands. He died the following year and became the subject of a celebrated ghost story.

During a discussion on the subject of religion, he made a pact with a kinswoman, Nicola Hamilton, that whoever died first would appear to the other. John died first and accordingly appeared one night, announcing the truth of ‘the revealed religion’, as well as the details of Nicola’s future, including that her son would unite their families. Incredulous, she demanded that the apparition touch her wrist and, for the rest of her life, wore a black ribbon to conceal the scar that this contact with the phantom had caused.

John’s brother, James, 3rd Earl of Tyrone, also failed to produce a son. As a consequence, when he died in 1704, the title became extinct and the patrimony passed to his two-year-old daughter, Catherine. It was, therefore, as a considerable heiress that, in 1717, at the age of 15, she married the wealthy politician Marcus Beresford, the son of Nicola Hamilton in the ghost story. He was created Baron Beresford and Viscount of Tyrone in 1720 and then Earl of Tyrone in 1746.

It was in the context of these complex family affairs that Curraghmore began to assume its modern form. This process began according to a lost inscription in about the year 1700 (an alternative suggested reading of 1707 during Catherine’s minority seems improbable) under the 3rd Earl, who constructed three ranges on a regular U-shaped plan as the core of a new house. These ranges cannibalised parts of the earlier building, including the castle tower that closed the fourth side of its internal courtyard.

An impression of Curraghmore in the early 18th century can be recovered from the combined evidence of four watercolour views by Jonathan Fisher, dating to 1768, and a description by the antiquarian Charles Smith in The Antient and present state of the county of Waterford (1746). It was entered from what is now the garden façade, which was two storeys high and seven window bays wide. The outer pair of windows to each side were projected forward as shallow wings and the central bay was given emphasis with a pedimented doorcase and a sculpture of Minerva. Over the whole structure were high-pitched roofs with dormers set on deeply projecting eaves. This composition is echoed at Beaulieu, Co Louth, which otherwise bears intriguing comparison to Curraghmore.

Inside, the visitor entered a large hall with a stair that divided into two at its first landing. The hall was probably a creation of 1700, but — like the rest of the house — it had clearly been redecorated by 1746. Smith saw it painted with ‘columns, festoons &tc., between which are several landscapes’ as well as a perspectival representation of a dome. He attributes this work, as well as several paintings and a ground floor room ‘entirely painted… in landscape’ with a ‘sleeping Cupid on a marble table’, to Willem van der Hagen, an artist active in Ireland from 1722 until his death before 1745.

As well as producing portraits, landscapes and theatre scenery, Hagen was also contracted in 1728 to supply designs for tapestries in the Irish House of Lords, an obvious point of connection with the Viscount. Indeed, one painting at Curraghmore — of William III’s landing at Carrickfergus — probably relates to this commission. Might Hagen also have helped supply ‘the beautiful tapestry hangings’ Smith saw in ‘an inner chamber’? A fireplace that almost certainly came from these interiors survives recycled as a tomb niche in the nearby Clonegam Church (Fig 6).

By 1746, there were also extensive formal gardens at Curraghmore. ‘The house has the advantage of water on three sides,’ Smith wrote, ‘laid out in large elegant canals and basins… and the banks and terraces are adorned with statues.’ These were fed from the river. There were besides cascades, a ‘greenhouse’ and ‘a shell-house erecting, which when finished, promises to be very curious’. The latter incorporates a sculpture of the Countess (Fig 7) holding a scroll inscribed: ‘In two hundred & sixty one days these shells were put up by the proper hands of the Rt Hon Cathne Countess of Tyrone 1754.’ The date presumably relates to the sculpture rather than the shell work.

On June 1, 1746, there was a serious fire at Curraghmore. According to one report in The General Advertiser, this was caused by ‘the carelessness of a Servant’ and ‘burned down stabling for 40 horses, with granaries, hay-lofts, beds and bedding for most of the servants, a fine mare, several setting dogs, all the saddles, the coach and chair harnesses, besides many other valuable things; but the dwelling-house was not touched’. It must have been this episode that prompted a further transformation of the house, doubtless spurred on by Beresford’s promotion as Earl of Tyrone the following month.

A new set of service buildings and vaulted stables were planned as long, low parallel wings with side gateways (Fig 2). Now lined with horse chestnuts, the effect is reminiscent of a French town square. It is hard to think of any approach to a Georgian house that resembles this. The architect responsible was John Roberts, who was based in Waterford, but had trained in London. His remarkable architectural career also properly began in 1746, when he was commissioned to complete the Bishop’s Palace in Waterford. His patron for this task, Bishop Chenevix, later listed the ‘fine offices he built’ for Lord Tyrone among his works.

The new forecourt reversed the approach to the house (Fig 1), so it must have been in conjunction with its construction that a new front door was punched through the lower floor of the castle tower. What is not clear is whether the spectacular decorative plasterwork in the outer hall within (Fig 4), and the library above (Fig 5), were installed before these changes or as part of them. By extension, whether their magnificent decoration — plausibly attributed to the virtuosi stuccadores Paolo and Filippo Lafranchini, who also worked on the Earl’s Dublin house — relates to Roberts’s work or was completed before 1746.

The present assumption is that these interiors were the ‘new room’ and ‘apartment below’ that Archbishop Stone was so importunate to see in 1750. Yet the barrel vaulting of the lower chamber is hard to imagine as part of an apartment. Added to which, although Smith comments on the magnificent fireplace of the upper room in 1746, he makes no reference to the plasterwork. Was it added later? Perhaps the Archbishop was actually looking at other rooms? If so, they were soon to be torn out to create a spectacular series of 1770s interiors that we will explore in the next article.

