A week or so ago, as the sun blazed in Italy, and the temperature displays outside the pharmacies headed into the 40s, I made a deal with myself. Next summer, we'll be holidaying in Scotland.

The only issue I imagined I'd have is deciding exactly where where to go — or so I thought. As it happened, immediately on my return I immediately came across the perfect Scottish home in which to take refuge from Europe's increasingly-brutal summers: Ronachan House.

It's a home that looks perfect for the climate change-era, a place from where I'll be able to enjoy the beauty of Scotland, bask in the perfectly temperate, not-too-hot and not-too-cold weather, and enjoy a sun that warms pleasantly without turning you lobster-red within 15 minutes.

It's even a perfect spot for dreamy sunsets: the house is on the west coast of the Kintyre Peninsula, about 40 miles directly north of the Mull of Kintyre, less than 20 minutes from Tarbert, and about a 35-minute drive from Campbeltown.

All that now separates me from my dream home in Scotland is the small matter of the £2.1 million I'll need to buy Ronachan House in Clachan, through the nice people at Strutt & Parker.

This Category B-listed in Clachan is as fine inside as it is outside. The place has been meticulously restored over the past 20 years, ensuring it offers luxury accommodation across three levels, retaining architectural grandeur together with chic decor.

The 13-bedroom house, dating from the Victorian era, is constructed from warm sandstone and features steeply pitched gables, tall clustered chimneys, finely detailed stonework, symmetrical bay windows and generous sashes from that time.

The agent refers to the three-storey Ronachan House as ‘a celebration of original period detailing’. The main house has seven bedrooms in total, with the principal suit sounding like a true joy, 'comprising a spacious bedroom, separate sitting area overlooking the bay and a beautifully appointed bathroom with roll-top bath and marble-tiled walk-in shower.'

The kitchen forms the heart of the ground floor, centred around a generous island and thoughtfully designed to lend itself to both entertaining and the daily rhythms of family life.

It barely needs pointing out, of course, but we'd be remiss not to add that the views from this 10½-acre property, set in a secluded position on the west coast’s Kintyre Peninsula, are exceptional. You can look out across the sea to the Inner Hebrides islands of Islay, Jura and Gigha.

There are also three dwellings beyond the main house: the Coach House, the Look Out and North Lodge, with three, one and two bedrooms respectively. A grand main house, and plenty of spots for guests? This really is a property that pretty much ticks every box.

There's a small chance (ok, quite a large chance) that I won' t quite get the required funds together in time to buy Ronachan House, so if it's if you who ends up buying it first, please feel free to pop me an invitation via Country Life. And I'll see you there next summer.

Ronachan House is for sale through Strutt & Parker — 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.

In an increasingly digital, mechanised world, it’s hard to resist anything that bears the mark of slow and considered craftsmanship and deep cultural symbolism.

Traditional Kuba cloth, a distinctive, graphic textile from the Congo region, is a fine example, admired by designers for its abstract pattern and textural beauty, which can be layered into rooms as wall hangings and cushions.

Hand woven from local raffia palm fibre — split into fine strips — on hand-operated looms using centuries-old techniques, Kuba cloth is known for its bold, geometric and often intricate design. Vegetable dyes enliven the natural tawny colours of the fibre.

There are two main types: flatwoven cloths with embroidery or appliqué and cut-pile ‘velvet’ cloths. The result offers a window on Africa’s rich textile history and specifically the artistic legacy of the Kuba Kingdom, which flourished from the 17th to the 19th centuries in Central Africa, now the heart of today’s Democratic Republic of Congo.

Made for everything from sleeping mats to prestige pieces, as well as ceremonial and funerary attire, Kuba cloth has had a lasting influence on art and design and is widely considered a precursor to modern abstract art. Henri Matisse (1869–1954) acquired examples of Kuba cloth and he is said to have remarked: ‘I never tire of looking at them for long periods of time, even the simplest of them, and waiting for something to come to me from the mystery of their instinctive geometry.’

Some early examples of Kuba cloth still exist, as Bryan Reeves of gallery Tribal Gathering London explains. ‘Although things made from fibre don’t last forever, it is still possible to find late-19th-century pieces,’ he says. ‘They have the distinctive geometric quality, as well as a lovely sense of movement and a free-flowing design, less structured than later pieces, which is what I look for.’ Reeves recommends reading Weaving Abstraction: Kuba Textiles and the Woven Art of Central Africa by Vanessa Drake Moraga (The Textile Museum).

Recently, the striking, graphic quality has inspired contemporary designs, such as printed cushions by Raj Tent Club, linen by Titley and Marr and cotton by Warwick Fabrics. Yet, Kuba cloth remains a deeply artisanal product, woven on traditional hand looms and finished with layered surface decoration to create the distinctively graphic result.

The demand for Kuba cloth in modern interiors is helping to preserve the techniques of its craftsmanship, as Ben Nel, co-founder of Botanical Boys explains. ‘Every cushion sold helps keep this weaving tradition alive,’ he says. ‘You can feel the hand in every thread — a kind of soul no machine will ever copy.’

This feature originally appeared in the August 19, 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.

Do your wurst

The loyal and dashing little dachshund is rapidly growing in popularity. Smitten owners tell Matthew Dennison of their fondness for the sausage dog

Once more into the breeches

Madeleine Silver assesses the distinctive school uniforms that add to the allure of our top educational establishments

Changing gears

Some service stations are miles ahead of the competition, as Will Hosie discovers when he hits the road in search of the best — and worst — in Britain

It was their day in the sun

Kate Green looks back over 65 years of Burghley Horse Trials in Lincolnshire to showcase equine winners of all shapes and sizes

The king and I

Titian earned a reputation as a money-chasing mercenary, but was he merely seeking what he was owed, asks Carla Passino

Tabish Khan’s favourite painting

The art critic and curator picks a work that has been a constant image in his life from childhood

Country-house treasure

John Goodall admires the 500-year-old French Gothic arch that welcomes visitors to Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire

A temple of Art

Steven Brindle visits the neo-Classical Lady Lever Art Gallery on Merseyside, home to one of the great British collections

The legacy

Kate Green still finds food for thought in Jocasta Innes’s The Pauper’s Cookbook from 1971

‘Your English summer’s done’

John Lewis-Stempel is breath-less as he contemplates the season’s last lingering days

Luxury

Amie Elizabeth White on bags and Burberry, plus a few of Scott Brash’s favourite things

Interiors

Show your home in its best light with Amelia Thorpe’s pick of stylish outdoor illumination

High-summer splendour

Charles Quest-Ritson marvels at the six spectacular acres at Cedar House in Warwickshire

Travel

It’s a done Deal for Richard MacKichan as he visits this born-again Kent coastal town

Arts & antiques

Painting is poetry in motion for Rory Hutton and Dan Llywelyn Hall, as they tell Carla Passino

And much more

There is much to see and do in Monterey in August during car week, and many of those things to see and do involve looking at, or driving, very expensive cars. It is also a time for manufacturers to show us new cars, with the Sauron-like gaze of the world’s smartphones beaming down on this small slice of central California.

It is perhaps indicative of the world we now live in that you can feel extremely present at an event occurring more than 5,000 miles away simply by clicking follow on a few Instagram accounts and letting the algorithm do the rest. Koenigseggs, Lamborghinis and whatever else doing burnouts along various beach-side roads while people chatter excitedly on voice-overs about just how impressive said car is and valuable and rare. Sheets are pulled off new designs and prototypes to various oohs and ahhs of assembled Ozempians. Cutting through is not easy, because at Monterey, there is always a bigger four-wheeled fish lurking right around the corner.

The McLaren McL 6GT is not the biggest fish, but it was certainly the most prized reveal of the week. Rumours had been swirling for some time that McLaren were releasing their first ‘manual’ car since the F1 ceased production in 1998. Those rumours swelled to a crescendo on August 14, when the McL 6GT blinked into existence and the internet roared its approval.

If such a thing as a prevailing wind exists in the world of car design, then it is surely blowing towards the past. The McL 6GT is inspired by (and takes most of its name from) Bruce McLaren’s own M6GT, the ‘genesis of McLaren’s road cars’. In the words of McLaren Automotive CEO: ‘The McLaren McL 6GT imagines what our inspirational founder had wished to complete but with six additional decades of innovation and passion woven through every element, creating a modern icon of driver connection.’

That 60 years of innovation might be found underneath the car's clean Can-Am lines, but the exterior is very much a celebration of the past. If you could criticise McLaren (and indeed many other sports- and supercar manufacturers), it would be that too many of their machines look like they were born on computers and grew up in wind tunnels; 3D-printed steaks wrapped in carbon fibre.

What they have lacked is provenance — a story, a feeling, something to talk to a petrol-station admirer or a dinner-party guest that is more than just numbers. The irony is, of course, that McLaren has plenty. It feels like it's finally manifested in the McL 6GT, a machine that looks like it was designed by a human with a pencil. There is a sense of heritage to the whole thing that feels timeless. A Kammback tail certainly helps.

And, of course, the manual gearbox. McLaren has always taken great care in trying not to overindulge their drivers, eschewing endless screens and buttons in order to keep the driving experience pure. And now with a full manual in the range, the experience is complete. Surely it will only be a matter of time before customers are asking for manual boxes in their own cars.

Could this be the beginning of a new dawn in the direction of design for the gang at Woking? It’s too early to say, but there is so much to like with the McL6GT that it feels the pressure will be hard to resist. The vintage McLaren badges, ‘Speedy Kiwi’ details and proper big headlights all feel like the beginning of a counter-revolution. McLaren will always make spaceships that people will buy, but so much of the joy of the brand is the story. Competition comes in many forms, but the most compelling argument will never be numbers, but sensations, heritage and style.

So, here is your answer. In between the palm trees, Pacific Ocean and plastic, what stood out wasn’t something new, but something quite obviously old. Not a race to the end of a quarter mile, nor bending the physics of drag in a wind tunnel. Rather, a carefully thought-out piece of human design, drawing together the many elements of a business and philosophy that began for so many of us on a bedroom wall. If you want to win Monterey Car Week, the solution is to keep it simple.

Nick Paluch of Savills is excited. The reason? A house called The Lookout, with what the agent describes as 'the most extensive views in Guernsey.'

‘The Lookout is one of the most exciting properties I have been involved with in recent years,' says Nick. 'Opportunities of this nature simply do not come to the market.' So let's take a look at what's got him so pumped up.

As its name implies, The Lookout — which is for sale at £2.95 million — is based around a striking 66ft high tower. Originally a, 19th-century granite mill, it's set in just over 2¼ acres of grounds near Bordeaux Harbour, on the north-eastern corner of the island.

The views are fantastic, naturally, but just as exciting as the tower and millhouse is the lake — created from an former quarry — that's included, giving rise to all sorts of possibilities for the new owners, and a series of CGI pictures on the listing show images of people happily paddleboarding and so forth.

No doubt you've already spotted the catch, courtesy of those three letters C, G and I. The Lookout hasn't yet become a home of any sort, much less one with a handsome timber deck from which to paddleboard. It's very much a work in progress, rather than a finished-and-finalised contemporary home.

The fact that it hasn't been done yet does also mean that there is, subject to planning approval, flexibility for the new owners. The agent and vendor have very much leaned in to that, supplying a host of examples of what could be don here: there are terraces, bridges, walkways, stairs and jetties that give the whole thing a sort of Swiss Family Robinson vibe. And also something of a Bond villain vibe.

That's not to say that the place is a starting-from-scratch job, for extensive work has taken place already at The Lookout to get the ball rolling, in terms of the site and existing buildings. But this is absolutely a project for a new owner blessed with both vision and deep pockets.

Formerly known as Vale Mill, the Lookout was originally built from wood in 1770, before being rebuilt in 1854 in granite. It operated as a flour mill until the Germans occupied the island in 1940, whereupon they used it as an observation tower (hence, The Lookout). It was purchased by James Ridout’s father in 2008, and James has been restoring the site ever since.

James has also secured planning permission for the renovation and extension, and managed to get the house on Guernsey's Open Market (meaning it can be bought by anybody with UK residency, rather than just Guernsey residents).

The prize at the end of all the work done by the new owner will be a home with about 7,000sq ft of accommodation, together with a triple garage and a floating summerhouse.

If dealing with the headaches of getting that done sounds a bit too much like taking on a second job, James is offering the option of a full-build contract, subject to separate negotiations.

‘It’s taken a lot of hard work and perseverance to get to this point — and it’s not been without its challenges — but we’re now in a position where we feel the mill and surrounding site are ready to be taken to the next stage,’ James says.

The planning permission (secured in 2020) is for a four-bedroom house, featuring a kitchen/dining area, utility room, and breakfast room, as well as a substantial basement extension that would cantilever out over the adjoining quarry. Surely you would need an underground tunnel of some kind to connect the two, in true Bond-villain style? Don’t worry, it’s already been planned. Ernst Stavro Blofeld would be proud.

‘There’s nothing like it on the island. It’s a one-of-a-kind property and the views from the top of the tower are beyond compare,' James adds.

'They’re the best in Guernsey. You can see out to sea for miles around.’

The Lookout is for sale with Savills for £2.95 million. For more information and pictures, click here.

Carolyn Rose Ramsay can finally enjoy a Jersey Royal potato salad again.

The artistic director of Ballet d’Jèrri has just moved into new premises in St Helier, having hitherto worked out of potato grower Albert Bartlett’s packing shed, where a sprung floor was installed among the pallets. The fledgling company was grateful — large indoor practice spaces are hard to come by in the Channel Islands — but dance had to pirouette around harvest.

Now, there’s no being sidelined by spuds, as Ballet d’Jèrri has taken up permanent residence at the recently refurbished Jersey Opera House. With about 1,000 applicants from around the world competing for nine positions within the organisation, Ramsay had her pick of talented dancers, who are currently working with community groups to create a new production of The Nutcracker (November 26–29).

It has been a long time since Jersey put on its own version of the Tchaikovsky classic. The festive favourite is part of a new year-round programme of theatre, music, talks and other events now possible due to the opera house’s renovation.

Originally opened in 1865, the venue suffered several fires — a common issue in wooden buildings that relied on candlelight — and was rebuilt in various forms. The cream façade with its arched windows and Art Deco style places this latest version firmly at the turn of the 20th century.

The 2020 pandemic closure provided an opportunity for necessary refurbishment, and the opera house ‘went dark’. (Historically, theatres used to leave a candle in the centre of the stage during such fallow periods, probably contributing to those ubiquitous fires.) Now, with the £12.7 million project complete, the opera house has reopened.

‘The theatre is a cultural crown jewel for the Channel Islands,’ says Sebastian Warrack, Jersey Opera House’s CEO. ‘The building work involved essential maintenance, such as structural repairs and installing low-carbon heating systems, but what’s most obvious to visitors is the auditorium, which has new seating, carpets and improved accessibility.’

I last visited the venue in 2011 during the Liberation International Music Festival, an annual event that marks Jersey’s freedom from German occupation. The balding red velvet has since been replaced by a sleek blue pile, the colour tastefully reflecting the lapis-lazuli and gold-leaf ceiling. The original Edwardian and Victorian plasterwork details across the horse-shoe balconies have been carefully reinstated, with the gilt garlands gleaming once more.

At a glance, the theatre is not that far removed from the venue Lillie Langtry opened in 1900. Warrack became the custodian designate of this shiny-as-new building a few months after the lights went back on, taking up the appointment at the start of this year. Many elements are complete (including the island’s only purpose-built dance studio, home to Ballet d’Jèrri), but there’s still work in progress as the government-funded refurbishment did not include technical equipment. ‘I’m glad to say that we have raised more than £1 million, largely thanks to an anonymous independent donor, so we can make further improvements to the lighting and sound equipment,’ Warrack says.

These include additions that Langtry would never have imagined: a state-of-the-art fly tower, razzle-dazzle lighting and all the digital wizardry needed to host touring productions. Hiding behind the opera house’s proscenium arch is a complex history, coloured recently by the same challenges affecting the performing arts everywhere. All of these, and more besides, are known to Warrack, who previously served as joint chief executive of Wiltshire Creative (co-managing the merger of Salisbury Playhouse, Salisbury Arts Centre and Salisbury International Arts Festival), a tenure that overlapped with the Novichok poisonings.

Then, just as Salisbury was getting back on its feet, covid arrived. The appeal of relocating to the Channel Islands is easy to see. Warrack was wooed by the beautiful, often near-empty beaches. ‘Being able to get to the sea in five minutes is a rather lovely perk,’ he says. ‘I encourage our visiting artists to book here at the end of their tour. Coming to Jersey is coming for a jolly.’

Ramsay, originally from Vancouver, Canada, settled in the Channel Islands in rather more unusual circumstances. Having danced with Miami City Ballet, Les Ballets de Monte Carlo and the Norwegian National Ballet among others, an injury led her to move into Arts administration and she took up a role in Jersey. It was 2020 and, with the borders closed: ‘I got stuck here,’ she says. ‘It was fantastic.’