This is the first of two articles on Curraghmore. The second will be published on August 23, 2026.

Visit Curraghmore House website for more information.

This feature originally appeared in the July 22, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

'My favourite thing about reeling,’ says a trainee clinical psychologist to my left, ‘is that you sweat out all the alcohol you’ve consumed there and then — because you’re dancing so much.’

It’s Tuesday night at St Columbus church on Pont Street, London, a plush address only moments from Harrods, and a crowd of nearly 300 has crammed into the hall to groove along to Scottish music. Most people here are in their early to mid twenties, in professional careers that aren’t so demanding that they cannot leave the office before six.

Doors open at 6.45pm, with the first reel at 7pm. The opening bars of The Dashing White Sergeant prompt people to take their positions in rows of three. A caller —someone who directs the newbies or those who are out of practice — numbers people one, two or three and ensures they are in the right place for the start.

A man and two women, or one woman and two men, arrange themselves into boy-girl formation and dance with the trio opposite them, with one forming a bridge at the end of the routine for the other to wiggle under and greet their next partners. The trainee psychologist beside me is a seasoned reeler and gives her moves a little extra flair. Another shouts ‘yippee’ at the end of the sequence.

Reeling, I’ve learnt over the years, comes with a certain vernacular. A Scotsman near me calls it the final bastion of heteronormativity: many dances involve a ‘presentation’, in which a man introduces his female partner to another male dancer as they move down a line together, dancing with the people opposite (many bows and curtseys ensue). One of the best-known reels, the Eightsome, sees one dancer cavorting in the middle of a seven-person circle, encouraged to push themselves to the max. Men, true to form, will grab the opportunity by the antlers.

‘A lot of them would use the Eightsome solo to do press-ups when we were younger,’ says lifelong reeler Kat Holbrook, a communications officer for luxury hotels, ‘to impress the girls.’ Sometimes, the rules are bent and a pair of the same sex will hop into the middle of the circle together: when two men do, mimicking stags rutting proves a popular move.

Experienced female dancers discuss the whole thing with a jaded air. One says that, during the Eightsome, she has seen men ‘attempt flips and cartwheels’. Miss Holbrook reveals: ‘I went to an all girls’ school and grew up dancing the male parts because I was so tall.’ She eventually had to ‘relearn’ the women’s half of the dances to keep up as an adult.

Reeling, to the uninitiated, seems odd and complicated. The vernacular runs deep. The choreographies are difficult. Demystifying this, however, has been among the calling cards for the collective known as London Reels, which organises the weeknight gatherings at St Columbus.

The current chair, Eliza Lindsay, tells me how much reeling in London has expanded since it picked up again post-covid. ‘Reeling was one of the last events to be allowed again after social restrictions eased,’ she notes. ‘It has exploded since.’

The London Reels collective takes over the church for one night in the middle of each month, from September to June. ‘We exceptionally hold two sessions in April and in May,’ Miss Lindsay tells me, ‘to wedge in extra practice ahead of the balls.’ She is referring to those in the Highlands, such as Oban or The Northern Meeting, which prove continually popular with the Scottish diaspora across the UK and take place in August.

Yet against these fancy, black-tie affairs, London Reels offers something different. Most attendees aren’t necessarily revising for the balls, but choosing to let their hair down at the end of the working day. They learn up to four dance routines in a single evening (The Dashing White Sergeant and Eightsome Reel are guaranteed, plus another two, which London Reels rotates each month to cover all bases before the balls), followed by drinks and actual dancing (‘the social’), during which they put their practice to use.

On offer are red wine, white wine and soft drinks. There is always a bowl of squash. London Reels itself hosts two balls a year, in May and December at the Battersea Arts Centre, with individual tickets at £70. They are growing more and more popular. ‘The median age of attendees, there and at the practice, has fallen considerably in the past four years,’ Lindsay says. ‘We have concession rates for students and those who wear tartan. In 2022, only 15% of attendees claimed those rates, but now, it’s about 24%.’

The cohort with me at London Reels is a wonderful mix of expert reelers and greener practitioners, although few are absolute beginners. There are more accessible entry-points for the curious — Holbrook recommends Reel Thing, run by caller John Carver, which hosts reels and ceilidhs throughout the year in the capital — as well as more advanced options for the experienced.

At the upper end, the Royal Caledonian Ball (a white-tie affair) takes place each spring at Grosvenor House on Park Lane. Some even head to France: each summer, since 2022, the Royal Versailles Ball at the celebrated palace just outside Paris has raised money for The King’s Foundation and other charities, with tickets starting at €240 (about £204). Even the best, however, flock to London Reels’s events for the sense of community.

‘It’s a really fun way to meet new people and make friends in London in your twenties,’ Holbrook beams. ‘See you at the next one?’

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

‘He was an aquarius, I’m an aquarius.’ Perhaps Cordelia de Castellane’s tenure as the artistic director of Dior Maison and Baby Dior for more than 15 years was written in the stars?

‘When I arrived, I think I made a very clear and strong link with Mr Dior himself. I know how strange it is, but going through his life and what he had left behind…’ she pauses, before adding, in her thick French accent: ‘He was very superstitious, I’m very superstitious. He was loving flowers, I feel very well in my garden…’

Whether you believe in the power of this ‘imaginary conversation’ between Cordelia and Christian, or indeed the significance of the zodiac, there’s no questioning the reality of the artistic director's success.

As well as Dior, Cordelia also runs her own company, Studio Cordelia de Castellane, which provides bespoke interior decoration for hotels, restaurants and private houses. In her own words, she has ‘a lot going on’. She explains: ‘I don’t like to do only one thing, I get bored very easily.’

Dior is the perfect gig for Cordelia. ‘As a little girl, Dior was a fantasy, it was a dream. I have always been obsessed with fashion,’ she says. Style also runs in the family. Cordelia’s great-great-uncle was the neo-romantic architect Emilio Terry. Her uncle, Gilles Dufour, was Karl Lagerfeld's long-time right-hand man at CHANEL and her mother, Countess Atalanta de Castellane, is an interior designer.

‘I grew up really in the middle of fashion and art and everything. It’s something that’s been around me since I was a little girl, so for sure I have a very good excuse to do the work that I do.’

Cordelia was raised in the Swiss mountains. An only child, she spent a lot of time with her grandparents, and a lot more time with no one at all. ‘I’m not really a city girl,’ she says. ‘I was a unique child, I spent a lot of my time quite alone — which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong.’ Perhaps because of this she has always had a strong imagination, ‘because I had my own world within myself’.

She had work experience at CHANEL, courtesy of her uncle, and landed her first job there aged 15. This was followed by a 10- year stint at Emanuel Ungaro that was originally only supposed to last for a month. ‘I arrived a young girl and left a woman with two children, married,’ she says. Then Dior came calling. ‘I knew very young what I wanted to do, and I wanted to work for a big house, so from the beginning I knew my goal.’

Your aesthetic hero

I’m quite obsessed with [Lorenzo] Mongiardino. I think that if I have to name one person with that kind of taste who pulls me away it would be Mongiardino, for sure.

An exhibition that has really impressed you

I would say that Monet is the painter who has my heart, because the way he paints nature is really something that talks to me. It's nothing original, but it's completely the truth.

The last thing of note that you bought for yourself

Nineteenth-century vases painted with irises that I found in a flea market. They’re really divine.

A possession you would never sell

I don’t know, because I think the most valuable things I have are not of monetary value. I’m not materialistic. I will never sell my soul, that’s for sure. Not for anything.

Your favourite painting

Something by either Monet or Renoir. With the latter’s paintings, like Bal du moulin de la Galette, you look at the people and you can imagine the story of what they’re talking about and who’s in love with who. It’s something that I love to do. That and Woman with a Parasol – Madame Monet and Her Son, by Monet.

The music that you work to

I could say classical, but also I love Coldplay and English pop music. I love music but it depends on my mood, you know?

The last podcast you listened to

I listened to something with Monty Don on. It made me cry, actually. He had a tough few years as a younger man. I’m a huge, huge fan.

What you’d take with you to a desert island

My family and my mum. Oh, and my dogs — Bagheera and Mowgli. Maybe I would swap all of them for just my two dogs. Maybe…

The thing that gets you up in the morning

Life. I love life.

The person that would play you in a film of your life

Meryl Streep. I love her. She’s so successful, so brave, so talented, but with such simple, good values. And to be able to be that beautiful and stay at the top of your game without touching your face — if we are talking about authenticity, she’s an authentic woman. I don’t know if I could be as brave as her.

A hotel you could go back and back to

I love the hotels in Italy. Like Hotel Il Pellicano, for example.

The most memorable meal you’ve ever eaten

I think it was something also in Italy. Probably pasta, because I’m obsessed with pasta. I’m always on a diet because I could eat all day. I love eating.

The items you collect

I am a huge collector of everything. Sylvanian Families — because I’m like a kid and I don’t want to grow up — books of flowers, erasers, frogs, vases, plates. I am quite an excessive collector of lots of things.

A book that you've found inspiring

I love Proust. He’s been next to my bed since I was a little girl. I also love the Paris of that time, which he writes about.

The best present you’ve ever received

My four children, for sure.

Visit Dior's website to shop Maison Dior and Baby Dior. For more information on Studio Cordelia de Castellane, click here.

I am told, before I board my tiny, silver plane, that Nantucket looks like a pork chop from the air. In shape, at least.

The island, which lies 30 miles south of the Cape Cod peninsula, is where generations of East Coast Americans have come to summer. Before them, it was home, for more than 12,000 years, to the Wampanoag people, who used cobbles deposited by glacial ice to make tools, and then colonisers from England, who christened their first settlement Sherburne and turned this meat-shaped speck on the map into the whaling capital of the world.

Nantucket is often mentioned in the same breath as other affluent coastal enclaves: nearby Martha’s Vineyard and The Hamptons and ‘The Cape’ (shorthand for Cape Cod). Their British counterparts aren’t necessarily the places that parts of them were named after, but rather Rock in Cornwall, Burnham Market in Norfolk and Salcombe in Devon, all similar places of immense natural beauty, architectural arms races and strained relationships between locals and second-home owners.

Salcombe is my summer poison of choice and I’ve spent hours sitting stationary opposite Stonehenge, being diverted away from the A303 altogether, or on the well-intentioned, but always delayed train service from Paddington to Totnes with disastrously upright seats.

Thankfully, there are more sophisticated ways to get to Nantucket: Tradewind, of tiny silver-plane fame, which flies between, among others, New York and Boston and coastal holiday hotspots; Cape Air; and myriad ferries — some of which take cars, most of which allow dogs.