Jersey Opera House is a misnomer: there has never been a full-time Jersey opera company, although opera regularly features. When I speak to Warrack, the venue is about to screen Opéra de Rennes’s production of three-act comic opera Robinson Crusoe by Offenbach, performed by Orchestre National de Bretagne and conductor Guillaume Tourniaire.

However, programming is wide: vocal quartet G4 brings its ‘Phantoms of the Popera’ show (September 12–13) and Jersey Chamber Orchestra plays Mozart by Candlelight on October 10.

Body-builders are also as likely to be encountered as bassoons. Events such as the UKBFF Channel Islands Wellness & Physique Competition take place at the opera house. ‘I want all of Jersey to feel welcome here,’ says Warrack, comparing the venue to Derbyshire’s equally multi-purpose Buxton Opera House, which hosts the International Gilbert & Sullivan Festival together with comedy such as Harry Enfield shows.

Inviting newcomers to a potato shed or Fort Regent, Jersey’s medieval bastion that has been everything from a garrison to a leisure centre and Arts venue, always required ‘a bit of explanation,’ Ramsay says with a smile. Now, whether it’s for panto or Puccini, there’s a more traditional space awaiting audiences. The artistic director is delighted: ‘It gives me so much pride when we bring visitors to the opera house for the first time and say: “This is our National Theatre.”’

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

Country Life has joined forces with London Square to present an evening promising rather more sparkle than the average drinks reception.

On Wednesday, September 23, from 6pm until 8pm, readers are invited to 25 Bruton Place — the newly established private venue of London Square and parent company Aldar, whose reputation for delivering some of the capital’s most covetable addresses precedes it — for a showcase of Kiki McDonough’s fine jewellery.

Holder of a Royal Warrant and a long time favourite of The Princess of Wales, Kiki McDonough has built her eponymous house on a simple, joyful premise: that a coloured gemstone, chosen for its character as much as its beauty, need never apologise for delighting the eye.

Guests will hear the story behind the brand’s founding and view a selection of her bespoke and signature pieces at close quarters.

London Square has gained a fine reputation for the sensitive restoration of heritage buildings, giving them renewed purpose for the 21st century.

Among its notable projects are the remodelling of the Grade II-listed Royal Star and Garter Building on Richmond Hill, the renovation of Toynbee Hall in Spitalfields and the conversion of a former pickle factory and a tannery in Bermondsey.

The occasion marks the latest grand project for London Square: the transformation of the former Surrey County Hall, a Grade II*-listed essay in the classical manner, set upon 5.2 handsome acres in the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames.

Long the seat of local governance, the building’s stately bones now shelter boutique apartments and duplexes of considerable quality, complete with contemporary new builds. Completion is anticipated from late autumn 2026, with prices starting from £450,000. Two show homes now stand open for viewing.

Residents shall want for little: a round-the-clock concierge, a yoga studio, a private screening room, a games parlour and co-working spaces besides.

Glasses will be kept topped up throughout by Gusbourne, which will be providing the sparkling wine for the evening. The estate planted its first vines in Appledore, Kent, in 2004, with a vision to craft the world’s finest sparkling wines. That ambition has shaped a quality-obsessed approach, continually pushing the boundaries of what is possible in English wine, and Gusbourne remains unwavering in what makes it distinctive: producing vintage-only wines from estate-grown, hand-harvested grapes.

Country Life readers wishing to attend the Bruton Place event on September 23 please RSVP@londonsquare.co.uk.

Those interested in arranging a private viewing of County Hall Kingston may contact the London Square Sales Team on 0333–666 0107, write to countyhallkingston@londonsquare.co.uk or consult countyhallkingston.co.uk

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.

They say you can't have your cake and eat it. While that might be true for cakes and other perishable items, it is very much not the case for nice houses in the countryside. Thanks to the wonders of technology and taste, you can have a house that, from the outside, looks like a lovely period home, but on the inside is a contemporary and comfortable family home with all the modern trimmings.

One such example would be the delightful Westfield House.

Edward Douglas-Home of Knight Frank in Edinburgh is seeking ‘offers over £2.5m’ for Category B-listed Westfield House, which is set in 18 acres of elegantly landscaped gardens, woodland and paddocks between Harburn and Calder in fashionable West Lothian, 21 miles from Edinburgh and 30 miles from Glasgow.

The handsome, early-19th- century country house sits centrally amid its grounds and is approached, like all good things must be, via a long tree-lined drive. The property itself offers more than 6,400sq ft of stylish, light-filled accommodation on three floors, including a conservatory, sun room, office, three reception rooms, a vast kitchen/dining room, six bedrooms and four bathrooms.

The interiors have been finished to an exceptionally high standard, featuring a joyful mix of contemporary and period touches throughout. Highlights are the spacious conservatory, which comes with its own attached bar space. When it comes to entertaining spaces, this is right up there.

Another highlight is the principal bedroom suite on the first floor, which features an en-suite bathroom with free-standing copper bath and a steam room, dressing room and nursery room.

Outbuildings include barns, garaging, workshops and excellent equestrian facilities, such as a 40-metre by 20-metre dressage arena with a sand and rubber surface and 12 loose boxes in either barns and purpose built stables.

The gardens contain sweeping lawns, terraces and well-stocked borders, while further afield from the house, woodland, paddocks and a pond edged with low planting, reeds and a timber-decked seating area to enjoy the tranquility of the water.

Situated just south of the town of Livingston, the property is flanked by Edinburgh to the east and Glasgow to the west, occupying one of the more desirable parts of southern Scotland. When it comes to the best of both worlds, location matters as much as style. Thankfully, Westfield House has both.

Westfield House is for sale with Knight Frank for £2.5 million. For more information and pictures, click here.

‘Gold has taken me to places I’d never have otherwise visited,’ Vincent Thurkettle says, as we stand on the deserted platform of Sanquar train station in Dumfries and Galloway. Like Bilbo Baggins, wrenched from his cosy home in The Shire, I have traded my loyal sofa for a remote Scottish river. The destination is the same — a cornucopia of riches. With Vincent as my Gandalf, I am going on an adventure. We are hunting for gold.

The journey begins with my housemate’s engagement. On returning from her holiday she held her left hand aloft and a ring sparkled tantalisingly. Beyond the congratulations, I wondered: where did that gold come from? Why do we prize it so highly? And what had it gone through before ending up on her finger? That is why I am in Scotland.

On our walk to Vincent’s car to begin our day’s panning, he notices a five pence piece on the floor. It is this Gollum-like pull to shiny objects that led Vincent, aged 49, to quit his full-time job. Ever since, he has been battling an incurable sickness: gold fever.

On our way to Wanlockhead, the (often debated) highest village in Scotland, Vincent tells me his story. He worked for the Forestry Commission for 28 years as the deputy director for the East of England, before chucking it all in to pursue gold panning full-time. He found the largest gold nugget (at the time) in Britain, worth an estimated £50,000, off the coast of Anglesey in 2012; it weighed 97 grams. It was pipped to being the largest by a 121.3 gram nugget found in 2019.

He also came fourth in this year's gold prospecting British championships, losing out to the current British champion Daisy, his daughter. Now, he has written a new book. Finding Gold: My life-changing treasure hunt with nature, in which he tries to explain civilisation’s magnetic draw to this honey-coloured metal.

Gold is 4 billion years old — older than the Earth itself. It was formed when massive stars exploded and when neutron stars collided. This became mixed with cosmic dust and rock when our solar system formed, which is how gold came to be spread deep within the Earth’s crust in small quantities. Landslides, volcanic activity, high pressure and erosion have brought it closer to the surface, and our tools for finding it have become much more advanced. It is usually found in quartz and river deposits (like the one we are searching today) where it has been washed by erosion.

In its pure form gold is very malleable and non-reactive. It is also very heavy — it has a specific gravity of 19.3, meaning that a piece of pure gold is 19.3 times heavier than the exact same volume of water, which makes it sink to the bottom of our rivers. It is this heaviness that allows for panning.

‘It is a treasure hunt,’ he says. ‘The river has hidden a few tiny specks of gold, and it's an incredible challenge to find them.’

He also runs gold prospecting courses for those wishing to acquire the Midas touch — telling them about how to gain licences to legally pan for gold, where to go to do so, how to use a gold pan, and so on. ‘On YouTube, half the people finding big gold nuggets are lying. They're painted stones. There are a lot of charlatans,’ Vincent explains. Everyone from divorcees to the dying attend his courses. Gold seems to give people hope. ‘It’s an enormous range,’ says Vincent. ‘Maybe 25% of people who come on the course are hurting.’ On a happier note, many are also looking to propose with a ring made, at least in part, of gold they’ve found themselves.