Occasionally, Nantucket is shrouded in that particular kind of salty sea mist that looks like fine gauze and reveals it to arrivals ever so slowly, like a phantom island. It feels as if, had you travelled on a perfectly clear day, you’d never come across land at all, the map scrubbed clean.

However you choose to arrive, it’s impossible not to notice the uniform houses clad in weathered grey cedar shingle. There have been planning restrictions in place since the 19th century and, when it comes to façades, house owners must choose from a palette of approved colours. There are no white and glass, harsh-angled monstrosities here.

The second thing you’ll probably notice is the fleet of Jeep Wranglers lining the uneven cobblestone streets that were laid in the first half of the 19th century. The descendant of the rugged Second World War Jeep is still a rare sight back in south Devon, where the Suzuki Jimny and ageing Land Rover Defender reign supreme.

White Elephant is Nantucket’s grande dame hotel. It is a 10-minute walk from the harbour and Main Street, with its cluster of shops (including an impressive array of vintage and antique furniture stores) and restaurants, and is where everyone in the know suggests visitors stay.

In 2023, the harbour-side hotel was refurbished to celebrate its centenary year, but it didn’t stray far from its New England roots. Think linen sofas, scalloped lampshades and grass cloth wall coverings in nautical hues, plus rattan cabinets and bobbin chairs. What sets it apart is the breadth of accommodation, from the rooms and suites in the main building to garden cottages, multi-bedroom residences arranged around a pool and more sprawling, contemporary downtown lofts. There is a configuration for almost every stage of life, which means guests return year after year knowing it will suit a growing brood or a different circle of friends.

Residents have access to very solid bicycles that I decided could hold their own in a stand-off with a Jeep and, on our first evening, we pedalled to Steps Beach, a long, unspoilt stretch of sand with little parking that’s famed for its sunset views. It’s accessed by, unsurprisingly, a lot of steps, which cut a line through the dunes, and grey mansions that stand sentry on the bluffside.

In August and September, the gentle waves glow with bioluminescence, but in spring, when we visited, there were only the empty shells of unfortunate horseshoe crabs to marvel at. The 250-million-year-old living fossils — the bright-blue blood of which is highly prized by the medical industry — are commonplace here in April through to June when they gather in shallow, protected waters to mate.

Beach-goers who come across horseshoes that have come a cropper due to strong tides or their own clumsy swimming are encouraged to flip them right-side up. It’s a very different spectacle to the one of children crabbing on Salcombe’s Victoria Quay, but, then again, horseshoe crabs aren’t crabs at all, but relations of spiders, scorpions, ticks and mites (and impossible to fit inside a plastic bucket).

When it comes to food, Nantucket decisively steals a march on Salcombe — and everywhere else on the British coastline. There’s The Proprietors, for elegant small plates and fantastic cocktails, The Nautilus (try the blue crab fried rice if you can get a table) and Topper’s, White Elephant’s sister property The Wauwinet’s restaurant, where, after a long lunch, you can drift into the sitting room for a game of backgammon. At cosy Brotherhood of Thieves, to which we retreated on an overcast day at the urging of Sam, a member of White Elephant’s concierge team, our server confidently claimed its lobster roll is the best on the island. Naturally, we ordered two: one was piping hot and swimming in a rockpool of molten butter; the second was cold, the lobster meat folded through a salad of celery, chives, lemon and mayonnaise. Had we been pushed to eat a third, I don’t think we would have complained.

This year marks the 175th anniversary of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, which D. H. Lawrence branded ‘the greatest book of the sea ever written’. Nantucket is inextricably linked to the great American novel because it serves as the home port of the doomed Pequod. Melville was further inspired by his own experiences as a common sailor and the 1820 sinking of a whaling boat that met its match in the form of an extremely angry, 85ft-long sperm whale.

The skeleton of a smaller specimen hangs from the ceiling of the Nantucket Whaling Museum, a well-curated space that documents four centuries of the island’s maritime and whaling history. The dangerous pursuit of these marine mammals — chiefly for their spermaceti, a semi-liquid substance located in the animal’s head cavities and used to create smokeless candles — peaked in mid 1700s; in 1790, the Nantucket Quakers famously reported that ‘there were no poor people on the island’.

We didn’t see any now-protected whales on our trip, although a particularly chunky seal kept close watch over us on Surfside Beach and plenty of people have reported sightings from the ferry from Hyannis.

I had always assumed great beaches required great drama to be, well, great. In Salcombe, many are bordered by dramatic, Paleozoic cliffs and, behind that, an undulating patchwork of fields. Further abroad, where it’s warmer, pristine sand is often juxtaposed against turquoise seas.

Although there is nothing theatrical about Nantucket’s topography, it quietly dismantled my prejudices. The land sits low against the horizon and is carpeted in sprawling expanses of globally rare sandplain grasslands and cranberry bogs that creep forward to blend seamlessly into the coastal dunes.

It’s a softer and subtler beauty that’s not shaped by spectacle — and it invites you to rest and unwind. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

Carrier can organise seven-night New England itineraries from £6,175 per person. The price includes four nights in a premier double room at Raffles Boston and three nights in a Harborview Room at White Elephant Hotel, Nantucket, plus return economy flights with Virgin Atlantic from London Heathrow (LHR), return domestic flights from Boston to Nantucket Airport with Tradewind, private transfers and airside departure service at LHR.

This feature originally appeared in the July 15, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Lovers of Margery Fish’s famous garden at East Lambrook, Somerset, will be glad to know that it is once again in safe hands. It has passed through many owners since the great gardening writer died in 1969 and the new custodians Andrew and Alison Johnson moved in last May after fears that the house might be sold and the garden lost. The excellent news is that they are not only experienced and knowledgeable gardeners, but thrilled to be taking on such an important and historic masterpiece.

Andrew and Alison are originally from Cheshire, but lived for 30 years in Seattle, where they prospered. The garden they made there was one of 10 chosen for a recent book about modern American gardens and has been the subject of many articles and blogs. On their return to England, they sought a house where they could develop their gardening skills further. They have already made immense inroads into clearing and restoring what they found on their arrival at East Lambrook. They give heartfelt thanks to all the previous owners who strove to keep alive the memory of Fish, her garden and her plants.

It is sometimes said that Fish’s first and best-known gardening book, We Made a Garden (1956), is an account of her battles with her husband, Walter, a retired journalist, about the design and planting of their garden. That rather misses the point. The book is exactly what it set out to be — an account of how they made their garden at East Lambrook and it was written, rather reflectively, during her years of widowhood. She explains what they did and why they did it, their successes and their failures and how they retrieved the garden from their many mistakes, learning all the time.

The tone is intimate and personal; her conversational style is one of the book’s great strengths and accounts for much of its popularity. There is no trace of grandiloquence or even of immaculate grammar. It reads as if she is sitting opposite you at the kitchen table, drinking tea and telling you of all the ups and downs of how she and Walter made and maintained the garden. The success of We Made a Garden led to another seven books, all eagerly studied and enjoyed by her disciples.

Walter and Margery Fish moved to Somerset in 1937. The modest manor house was built of beautiful Ham stone and dates back to the 15th century. As for the garden, Fish always said that they bought a wilderness — ‘friends were really sorry for us’.

However, she was so smitten by the variegated sycamore Acer pseudoplatanus f. variegatum ‘Leopoldii’ on the main lawn that she said she would have bought the house just for the joy of owning it. It flourishes still today.

Walter insisted on four priorities: perfect lawns, paths, hedges and walls. Margery was more interested in plants, but came to agree with her husband because he saw the garden as a whole, whereas she adored the details. Nevertheless, structure mattered: she is remembered for declaring ‘if I ever hear of a good garden, I visit it in winter and, if I like it, return in the summer’. Elsewhere, she wrote: ‘No matter how beautiful they are, if the surroundings are unkempt, the flowers would give no pleasure whereas one could have a perfectly good and satisfying garden without any flowers at all.’

Fish loved the traditional plants with which cottage gardens in Britain were once so densely planted and encouraged her readers to ‘cherish the simple flowers that brightened [them] for so many years’. She sought a superabundance of flowers at every season. Evergreens included her own signature spurge Euphorbia characias subsp. wulfenii ‘Lambrook Gold.’ Bulbs naturalised everywhere, especially snowdrops, daffodils and Tulipa sprengeri. Cyclamen are also very much at home and she adored violets and primroses. It was mainly due to her love of plants that she developed the garden in the old cottage-gardening style.

Fish also described her informal planting style as ‘jungle gardening’ and the exuberant tangled growth of plants in much of her garden, especially in late summer, was a quality that she valued highly. Her garden was designed to offer an infinity of habitats — each of them an opportunity. There was no place for herbaceous borders or the grand style of previous generations. Nor did she hanker for the formal gradation of colours that Gertrude Jekyll had popularised for 50 years. What she created was a middle-class interpretation of an English cottage garden, perfectly in keeping with the house.

All the owners since Fish have sought to conserve the garden’s structure and cherish her plants. First was her nephew Henry Boyd-Carpenter, followed by his parents, until his father died in 1984. Andrew Norton bought the house in 1985 and did much to restore the garden, as well as developing a National Collection of Geranium species and cultivars. Then it passed to Robert and Marianne Williams, who sold it in turn to Gail and Mike Werkmeister in 2008. Few gardens are so well documented — what grew best and where it flourished, although many of the original plants are no longer available, which means that substitutes must be found that Fish would have endorsed if she were alive today.

The Werkmeisters were excellent custodians. An example of their thoughtful management was the planting of a young handkerchief tree in the centre of the white garden — the form called Davidia involucrata ‘Sonoma’, which flowers as a young plant. They also began a tradition of opening the garden in February for a Snowdrop Festival.

Fish liked flowers in winter, especially green-marked snowdrops and double forms, notably Galanthus ‘Ophelia’, that open even in dim light. She also loved G. ‘Magnet’, with its long pedicels and dancing flowers. The varieties that she planted have cross-pollinated and seeded around so that good new cultivars turn up all the time. Examples with Lambrook names include G. plicatus ‘Lambrook Greensleeves’, G. ‘Sir Henry B-C’, G. plicatus ‘Walter Fish’ and, above all, G. nivalis ‘Margery Fish’. Some 10 or 12 further plant cultivars are named after her or her garden. Perhaps the best known and remembered today are Artemisia absinthium ‘Lambrook Silver’ and Polemonium ‘Lambrook Mauve’, although Penstemon ‘Margery Fish’ still has an AGM from the RHS.

When Gail died in 2022, her husband decided to downsize and, after many months without a sale, rather gave up hope of finding a buyer to whom he could confidently pass on the baton of responsibility for this super-important garden, until the arrival of Andrew and Alison, who set to work on the gardens as soon as they moved in — their furniture had yet to arrive from Seattle. They are acutely aware of the importance of the garden and its status both nationally and internationally. Intending to restore it as faithfully as possible, they have spoken to many old friends of the garden and read everything they can about it.