We arrive at the river and gather the various tools needed from Vincent’s car. Equipped with two gold pans, a pick axe (that I admit, does worry me at first, given that I am in a remote location with a man I have never met before), water pump, vials for our spoils, and Wellington boots, we trudge into the water. His favourite way to pan for gold is by lying face down in the river in a wetsuit with a knife, chipping away for nuggets. I decide sitting on a rock will be sufficient for today. After a bit of deliberating, Vincent chooses a spot — a reasonably shallow cranny where he thinks gold may be lurking.

He uses the pick axe to break away a few rocks, then, with the pump, extracts a pan’s worth of residue from the river bed. We will work this particular part of the river bed until it’s ‘clean’, Vincent says. I sit on a nearby rock and watch as he rakes the lighter material off the top of the surface with his fingers. Then begins the painstaking process of swirling the material around the pan and gently sifting off the lighter debris into the river. Eventually, small shiny things begin to reveal themselves amid the rubble. ‘There, there!’ I shout excitedly.

With the weariness of a man that has heard this many times before, Vincent informs me: ‘There’s a phrase in gold panning: If you think that it's gold, it isn't.’ He is, of course, right. I have spotted a shiny stone, not a gold nugget.

After a while, Vincent gets down to the real dregs of his pan. ‘Are you ready not to be impressed?’ he asks, pointing towards something that I can barely see, perhaps a quarter of the size of a grain of sugar. ‘To be a gold prospector in Britain you need to have good eyesight,’ he jokes.

Excitingly, we have found gold on our first attempt. Less excitingly, it is miniscule. ‘They’re not the size of baked beans — they’re the size of full stops,’ Vincent explains, of the nuggets to be found in the UK, before adding: ‘A full stop would be a generous one.’ Our tiny bounty, however, proves that the spot Vincent has chosen is worth plundering.

We return to the crevice and suck up a new load of rubble. It is my turn. Holding the gold pan on my knee, I carefully sift and sort for what feels like hours as the baking sun beats down. I am growing weary until one swirl reveals an unmistakable semi-circle of yellow shininess.

‘It’s gold. It is!’ I shout to Vincent, sure this time that I can’t have been mistaken. He starts to repeat the old adage until he spots my glowing haul. I have struck gold on my very first try and, compared to our previous haul, it is practically a mine. Around 20 small nuggets, all considerably larger than our first find, wink up at me. The feeling is exhilarating and all thoughts of my aching back, wet socks, and surely sunburnt neck are banished. Vincent beams, his smile almost as bright as the gold in my pan. ‘You’ve experienced the best of it,’ he says to me, safely ushering the precious cargo into a vial. ‘That’s yours to keep.’ I feel myself come over by something almost incurable. The excitement is almost unbearable. Gold fever is catching.

Panning with Vincent in a remote Scottish river isn’t the only way to find gold, otherwise people would have to propose with Haribo rings. Many do it on a more industrial scale. John Reade is a senior market strategist at the World Gold Council, a membership organisation that champions gold’s role as an asset. Their members are large scale gold mining companies that ‘produce’ gold around the world, of which there are 29 in total. Newmont and Barrick are the biggest and most famous.

‘These are very, very different from your Scottish gold panners,’ John confirms. ‘These are companies that that mine millions of tons of rock a year — hundreds of millions of tons — and produce, each of them, millions of ounces of gold.

‘They concentrate it to 70%-80% pure. It then goes to refineries that turn that concentrated gold into pure gold, and those refineries turn it into coins, bars and jewellery industry feedstock.’

How sustainable is this practice? According to data from the U.S. Geological Survey, each year about 3,000-3,700 tons of pure gold is mined. ‘There’s around 55,000 tons of gold in reserves — that’s gold that is known to mining companies,’ John says, but he is confident that we will continue mining gold ‘for the foreseeable future’. However, he warns, it is ‘getting harder to find gold and to get the environmental and social permits you need to start a gold mine’. Gold is mined on every continent except Antarctica, but less than 1% of global gold production comes from Europe.

It’s clear that John could talk about this all day. ‘You’re literally just scratching the surface,’ he says, ‘talking to someone who used to work 2,000 metres below the surface. That gold in the ring on your friend’s finger could contain gold that was mined by the Incas, it could have been on the fingers of pharaohs’ — it could also have been, theoretically, a gold tooth that was chewing jellied eels in the mouth of an East End gangster. Nevertheless, I am keen to move onto the next stage in my journey from river to ring. For this I need to talk to a gold trader.

‘Gold is a continually fluctuating commodity,’ says Jon White, who launched Gold-Traders (UK) Ltd in 2008. ‘It’s no different to oil or wheat or any other commodity that is traded on the open markets, so every minute of the day, just like stocks and shares, the price goes up or down.’ In 2026, the price of gold hit an all time high. ‘Primarily because of international conflict going on overseas… but gold is the primary commodity we come to in times of instability.’

The irony is that gold is technically ‘useless’. ‘Obviously it’s used in jewellery and recognised as a store of wealth, but from an industrial perspective it has very little reuse,’ Jon says. ‘But it is the safest way that you can tie up your assets in times of instability, because there will always be someone who wants to buy it from you.’

Unfortunately, the trading of precious metals is entirely unregulated, meaning it’s down to the consumer to determine whether they’re being offered a fair price for their gold, although Jon is campaigning to get the law changed to introduce more transparency in the market. Much ‘recycled’ gold also has a tragic history. Plenty was mined by slaves, and plenty of innocent blood was spilled to acquire it. Nevertheless, our demand for it endures.

Perhaps this is because we associate it with gods and kings. Perhaps it is because we associate it with tangible coins. Maybe it is because gold cannot truly be destroyed, as it is a noble metal it doesn’t tarnish, corrode or rust and cannot be broken down by a single acid. I imagine it also has something to do with it being rather beautiful. Either way, it seems a fitting metal with which to pledge a lifelong devotion.

‘Every single gram of gold that has ever existed since the Big Bang, when planet Earth was first created, still exists on our planet — apart from the gold that's now been sent up into space, that’s floating around in satellites or sitting on the surface of the moon,’ says Jon.

Cassandra Goad, who makes fine jewellery in London, is likewise smitten with the metal. ‘It’s the magical brilliance, for me, of nature producing this metal from the earth, and then this holding of stories and history within it that is so important.’ But the gold market has not been kind to jewellers this year. ‘Inevitably one is affected by the price of gold. Of course you are. I mean it was terrible at the beginning of the year because the price just went ridiculous,’ she says. Her fellow jewellers agree.

In January, I spoke to Cece Fein-Hughes of Cece Jewellery. ‘It’s really stressful,’ she said. ‘We are going to increase our prices soon. We have to. It makes me really upset, because it just suddenly cuts out a whole market of people for fine jewellery.’

In the same month, Sheherazade Goldsmith, the brains behind Loquet London, agreed. ‘Being a jeweller, because you're affected so much by the price of gold, you know what's going on. I sort of know when the price of gold is going to go up again just because of what's happening in the news,’ she said. ‘We opened the year with war in Venezuela, and the Chinese looking at Taiwan, and basically with the Americans deciding that they can just go and depose anyone they like.’

Cassandra, however, is still doing lots of business. Her customers either have gold jewellery they'd like turned into something new, or want a new piece entirely. ‘Most gold nowadays is, by definition, recycled,’ she says. ‘Gold, in its purest form, is almost as soft as silver, and therefore it's completely useless to have a ring made of 24-carat gold because it'll just bend all over the place.’ In order to change the mechanical properties of the ring, it is alloyed with different elements like copper, zinc and silver, to improve its hardiness. The highest and most expensive carat that is really used in jewellery making is 22. Eighteen-carat gold, for example, has 75% pure gold in the alloy.

Cassandra begins by melting down the gold in a small crucible, then pouring it into a steel skillet. This creates a rod of gold, which she’ll then ‘pickle’ in some acid, clean and hammer it and then run it through rolling mills. She will shape the ring and size it, soldering the joint on the band, before sending it off to be assayed.

This is the final step in our journey, before a ring gets into the sweaty anxious palm of someone set to propose. Will Evans, the director of the London Assay Office at The Goldsmiths' Company, is responsible for making sure gold is what its makers say it is. ‘We've been testing precious metals here at the Goldsmiths’ Company for almost 700 years,’ he says.

‘Gold is the one thing that you can't really judge by looking at it. Nine carat and 22 carat and brass all have vaguely similar visible properties, so somebody has to check, and in the UK, the person who checks is not the same person as the one who made it or is selling it to you.’ This process is called hallmarking.