The original structure — the walls, the paving and the paths (now nicely re-gravelled) — is intact, but much of the garden is overgrown. The evergreen lonicera hedge (now known as Lonicera ligustrina var. yunnanensis) has, for example, been allowed to grow and thicken until it completely obliterated Fish’s herb garden, which the Johnsons are restoring. The Green Garden was so overgrown that the new owners have left a brown cut-off bramble stem high overhead to remind themselves of the task that faced them on arrival. Here, as throughout the garden, much emphasis is placed on the value of evergreen trees and shrubs for young-round structure.

The Johnsons have added interesting new plants to fill the recovered space, including a variegated form of Phormium tenax and a handsome young loquat Eriobotrya japonica. They are also planting new fruit trees in the orchard, now only a lawn; first to be added were a greengage and the yellow damson known as ‘Shepherd’s Bullace’.

The Johnsons have been greatly encouraged by past owners and by people who have continued to grow plants that have been lost to the garden. Their greatest help has been Mark Stainer, who started as a gardener at East Lambrook at the age of 15 in 1974 and has worked there ever since — and they are propagating as many ‘original’ Margery Fish plants as possible for sale to visitors.

East Lambrook is open to visitors. See the East Lambrook website for more details.

This feature originally appeared in the July 29, 2026, print edition of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Property listings are often pretty functional affairs. How many bedrooms does it have? Is it near the station? What is the kitchen like?

Every so often, though, you'll come across a rare outbreak of poetry, and it's all the more delightful for being unexpected. And that's what we have today in the case of Argyronisos, a private island for sale at €35 million (about £30 million) through Engel & Völkers:

'60 acres of rolling hills, ancient olive trees, cypress groves, wildflowers, and small, idyllic private coves surrounded by shimmering azure waters,' reads the blurb supplied by agent George Ioannou. 'Here, the journey begins long before you step ashore; it starts as the mainland recedes and the rhythm of life slows down to match the whispering tide.'

I can feel my blood pressure lowering just re-reading this paragraph. If this is what Greek islands are like, no wonder Odysseus raised heaven and earth to get back to his.

This dot on the map sits in the northern Aegean, between the northern tip of Euboea — also known as Evia, the second-largest island in Greece — and the mainland itself. It's a breathtaking slice of paradise, with woodland and olive groves running across the island down to the craggy cliffs, and an impossibly romantic lighthouse at one end.

There is also a deep water dock and a handful of small beaches dotted about the island, all of which arae unspoilt, natural and rocky rather than open and spacious.

That's the vibe here: this is not a place for those who love great expanses of sand, but instead a calm retreat from the world, a place of seclusion and privacy, a happy little enclave where you can sit back and feel the spinning of the earth beneath your feet.

Argyronisos has been in the same family since 1961, spending much of that time as a family home, but more recently it's been run as a luxurious retreat which has, according to the agents, 'welcomed globally renowned entrepreneurs, artists, and prominent figures who sought out Argyronisos not for ostentatious display, but for the rarest luxury in the modern world: absolute, uninterrupted privacy.'

What happens next here will be for the new owners to decide, but there's plenty of scope for all sorts of uses. The island has 11 separate stone buildings across its space, including a main residence and separate villa which are modest and tasteful both in size and appearance, with the whitewashed walls highlighted by classic Greek blue-framed windows and shutters.

Elsewhere on the island you'll find stone cottages, an olive house and an ancient chapel, as well as a that looks like the sort of yoga studio you'd see in an episode of The White Lotus.

The island is also largely self-sufficient. Solar panel installations provide all the power needs for the island, though there is also a back-up generator

Argyronisos is for sale at €35 million through Engel & Völkers — see more details:

The Country Life quiz runs daily every afternoon, with new editions published at 4pm.

Missed a day? Want more quizzes? Catch up with all our previous quizzes here.

Of all the many types of jewellery in the world, nothing says glamour, elegance or luxury like a tiara. Some experts believe that the reason tiaras are (literally) jewellery’s crowning glory is because they are worn on the head and are, therefore, more visible. Others reference the tiara’s association with divinity and its similarity to a halo. All point to the connection between tiaras and royalty.

However, for me, the answer is much simpler: a tiara always has the effect of making the wearer (no matter how accomplished or attractive) feel as if they are truly special.

My grandmother used to say that when she put on a tiara she became a different person: more graceful, more beautiful, more confident. As anyone who attended one of Elton John’s annual White Tie and Tiara Balls — a sort of tiara Xanadu — in the noughties will attest: tiaras can also be whimsical, entertaining, even fun.

And, of course, generally speaking, a tiara is likely to be the largest, least worn (with the possible exception of Dame Vivienne Westwood, who was frequently spotted cycling through London sporting one of her own design) and most expensive piece of jewellery that any of us will ever possess.

In short, for sheer extravagance, you can’t beat a tiara. This has been the case for well over three millennia. The jewellers of ancient Greece created beautiful gold tiaras: intertwined ears of wheat (sacred to Demeter, the goddess of the harvest) and branches of olive (for Athena), oak (for Zeus) and myrtle (for Aphrodite).

Floral tiaras — the flowers often mounted on trembler springs so that they fluttered as if in a breeze — were worn at banquets and weddings. The Romans adopted the tiara as the ultimate indication of rank and, for them, it became synonymous with imperial authority.

According to the jewellery historian Diana Scarisbrick, during the Middle Ages, every well-born woman expected to receive a coronal or jewelled garland as part of her dowry.