First, the assay office tests the gold product, in this case our wedding ring, using X-ray fluorescence spectrometry — a non-destructive technique used to determine the elemental composition of materials. ‘Sometimes, especially if people are mixing various types of new gold and old gold, they get their calculations wrong,’ Will says. ‘Sometimes people may do it nefariously to try and pass things off as a higher standard. So that's what we're doing. We're making sure that when you buy a piece, you're getting what you pay for in terms of the precious metal.’ Once the hallmarking process is complete, and pieces stamped with the legal seal of approval — at Will’s company their emblem is a leopard’s head — the pieces are ready to be sold.

‘There is no diamond fever or sapphire fever or palladium or platinum fever, but there is a gold fever,’ Vincent said to me, as we left the river behind, and now I see why. It is a multi-faceted element. All at once totally useless and at the same time enduringly desirable. ‘People get obsessed about gold, and it seems like almost every civilisation on Earth has, throughout time,’ he said..After all, Bilbo wouldn’t have gone all the way to Erebor if the dwarvish treasure trove was made up of platinum. Likewise, I’m sure my friend would’ve said yes to a wooden ring, but the fact that she has a gold one makes it just that bit more special.

The only surprise about Methley Hall’s demise is that it didn't come sooner. Demolished in 1963, the writing had been firmly etched on the wall of the West Yorkshire property since at least the Victorian era. 

Methley Hall was purchased by John Savile in 1588. His descendants who go on to become the the Earls of Mexborough.

Despite being extensively remodelled by Anthony Salvin in the 1830’s, the property was regularly left unoccupied and fell into a state of considerable disrepair. However, it was to be offered a brief reprieve from one of industrial Victorian Yorkshire’s greatest figures. 

Titus Salt — the Bradford mill owner, politician and renowned philanthropist who created the Victorian model village of Saltaire — moved into the hall on a vastly reduced rent in 1858.

Salt, with all his entrepreneurial vigour and connections, took on the task of repairing the dilapidated mansion, enlisting architects, joiners and craftsmen. The roof was made sound, the gardens made more pleasurable and the rooms were redecorated. The deer park was fenced with smart new iron railings to keep the aforementioned gardens clear of ruminating bucks and does.

According to a census, Salt had moved back to his beloved Bradford by 1871.

Country Life’s 1907 architecture feature on the lofty pile was far from optimistic about its situation. It opened: 'Methley… is a great house in a park, caught, to its misfortune, by a net of railways that make for Leeds, Dewsbury and Wakefield. All the discomfort of Yorkshire prosperity is at hand; the drift of smoke comes down the air from far-distant chimneys, collieries throw up their dark mounds and the water of the Calder flows inkily foul from the washing of shoddy [a recycled wool product].'

This far-from bucolic scene was worsened by what was going on underground. Somewhere underneath the hall's castellated towers, miners were toiling day in, day out to bring precious coal to the surface of the Savile Mine. 

In 1916, the 5th Earl died. The 6th owned the more practical and pastoral Arden Hall in Hawnby, North York Moors, and did not move in. Instead, it was used to entertain visiting royalty and for shooting parties.

It must have been kept in a fairly good state because, in 1935, newspaper reports indicate that Queen Mary popped in for tea, following a visit to an antique shop in Pontefract where she was much amused by a clock that chimed God Save the King.

Four years later, Methley Hall was, like so many other great houses, requisitioned for the war. By the time it was returned to the Mexboroughs, it was in a bad state.

In 1949, it was reported that the Ministry of Fuel and Power were to begin open-cast mining in Methley Park. It was hoped that the 60-room, 15th-century mansion could be bought and repurposed as a school or hospital, but just nine years later, mining activity had made it all the way up the park and to the front door.

Suffering from considerable subsidence, dry rot and, to add insult to injury, the theft of lead from the roof, a decision was reluctantly made to bring the grande dame down.

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.

A month ago, preparing this magazine’s London Life pages for August, I wrote that the city is at its most verdant in summer. Our trees usually reach their apogee this season. How wrong I was.

The prolongation of the heatwave, despite last week's intermittent rain, means the trees are now experiencing so much stress that they have started shedding their leaves. Autumn has come early.

Perhaps none has suffered more than the apple tree. Orchards across the country started losing their fruit in July when the trees were forced to redirect wilting water reserves to their roots in order to survive. It is forecast to be one of the worst apple harvests in history — a nightmare for cider-makers. ‘The effect won’t be seen until 2027,’ says Nick Showering, whose family has been making cider in Somerset for 180 years, ‘when this year’s yield translates to sales.’

Last year produced one of the richest yields on record. Although not as voluminous as in previous years, 2025 benefited from last summer’s then record-breaking sunshine and produced an unusually, delightfully sweet mixture. Apples of exceptional potency translated to top-notch drinks. The fine cider on sale this summer has been phenomenal.

Too much heat, however, can be fatal. Until last week, it hadn't rained properly in the West Country — cradle of British cider-making — since late June. Producers are expected to make a heavy loss in 2027. Suggestions, from some, to diversify a specialist industry are as oxymoronic as they seem inconceivable.

Importing apples, meanwhile, offers little in the way of compensation. ‘Producers in Europe are most likely experiencing similar issues,’ Nick explains. ‘It would constitute an additional cost to import and potentially dilute [our] product’s quality.’ A fine cider, akin to the one made by his family, prides itself on using local ingredients. For more mass-market brands, a few things could still be done. ‘Instead of importing apples,’ Nick says, ‘they might look to import apple concentrate’: that is, transporting a higher density of product across borders at a lower cost.

As is the case for other, equally water-reliant industries, creating infrastructure to capture the winter rain is paramount to preserve our orchards’ future. Britain has not built a new reservoir since 1992: the result of red tape and resistance from residents near suggested sites. This is neither fair nor right. Cider is one of our greatest and proudest creations — an industry with huge potential as changing tastes lean in favour of lighter booze and national produce.

Supporting our makers goes beyond merely buying their products: it demands a proper strategy. Even our most robust trees need deep watering in times of drought.

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

It’s easy to feel sorry for French presidents of late. I’m not talking about the constant strikes; resistance to raising the retirement age and lifting the cap on the 35-hour working week; the rise of the far-right and the radical-left; debt, immigration, Islamic terrorism, hi-viz-wrapped rioters, and wildfires. I’m talking about the official state cars they have to squeeze into the back of.

Governing the Fifth Republic is no easy task, made worse by some of the pretty awful motors seen parked outside the Élysée during the past half century. Poor Jacques Chirac suffered the brunt. His presidency (1995-2007) spanned the Citroën XM, the Renault Safrane and the Peugeot 607.

Things weren’t much better for François Mitterand, his predecessor, who did his best to maintain dignity in a Renault 25 and the particularly wretched Renault 30 hatchback. Imagine if Margaret Thatcher had been driven around in a mk1 Vauxhall Astra and you get the idea. It doesn’t exactly whisper ‘CEO of the nation’.

If you’re the premier of a country that doesn’t have a recognised car industry, the answer is simple: You get a Mercedes S-Class, specifically its armoured 680 Guard derivative. If you’re the Chancellor of Germany, the answer’s even simpler. If you’re the President of the USA, you get the 9,000kg Cadillac Beast, which is actually built on a truck chassis and maxes out at just 60mph. If you’re Vladimir Putin you get the Russian-built Aurus Senat limousine, which goes some way to explaining his anger management issues.

And if you’re one of our many recent Prime Ministers, you have a choice of Range Rover Sentinel or, if you insist on a saloon, the long-wheelbase Audi A8L. That’s because Jaguar haven’t built a saloon since 2019. The shame is not entirely France’s. I say stick Burnham in a Bentley, although if he had his way he’d probably be on a Lambretta.

Things started off pretty well for our Gallic chums. Before the Second World War, France was a leader in luxury automobiles. In the 1910s, the official car was the Panhard 20V, followed by the Renault 40CV in the 1920s, and in the 1930s les présidents had Renault’s Reinastella convertible and Nerva Grand Sport. After the war, President René Coty was chauffeured in Citroën’s iconic Traction Avant.

Charles de Gaulle followed him in 1959 by ushering in the Fifth Republic and the elegant Citroën DS, which became a big part of his image, mainly because it saved him from a hail of gunfire. Next, Georges Pompidou commissioned two special open top Citroën SM’s. This was peak avant-garde. And then, in the late 1970s, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing approved the Peugeot 604 and France could never be taken seriously as a superpower ever again.