In the 16th century, tiaras were replaced by billiments (fancy, deeply unflattering headbands) and aigrettes (feathered hat ornaments), but by the middle of the 18th century, they were once again the height of fashion.

During this period, thanks to the discovery of diamonds in Brazil and the wider availability of coloured gemstones and pearls, tiara design went through something of a revolution. Gold (and silver) ceased to be the dominant element and became the framework into which gemstones could be set to best advantage.

The effect at court and other formal events must have been dazzling. Every married woman present would have been wearing a tiara — each one sparkling and flashing in the candlelight. For, until recently, there was always a strict etiquette surrounding tiaras. They were only to be worn by brides on their wedding day and by married women — and then only after dark.

It was Napoleon, or rather his wife, Joséphine, who did much to establish the popularity of tiaras. She wore a fabulous pearl-and-diamond tiara to her coronation in 1804, and between then and her death, she was given or commissioned countless others.

Her favourite jeweller was Marie-Étienne Nitot, whose creativity and skill took tiaras to another level. His firm eventually became Chaumet, which has probably produced more tiaras than any other jewellery house in the world. Indeed, it has just launched a dramatic blue enamel and diamond winged tiara called Envol.

Tiara is, of course, an umbrella term. There is the diadem (essentially a band), circlet (runs around the head), bandeau (a low, flat headband), kokoshnik (tall and broad), fringe (upright, graduated bars radiating from a horizontal base), halo (see the Cartier halo tiara of 1936 worn by Catherine, now The Princess of Wales, in 2011), wreath (self-explanatory), garland (swags, loops and bows), scroll (openwork built from volutes), meander (a geometric repeating pattern) and probably several others I have forgotten.

Many were designed as part of a set of jewels, or parure, featuring a particular pattern or gemstone; others for those in mourning.

As it was the custom to set the largest and finest gems into tiaras, for the past 300 years or so, jewellers have been adept at creating pieces that could be taken apart and worn in other ways. The Girls of Great Britain and Ireland Tiara, for example, which was made by Garrard in 1893 and presented as a wedding gift to the future Queen Mary, converted into a necklace, coronet and bandeau.

My favourite tiara, however, is less versatile. Commissioned by the sixth Duke of Devonshire for Maria, Countess Granville, and made by C. F. Hancock, using diamonds, cameos and intaglios acquired by the second duke, it epitomises the English neo-Renaissance style and caused a sensation at the Emperor of Russia’s coronation in 1856.

But, then, I have never seen a tiara that doesn’t cause a sensation.

It is the ‘year of the tiara’, but what’s a girl (or guy) to do if they don’t have an heirloom laying about? You can read all about Felix Bischof's search for his own, here.

This feature originally appeared in the August 12, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Wedding wine isn’t what it used to be. Where once you would be toasting the happy couple with Champagne (or, if you were unlucky, sticky demi-sec bought in bulk near the Calais car-ferry terminal), your glass is increasingly likely to contain English sparkling wine — and, if it’s a summer wedding, the chances are this will be pink.

One name in particular has become as ubiquitous in smart marquees as it has in the likes of Fortnum & Mason and The Savoy: Nyetimber. For Brad Greatrix, senior winemaker at the West Sussex producer, sparkling rosé ‘lends itself naturally to what English grapes provide. 'Because of our long, gentle growing season, we can preserve all those beautiful high-toned fruit flavours and carry them over. We say it’s English summer fruits in a glass’.

He and his wife, head winemaker Cherie Spriggs, worked with Nyetimber’s owner Eric Heerema to produce its first sparkling rosé in 2007, using Chardonnay, Pinot Meunier and Pinot Noir grapes (exactly the same blend as Champagne), the latter fermented with skins to lend a salmon-pink hue. This was followed in 2010 by 1086 by Nyetimber Rosé, a prestige cuvée (‘to be taken seriously on the world stage, we knew we needed them’).

As a nation, we can’t get enough of rosé: a recent report from the Wine and Spirit Trade Association (WSTA) revealed that some 129 million bottles of it were sold in the UK last year, with sparkling rosé proving increasingly popular at Christmas and Easter. Yet, when Nyetimber’s English version first came to market, people didn’t quite know what to make of it, recalls Greatrix.

‘There was a certain amount of initial apprehension because it wasn’t super pale.’ ‘People tend to drink with their eyes first and they think [a darker rosé] is going to be sticky, sweet and unpleasant,’ agrees Callum Edge, marketing director at Nyetimber’s West Sussex neighbour Sugrue, whose wines have been served at Windsor Castle.

Winemakers Dermot and Ana Sugrue bottled their first sparkling rosé a decade ago, after receiving a ‘glut of exceptional Pinot Noir grapes from a vineyard in Hampshire’. Rosé Ex Machina (‘because it came out of nowhere’) is ‘limpid, deeply coloured and fragrant… it’s now 10 years old and I think it’s absolutely in the zone right now’.

There was a second iteration in 2018 and a late release that year, which had spent 80 months on lees (in contact with its natural yeast sediments, which lend richness).

Cellar ageing of sparkling rosé is uncommon, but Sugrue has always strived to make ‘wines that are age-worthy and can go the distance’. Buoyed by this success, the Sugrues launched their first still rosé last year. Dear Noodles, named after a much-missed lurcher-greyhound cross, is an oak-aged blend of Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier described by Edge as ‘an experiment’.

Unlike the first still English rosés, which tended to ape the popular Provençal, paler-than-pale style, it’s ‘almost like a pale red: we were inspired by those deep rosé wines of Bandol and Rioja’. He admits: ‘The whole idea was to create a bit of a two fingers to the likes of Whispering Angel.’

Despite its deliberately unflashy packaging — there’s no skittle-shaped bottle or even a label — ‘we made 2,000 and they absolutely flew out’. A follow-up, Dear Tara, named for another beloved dog, is being bottled as we speak.

It’s often said that global warming has been a boon for English winemaking, but the reality is more complicated, particularly where still wines are concerned. Unlike summers in the world rosé capital of the south of France, English ones remain unpredictable, if increasingly warm, which can lead to inconsistent ripening and disease vulnerability. A cold snap or downpours such as those the country experienced in May can potentially lay waste to a whole year’s work overnight.

‘I heard the phrase climate chaos rather than climate change recently,’ Edge says. For as long as English vineyards are relatively small-scale operations, meanwhile, cost will remain a sticking point for many consumers. ‘The biggest challenge is price: even still English wines are not cheap for most wine drinkers.’

Yet there are undoubtedly upsides to the fact that lots of the vineyards producing English rosé have a boutique set-up — the ‘farm-gate’ feel of many, with producers running informal tours and tastings as well as supplying local independent businesses, makes experimentation feel less daunting.

‘Our wines are very approachable,’ notes Tim Dutton of Two Beacons Vineyard. Proof that not all the best English wines come from the Home Counties, he and co-founder Ceri Phipps, an old school friend, have made their base between the Herefordshire and Worcestershire Beacons.

The area has a history of winemaking stretching back to the 13th century; before the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Pershore Abbey had a flourishing vineyard, the name of which remains on maps. In 2016, after discovering they shared an interest in the burgeoning English wine-making scene, Dutton and Phipps settled on a low-lying, south-facing plot sheltered by shrubs and hedges at the foot of the Malvern Hills, which they planted with Bacchus, Pinot Noir Precoce (an early- ripening variety) and regular Pinot Noir, with the intention of making both sparkling and still wines.

In less than a decade, Two Beacons has grown into a serious contender on the international stage and was awarded three silver medals at this year’s Decanter World Wine Awards, one of which was for its 2022 Late Release Sparkling Rosé Pinot Noir. Light, subtle and delicate, it has the juicy red-fruit notes so characteristic of English sparkling rosés. ‘I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t liked it,’ Dutton says simply.

Nyetimber, meanwhile, now has partnerships with the Lawn Tennis Association and Henley Regatta and its mint-green 1968 Routemaster is a familiar sight during the summer Season, drawing crowds wherever it goes. ‘It certainly wasn’t like that in the early days,’ Greatrix laughs. ‘During my first five years here, if I bumped into an acquaintance and they asked me what I did, they assumed we were buying the fruit from abroad because there couldn’t be any grapes in England. Now, I’ll be at the playground with my daughter and other parents will say: “Oh, we had Nyetimber for our anniversary.”’

Reaching for a bottle of English sparkling rosé when we’re in the mood to celebrate is certainly happy news, but Greatrix emphasises that there’s nothing lightweight or frivolous about the wine itself. ‘Rosé in general is a style that is underestimated by a lot of people, because the strongest association is the colour,’ he believes. ‘Ours isn’t a blush version of our white wines — we’re making a rosé for all the senses.'

This feature originally appeared in the August 5, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

You don’t need to have seen The Parent Trap to appreciate the Mary Poppins-esque beauty of Egerton Terrace — but it helps. The 1998 movie, starring a young Lindsay Lohan as twins Annie and Hallie, selects this as the site of Elizabeth’s home (the twins’ mother, played by Natasha Richardson), and of the family butler Martin’s. It is, fittingly, the sort of street where one imagines some of the houses still do have a butler.

A tributary of Chelsea’s Egerton Crescent, frequently named the most expensive street in the country, Egerton Terrace is, in fact, a cul-de-sac, with handsome stuccoed houses lined up opposite one another until they reach a wall with a green lamppost.

The land on which this all sits was originally occupied by a mansion named Brompton Grange. By 1843, its proprietor — the opera singer John Braham — was facing financial difficulties. The trustees of the Smith’s Charity, which owned the land itself, decided to demolish the building to free up six acres. There, they built crescents, gardens and terraces in the contemporary style.

Egerton Terrace is named after one of the trustees: 19th-century statesman and arts patron, Francis Egerton, 1st Earl of Ellesmere. The road appears to be tree-lined until you notice that these are all contained within front gardens. Several are topiaried by the families who live here, and conceal far greater gardens to the rear of the properties.

No doubt the grandest of all is hidden behind Numbers 39 and 41: the two end-of-terrace homes that have been knocked together to form one, double-fronted house. In London’s current property market, this has to be the standout. It is for sale with Knight Frank for £35 million.

The garden is over 10,000 square feet — one of the largest in Zone One, with scope for further landscaping — and the internal floor area of the house is not far behind, at roughly 7,300 square feet: a paean to its manor house past. The interiors whisper more than they shout, imparting classic shibboleths of wealth. Vast proportions do most of the talking. A gym and a study accompany the seven en-suites.

Large windows frame views of the garden, while a yellow awning shelters the south-facing living room from the glare of the summer sun. Parking abounds, and Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations are both within easy reach.

Right on the doorstep are some of the city’s most celebrated sites: the V&A Museum, Natural History Museum, and Brompton Oratory. Hyde Park is a ten-minute walk away. It doesn’t get much grander than this.

Egerton Terrace is for sale with Knight Frank for £35 million. For more information and images, click here.