France makes decent family cars. They’re not as stylish as the Italians do them, nor as well-built as the Germans, but they tend to be jolly and relatively cheap. What they have always struggled with since the 1970s is luxury, which is weird when you think Cartier, Chanel, Hermès, Dior and Louis Vuitton are [checks label], yep, definitely French. Every 10 years, Renault and Citroën will have another go, wheeling out the avant-garde tropes, never entirely convincingly. Nicolas Sarkozy, Chirac’s successor, had the quirky Renault Vel Satis and the handsome Citroën C6, but they were replaced by François Holland and the equally bloated and disappointing Renault Espace V.

So what of the current incumbent, Emmanuel Macron? His ride to the top table of western diplomacy has been SUV crossover-shaped, in the form of the DS 7 Crossback, the Renault Rafale, and the car I’ve been driving this week: the all-electric DS No.8.

Citroën have taken the name of the car with which De Gaulle escaped assassination, and made a whole new brand out of it. It’s pronounced ‘Day Ess’, and is a sort of Lexus to Citroën’s Toyota. The flagship’s name is No.8, which makes it sound like a perfume. I shall refer to it as the Numero Huit.

Is it a saloon, a hatchback, a fastback or an SUV? Everything, all at once! There’s a lot going on in the amalgamate design. A mix of lines, folds and strakes going in lots of different directions. In the flesh, the Numero Huit looks quite stylish, but if it snatched your phone you’d have a dickens of a time describing it to the police e-fitter.

Inside, it’s smart but also quite eccentric, as if Jean-Paul Sartre were clad in Nappa leather and had eight speakers bolted onto him courtesy of French audio specialists Focal. The X-shaped steering wheel looks like it’s been liberated from a concept car. I tested the top-of-the-line Étoile spec Numero Huit with all-wheel-drive and a 97.2kWh long-range battery that’s good for 430 leisurely miles. The dual electric motors produce 350bhp. That’s more sensible than existential, but results in a respectable 0-62mph in 5.4 seconds. Top speed is 118mph — faster than Mr Trump’s obese Caddy, at least.

The emphasis is not on shifting, but wafting. This car is as smooth and silky as a Charvet shirt and tie (as worn by De Gaule, Mitterand, Pompidou and Macron), and yet the car I drove is £63,290. That’s pretty impressive for this amount of space and presidential refinement. It’s a budget Bentley. Bentley’s Flying Spur starts at £190k — and would cause the proletariat to dig out the guillotine. Whereas the Day Ess Numero Huit will save your neck, at least until the next union action grinds everything to a halt. And it will do so with more than a soupçon of French veuve.

So felicitations, Emmanuel, things in the Élysée car park stakes are finally looking up again.

‘Ugh! What hideous brutes!’ was the remark overheard by Country Life’s correspondent attending the Bulldog Club show in 1904. However, as the magazine reported only five years earlier, only the ‘uninitiated’ call a bulldog ugly, and ‘those who are admitted to the privilege of a bulldog’s friendship know that no other cast of features is so expressive of all the kindly and good emotions’.

It may be that the bulldog’s rugged appearance is a ‘cultivated taste’, stated the magazine in 1939, ‘but at second glance we understand that he is not half so bad as he looks. He is reliable partly because he has a quiet confidence in his own powers, and, like most strong men, he is not going to presume on his own strength.’

Of all Britain’s native breeds of dog, the bulldog is the one most associated with our desirable national characteristics. Staunch and stoic, whether at home or abroad, matter-of-fact John Bull is not correctly depicted unless there is a bulldog at his side. Indeed, synonymous with ‘tenacity, courage, and determination’, the bulldog is the very symbol of Britain and, as Country Life noted in 1995, ‘in times of national peril, the bulldog appears in cartoons, festooned in the Union Jack, jaw thrust forward with determination, eyes indicating that not an inch of ground will be yielded’.

As their name suggests, they were originally bred to bait bulls, a brutal pastime that would be enjoyed by many in Britain, including Henry VIII, both his daughters, and James I. The earliest recorded bull-baiting took place at Stamford in Lincolnshire in 1205. William, Earl Warren, of Stamford in Lincolnshire, is said to have enjoyed watching a recalcitrant bull being chased and chivvied through the marketplace by a butcher’s dogs. He granted the town a piece of land so the tussle could take place annually.

Derived from the same line as mastiffs, bulldogs were referred to in The Mayster of Game (1413) as the ‘alaunt of the boucherie’ and described as being large, short-headed, pugnacious, and inclined to hold on when attacking. The bulldog is first mentioned in literature under various names in about 1500 — Bondedogge, Banddogge and Boldogge — and by 1630 it is quite clear from letters of the period that bulldogs and mastiffs were certainly different breeds.

The gladiatorial heavyweight may have had a disreputable past by modern standards, but it certainly did not put off would-be owners. Lord Byron liked powerful dogs — perhaps a reaction to his own physical shortcomings, having been born with a club foot — and in 1807 he acquired two bulldogs at Cambridge. The first was Savage, and then Smut, an animal bred for bullbaiting and considerably nimbler and more ferocious than his modern counterpart.

During Lord Byron’s time in Italy, it is said that he pestered continually for English-bred bulldogs to be sent to him, claiming that the Italian variety lacked ‘the tenacity of tooth and stoicism of his canine fellow citizens’.

The 19th century sounded the death knell for the old bull-baiting type of bulldog when, after much controversy and discussion, Parliament passed the Cruelty to Animals Act in 1835, abolishing the ‘sport’. In Dogs: Their History and Development of 1927, Edward Ash wrote: ‘When bull-baiting ended, the dog was bred for “fancy”, and characteristics desired at an earlier time for fighting and baiting purposes were exaggerated.’

The increasing popularity of dog showing would give the breed a second chance. However, the pages of Country Life would record the debate about the ‘modifications’ to the bulldog’s appearance.

In 1931, Arthur Croxton Smith would note that: ‘In some respects they improved the appearance, replacing the repellant-looking head with one that is distinctive and rather fascinating with its ruggedness. Since the War, however, in many instances we have lost the old body properties, especially the tapering hindquarters and tucked up belly, and here breeders have ample scope for their abilities. Most emphatically, bulldogs ought not to be shown in a condition in which hard muscle is replaced by fat.’

However, Stonehenge pleaded for the perpetuation of the pure breed: ‘If it is allowed to drop, the best means of infusing fresh courage into degenerate strains will be finally lost, except with the addition of extraneous blood, which may not suit them; for I believe that every kind of dog possessed of very high courage owes it to a cross with the bulldog.’

The modern breed was accepted by The Kennel Club in 1873 — the Bulldog Club is the oldest single breed club in the world — and the bulldog remains a Churchillian symbol that has captivated Lewis Hamilton, David Beckham, Ozzy Osbourne and Brad Pitt.

The title of a 1960 comedy starring Norman Wisdom remains one of the most resonant bits of alliteration in our language — The Bulldog Breed.

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

Argyll and Bute — £6.5 million

Why just get a house when you can get an entire island? That's what's on offer at Eilean Righ, otherwise known as the King's Island. With 261 acres of land all to yourself, and two three-bedroom homes.

The list of amenities is a mile long, and includes a helicopter hangar, boathouse, garage, workshop and a private shooting range. Wildlife is, of course, abundant.

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

Stirlingshire — £2.25 million

Dating from the 1930s, Levern Towers is a distinguished Scots Baronial home set in an expansive rural estate.

Accommodation includes six bedrooms, multiple grand reception rooms and an indoor swimming pool, as well various semi-detached lodge houses. Set in nine acres, which includes gardens, sweeping lawns, tennis court, petanque area and a mini waterfall.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

Perthshire — £5.25 million

Balvarran is a glorious estate in the heart of Highland Perthshire of some 2000 acres, that can trace its lineage back to 1554.

The estate, which features a wealth of homes and cottages, is centred around Balvarran House, a B-listed mansion of some nine bedrooms, remodelled and extended by Sir Robert Lorimer.

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

South Ayrshire— £3 million

If there was a prize for 'Castle that looks most like a castle', beautiful B-Listed Cloncaird would surely win it.

The estate extends to some 143 acres, and the main castle features 15 bedrooms, a grand event space, various outbuildings and nine further cottages.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

Argyll and Bute — £2.1 million

Set above the shores of Ronachan Bay and with sweeping views over the Inner Hebrides, Ronachan House is perfectly positioned to enjoy the best of Scotland's scenery.

The property has been comprehensively restored and refurbished in recent years, and features 13 bedrooms and various cottages on the 10.5 acres of land. Plenty of room for everyone.

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

Our understanding of early country estates comes largely from written chronicles rather than maps, but the Elizabethan era marked a turning point. In the second half of the 16th century, Dutch Protestants brought advanced drafting skills and new measuring instruments that honed cartographical accuracy.

These developments coincided with the transformation of the old medieval feudal order under the Tudors: Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries blurred boundaries and created a demand to survey and establish distinct ownership over tracts of land. Enter the estate map, a declaration of status and possession.

Suffolk-born Ralph Agas (1540–1621) is largely known today for his town plans, especially the one he created of Oxford. However, he was also one of the first cartographers to map landed estates, such as Henry Cheney’s Toddington estate in Bedfordshire.

More than 100 years later, the 3rd Duke of Richmond employed Dutch engraver Thomas Yeakell — who had served under him in the army — as his personal surveyor to the Goodwood estate in West Sussex. Yeakell was joined by surveyor William Gardner and the duo became celebrated cartographers, embarking on the first complete mapping of an English county: Sussex.

After Yeakell died, Gardner worked with Thomas Gream to complete the map, which was published in 1797. A precursor to Ordnance Survey maps, it includes a detailed rendition of the medieval park at the Duke of Norfolk’s Arundel Castle and the estate’s Rewell Wood. Every farmhouse, barn and garden is carefully depicted, as well as the type of fence in each enclosure.

‘The map illustrates the area before it became the home farm in 1797, showing the landscape as a mix of ancient woodland and deer park,’ explains Dr John Martin Robinson, librarian to the current Duke. ‘It’s a valuable record of the evolution of the estate and is a landmark in British mapping.’

A 1788 map by Claude Joseph Sauthier, meanwhile, shows Alnwick Castle in Northumberland and its domains. Born in Strasbourg and the son of a saddler, Sauthier trained as an architect and surveyor before sailing to America, where he carried out military mapping for the British colonial government.

In New York, he met Hugh Percy, the future 2nd Duke of Northumberland, who was serving as a British officer during the American War of Independence. When Percy returned to England in 1777, he brought Sauthier with him. Sauthier completed more than 20 maps of the ducal estates, which are still in use today.

‘The forestry department will refer to Sauthier’s maps showing the layout of Capability Brown’s planting efforts in order to guide plans for replanting, for instance,’ notes Ralph Percy, the 12th Duke of Northumberland. ‘They are used in registration of ownership, particularly mineral registrations, and are relevant in relation to planning applications for developing land.’

Modern-day equivalents continue to be commissioned, physically documenting land-holdings of all shapes and sizes. This may seem surprising in an increasingly digital world — yet to many this is the attraction.

‘You may have a 1,000-acre-plus estate, but only a handful of people have a deep knowledge of it and how it works,’ points out sixth-generation Hampshire farmer and owner of Rural Maps Anthony Pelly, who creates maps of all kinds for private landowners worldwide. ‘As that knowledge is being steadily eroded, it needs pinning down. Despite the availability of digital versions, physical maps are still very much in demand: I have been in a room with Gainsboroughs ignored as everyone crowds around an estate map. They invite comment and engagement in a way nothing else does.’

Although estate maps serve as tools for land management, in their decorative form they also present intimate family portraits. Often personalised, today they are more likely to feature a leaping salmon for the keen angler or a ruined Roman temple for the antiquarian than an array of heraldic flourishes.

‘My maps have included cherished details such as a wedding marquee on a hill, a beloved dog or children jumping ponies in the corner of a field,’ continues Pelly. Actual portraits are rare, but this was ever the case: the estate map of Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, of about 1607 is highly unusual in having a medallion portrait of Robert Cecil, 1st Earl of Salisbury, at the top of the title cartouche.

Securing their owner’s place in the long line of custodians of the land, these maps serve as a time capsule for future generations. ‘It’s early days, but I would like to see the profession evolve so that when someone buys a significant estate for the first time, they not only employ a gardener, an estate manager and an architect, but a cartographer as well,’ says Pelly.

Estate maps can also reveal hidden features that could present difficulties for owners. ‘We were once instructed on a Cotswolds estate that had been deliberately left to run fallow for 30 years,’ he adds. ‘On site, we found hidden pools of water no one knew about, even the local shepherds. It explained why some of the fields became waterlogged and allowed for drainage to be improved.’

There can also be a poignancy in what is captured. ‘Within field names, you get glimpses into the past,’ observes Edel Fenelon, an artist from Co Carlow in Ireland who draws rural landholdings. ‘They categorise functions, preserve the names of families long gone or record events: you might have Kiln Field, where the bricks were laid out, or Kelly Field, even when the Kellys haven’t lived in the area for hundreds of years.’

The idea for her business sprang from a map she created of her childhood farm as a birthday present for her father. ‘Growing up on a farm, you see how much work and dedication goes into its upkeep and that’s not only one lifetime: you have three, four, maybe five generations working the land for that estate to still exist. The maps show heritage and roots.’

Although many estate maps include farms as part of the demesne, the earliest dedicated farm maps in England and Wales were mid-19th-century tithe maps. An extraordinary achievement, depicting almost every landowner, farm and field — noting whether it was arable, meadow, pasture or woodland — they were commissioned to create a nationwide record so that tithes (payment in kind through crops or livestock) could be replaced by cash.

Today, with more people owning farms than estates, farms are core drivers of the aesthetic map resurgence. ‘On the rural consultancy side, we are seeing more and more people looking for “real-artist” produced plans of their ownership, in particular the owner-occupier farm owner rather than the larger estates,’ confirms Jamie Evans-Freke, who heads the rural asset management team at Knight Frank’s Horsham office in West Sussex.

Capturing the essence of a place is a significant undertaking and, when the artist Aengus Dewar was asked to draw an estate in the north of England, he did detailed research into its history. Uncovering that a Second World War US B17 bomber returning from the infamous Schweinfurt Raid had crashed on the borders of the estate — unknown to the owners — he recorded the event by depicting the plane in the spot where it landed. ‘We live in uncertain times,’ he says. ‘The desire to connect with history and imprint yourself on the landscape, which is enduring, is very natural.’

These maps were reproduced with the kind permission of the Trustees of the Goodwood Collection and the County Archivist, West Sussex Record Office; Collection of the Duke of Northumberland.

This feature originally appeared in the June 3, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

On August 10, 1783, the vast forecourt of Curraghmore was the scene of a family tragedy. The 12-year-old son and heir to George, Earl of Tyrone, was killed — according to Joseph Hansard in his History, Topography and Antiquities of the County and City of Waterford (1869) — ‘whilst attempting to jump with a spirited horse, a low wooden paling, which at that time ran across the entrance to the courtyard’. The family was devastated and on a hillside above the house began — but never finished — a memorial that was clearly intended to take the form of a monumental Irish monastic ruin with a commanding round tower and incorporating the medieval west window of Waterford Cathedral.

One cruel irony of this terrible accident was that it occurred at a moment when the family was enjoying enormous public success. The parents of the Earl — Marcus Beresford and Catherine de la Poer, whose transformative alterations to Curraghmore from the 1720s were described last week — had produced a large family of three sons and six daughters.

This is the second in a two-part series on Curraghmore — read the first part here.

Collectively, by marriage and ambition, they established themselves at the heart of the Anglo-Irish political establishment, then at the height of its prosperity, independence and confidence.

One telling reflection of their dynastic assurance is a large family portrait by John Astley of about 1760, modelled on van Dyck’s celebrated depiction of the Herberts at Wilton, Wiltshire, that hangs in the entrance hall of the house.

When the Earl inherited Curraghmore in 1763, he confronted substantial family debts, which he partly satisfied by his marriage to the wealthy heiress Elizabeth Monck in April 1769. As the letterist Mary Delany observed, there was ‘no beauty between them but very good fortune’. Recent research by William Fraher shows that the Earl almost immediately turned his attention to remodelling the house and not in a way that answered his father-in-law’s prudent sense of economy. A letter dated January 25, 1772, shows the Earl in detailed correspondence with the 24-year-old architect James Wyatt about the decoration of different rooms in the house.

This letter is remarkable in part because it pre-dates by two days the event that properly launched Wyatt’s career, the opening of the Pantheon on Oxford Street, London (‘the most beautiful edifice in England’, wrote the dazzled Horace Walpole).

That in turn raises the question of how the patron and architect were introduced. Perhaps they met in Rome, where Wyatt trained. No less remarkable, it establishes Curraghmore as the first of Wyatt’s numerous Irish country-house commissions and already fully formed by his Italian experience in the elegant neo-Classical detailing that had catapulted his rival, Robert Adam, to architectural celebrity in the 1760s.

To his English clients, Wyatt was a brilliant, but exasperating figure, expensive and chaotic. In Ireland, however, which he only visited once in 1785, he worked in partnership with professionals who proved much more reliable. Using the rapidly improving links with England, he was not only able to communicate through the medium of drawings, but send out materials such as Coade stone, manufactured to his designs in Lambeth, London. The result was a series of Irish buildings of superlative quality, including his masterpiece Castle Coole, Co Fermanagh (which he never saw).

Wyatt’s executant architect at Curraghmore was Thomas Penrose, a Quaker from Waterford who, early in his career, had ambitions as a landscape painter. He completely transformed the interior of the house and its main reception rooms within the existing shell of the building. Work continued for a decade and a visitor, Daniel Beaufort, in 1779, described the building as ‘modernised, not quite finished’. Wyatt’s external changes included incorporating the attic level of the house as a third full storey. He must also have inserted the broad tripartite front door and fan light in the medieval castle tower shown in views of about 1800. A Coade stone armorial and stag of St Hubert — the family crest — were also installed above.

From the barrel-vaulted outer hall in the basement of the castle tower, a flight of steps rises to a top-lit corridor that extends to the main staircase hall (Fig 3). Its volume was slightly expanded into the central courtyard of the house to accommodate a single, sweeping stair to the bedrooms above. All the polite rooms are arranged at ground level around three sides of this space. They preserve a rich collection of family paintings and furniture. Some were sympathetically, but extensively restored after a serious fire in 1903.

The grandest interior, on account of its sheer scale, is the dining room (or ‘Eating Room’, as it is termed in the 1772 letter to Wyatt), presumably created by knocking earlier spaces together (Fig 2). Set amid delicate plasterwork around the walls are images of the Olympian gods. In the ceiling are images of the seasons by a different hand, possibly Antonio Zucchi or his wife, Angelica Kauffman. Scarcely less magnificent is the Blue Drawing Room (Fig 5) in the centre of the garden front. Its spectacular ceiling incorporates lunette paintings of Classical gods by Zucchi and tromp l’oeil roundels by the Flemish artist Pieter de Gree (Fig 6).

As Wyatt’s changes to Curraghmore drew to a close, the family basked in success. In 1780, one of the Earl’s younger brothers, William Beresford, who had entered into the church, secured his first episcopal appointment. The following year, the second son, John, who was closely involved in the Georgian rebuilding of Dublin, succeeded in getting work to the city Customs House designed by James Gandon under way. Finally, on February 5, 1783, the Earl attended the splendid celebrations of the newly established chivalric Order of St Patrick in Dublin Castle as one of its 15 founding Knights. Six months later, he was mourning the death of his eldest son.

Whatever the private griefs of the family, the Earl’s good fortune otherwise persisted. He was created Baron Tyrone of Haverfordwest in 1786, a title that brought with it a seat in the English House of Lords, and then Marquess of Waterford in 1789. Between these two events, in December 1787, Prince William Henry (later William IV), came to Curraghmore on an impromptu tour of southern Ireland and was entertained with a ball. The diarist Dorothea Herbert, who lived in neighbouring Carrick-on-Suir, gives a giddy account of the event in her Retrospections of an outcast, praising the newly completed interiors of the house. A fall of snow that night left several carriages stuck in the woods afterwards. Of those returning from the ball, she wrote ‘some lost their shoes, some their caps, and not a few their hearts’.

In 1800, the title passed to the eldest surviving son of 1st Marquess, Henry, who soon afterwards married Susanna Hussey, an heiress of the Seaton Delaval estate in Northumberland. Their eldest son, another Henry, who inherited the title in 1826, was notorious for his wild exploits and practical jokes. They included stealing the birching block from Eton College, where he was educated (it sits in the stair hall of Curraghmore), and literally painting Melton Mowbray red one night with his drunken friends. His greatest obsession, however, was with horses and he hunted long, hard and often.

The repeated judgement of early-19th-century visitors to Curraghmore was that the setting was stupendous (Fig 4), but the house ugly. Presumably, it was to rectify this that, in 1833, the architect Daniel Robertson was invited to draw up proposals for recasting Curraghmore as a sprawling, Tudor Gothic mansion. The plan came to nothing, but, in reflection of Lord Waterford’s driving passion, a vast riding school was constructed beside the entrance court by 1835. It was briefly transformed into a ballroom in 1865 and has clearly been remodelled since.

In 1839, Lord Waterford met his future wife, Louisa, at the famous revival of medieval chivalry undertaken by an exclusive and aristocratic Tory circle of the young and beautiful, the Eglinton Tournament. She was one of two remarkable daughters of Charles Stuart, Baron Stuart de Rothesay, a diplomat and from 1831 creator of Highliffe Castle, Dorset. Her sister, Charlotte, married George, Lord Canning, the last Governor-General and first Viceroy of India. Both were remarkable figures, well travelled, highly articulate and accomplished amateur artists. They were also devoted to each other.

Contrary to almost universal expectation, Louisa’s marriage was settled and happy. She toyed with transforming Curraghmore into an Italian Renaissance palazzo, the newly popular style of the moment, and employed the architect William Burn for the purpose. All was set for the work to begin when Lord Waterford was killed in a widely reported hunting accident. She retired as a widow to Ford Castle, Northumberland, where she famously turned her artistic talents to the decoration of the village school (Country Life, January 15, 2014). The estate now passed to her brother-in-law, a clergyman, and then, in 1866, to John Henry, the 5th Marquess, who — according to a plaque attached to the exterior — ‘restored and renovated’ Curraghmore ‘in the year 1874 at a cost of £25,000’.

His far-reaching work included the creation of a new wing on the garden front, the modernisation of services, the addition of balustrades to the external parapets and the re-fenestration of the building with plate glass windows. He also refronted the tower entrance and added a pediment to the garden façade (Fig 1). The architect was Samuel Ussher Roberts and a report in The Clonmel Chronicle of August 24, 1872, adds that the ‘old-fashioned rough-casting of the entire pile has given place to a coating of the finest Portland cement’. The main contractors involved were from Dublin.

The 5th Marquess had eloped with his first wife, a divorcée, Florence Grosvenor Rowley. She died in childbirth in 1873 and is memorialised in Clonegam Church in a striking top-lit memorial by the sculptor Joseph Boehm (Fig 7). Boehm also added a replacement sculpture of St Hubert’s stag above the front door. More changes to the house followed the succession of Henry, 6th Marquess, in 1895, including the addition of several new chimney pieces commissioned from Mrs Kennedy’s Stone Works in Waterford. Much more significant, however, were the repairs that followed the fire in 1903 that burnt out the top floor of the house.

The 19th-century development of Curraghmore took place against a steadily gathering tide of social unrest in Waterford and Ireland as whole. In 1798, the house was placed under guard and in 1848 cannons and guns were stolen from the property. At this time, the architect William Tinsley, who otherwise developed buildings around the estate, helped fortify the property. During the Great Famine, the Marquess and Viscount set up soup kitchens on their estates, avoiding the deprivation and violence witnessed in some areas, but tensions over tenants’ rights built steadily and the Land Acts from 1870 to 1903 gradually reduced the value of the estate. In 1881, the then Marquess sold the hounds of the Curraghmore Hunt in disgust after several meets were violently interrupted.

The property miraculously survived the house burnings of the Irish civil war in the 1920s and the 20th century was not otherwise an easy one. Nevertheless, it has now emerged into happier times. Curraghmore remains one of the very few great Irish houses still in the hands of its owning family and with its collections intact. For readers of Country Life it is additionally intriguing as the family home of Mark Girouard’s mother, Lady Blanche. After her tragic early death in 1940, Dr Girouard spent regular holidays here and with his aunt at Hardwick Hall, Derbyshire. These experiences laid the foundations for his interest in architectural history. He wrote up Curraghmore for Country Life in three articles on February 7, 14 and 21, 1963.

The estate is presently in the care of Henry, 9th Marquess and his wife, Amanda, who took responsibility for it in 2015. Their most recent project has been the restoration of the roof, undertaken with the financial support of The Apollo Foundation and overseen by the architect David Sheehan. Other initiatives include the launch of Curraghmore Whiskey by their son, Richard de la Poer Beresford, Earl of Tyrone. As this article appears, the estate is being used for the All Together Now Festival, now in its seventh year, evidence of the ongoing and vibrant development of Curraghmore in the 21st century.

See the Curraghmore House and Gardens website for more details, and to arrange a tour.

Acknowledgements: William Fraher, John Martin Robinson, David Sheehan and Julian Walton

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

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.

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

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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 it couldn’t afford to pursue a faithful rebuild of the Charles Rennie Mackintosh masterpiece. 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 the GSA’s announcement that it couldn’t currently afford a faithful rebuild, 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.

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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.