‘If you think it’s cool, someone has probably put an electric motor in it,’ is how the old saying goes. That someone is likely to be Lunaz, the electrifiers par excellence, who have zapped everything from a Rolls-Royce Phantom V and Bentleys, to Aston Martins and Jaguars. All must be heritage classics, all must be luxurious, and all must be silent.

‘Silence’ and ‘a Range Rover Classic’ are not two words or names that usually go together; a Rover V8 engine from the 1970s could hardly be described as ‘stealthy’. But such hurdles as ‘British Leyland manufacturing standards’, large as they are, can be cleared with enough science and will. Step forward the Range Rover Classic by Lunaz.

One of the many stars from Goodwood Festival of Speed, the car is sumptuously appointed and handcrafted over 3,000 hours. It retains an achingly ‘of its time’ interior design, with two analogue dials supplemented by a variety of switches and tactile surfaces. There is a screen that can be discreetly stashed away if so desired to complete the look. Modern comforts include climate control, modern suspension, anti-roll, and heated seats.

There will be 12 Range Rover Classics designed by Lunaz, with the first already delivered to a client in the USA. As well as an electric powertrain, Lunaz will also be offering a V8 version alongside the electric, meaning the car moves beyond the ‘novelty’ tag attached to so many electro-mod creations. A variety of donor cars means that your RRC, which will cost from £450,000, can come in two-door, four-door, long wheelbase and convertible configurations.

Bring me my Spéirling

It’s always nice being able to write that the fastest production car in the world is a British one. This might be news to you. You might reasonably think that something like a Bugatti or a Koenigsegg or a Ferrari was the fastest, but you would be wrong. The fastest car in the world is a McMurtry Spéirling, which was made by some engineers in a shed in Gloucestershire. And now you can have one too.

The McMurtry Spéirling PURE, as the production model will be known, uses a fan system to quite literally suck itself to the road, producing 2,000kg of downforce even when the car is stationary. It can, quite literally, be parked on the ceiling.

What these fans do is create sensational downforce with a negligible impact on the car’s drag. When paired with 1000bhp worth of electric motors, the car is lightning quick and has smashed records at both the Top Gear (Dunsfold) test track and the Goodwood Festival of Speed Hillclimb. A top speed of 190mph might not seem outrageous, but paired to a 0-60mph time of 1.55 and the ability to corner at upwards of 3g, and you start to get the picture.

And now, with the final production model revealed after extensive testing, you can get your own. They will make 100 units, and each will cost £995,000 before taxes, shipping and options. Deliveries will commence at the end of the year.

Senna still setting records

If the answer is ‘£500,000’, then the question can only be: ‘How much for one of Ayrton Senna’s race-worn helmets?’. That figure was what was reeled in by auctioneers at Budds on July 7 for the iconic yellow lid worn by Senna during the German, British and Hungarian Grands Prix during the 1992 season, his last in the iconic Honda/McLaren partnership. The original estimate for the helmet was between £80,000–£120,000.

‘Few Formula One drivers are as instantly recognisable as Ayrton Senna. He's a legend of the sport and three-time Formula One World Champion whose influence still shapes the sport,’ said Andrew Moyers, head of motorsports at Budds, ahead of the auction. ‘There’s so much F1 fans love about this item. There’s Senna’s iconic status, and the importance of the races he wore it for, including the 1992 Hungarian Grand Prix where Senna claimed victory.’

Despite his demise in 1994, Senna still lives on in the hearts and minds of Formula 1 fans as one of the best to ever do it, and while he might not be winning races any more, he is still setting pretty impressive records even in death.

Audi in the Wilderness

Audi once again stole the show at Wilderness this year, celebrating its third year of being the festival’s headline sponsor with a variety of performances, talks and drinks and fine dining at the Audi Haven.

Revellers were treated to sets by Professor Green, Jo Whiley, Grace Carter and Jamie Cullum, while Theo Randall created an exclusive three-course Italian menu for the Audi Kitchen. At the glampiest of glamping festivals, Audi somehow managed to out-glamp them all.

Across the street from Zitomer — the iconic Upper East Side pharmacy where you might find Annabelle Dexter-Jones picking up a prescription — the entrance to LilyEve's Madison Avenue headquarters is easy to miss. A very modest door is all that signals you've arrived. Once inside, two flights of stairs lead to yet another simple door. Then you open it, and all of the modesty falls away.

Lily Clempson is standing at the entrance, dressed in a knit jumper with striking gold earrings, her hair pulled up into a ponytail. She steps back into the showroom, a large space with charcoal walls and floor-to-ceiling shelves, neatly stacked with colourful Hermès towels. At the back of the space there’s a large work desk for her and her colleague, and at the front, rails of sharply-tailored jackets that flank a blue sofa and purple tub chair. It seems fitting that Lily’s showroom would be entirely unexpected because her story is too.

Though Lily is originally from London, it was her studies that brought her to New York — a place she was familiar with because her family had a home on Long Island where she’d spend summers. Having graduated from Parsons Design in 2019, Lily could hardly get her foot in the door when the Pandemic suddenly struck. Like many people who were struggling to find work during that turbulent time, Lily moved out to her parents’ house in East Hampton and began busying herself with craft projects.

She discovered five, old Hermès beach towels, which her mother (the radio and television presenter, Emma Forbes) had inherited, and — to her father’s horror — began cutting them up and turning them into masks. ‘They're so graphically attractive!’ she says. ‘Obviously I knew the brand, but I didn't know what an Hermès beach towel retailed at. I just thought that these were towels they never used.’ In an effort to ease her father’s shock, and put the masks to good use, she began selling them on Instagram in order to raise money for the New York Food Bank.

You could say she was in the right place at the right time because the Hamptonites totally fell for the facemasks, and within a few months she’d raised $10,000 for the food bank. Beyond needing chic masks as protection, they loved the idea of a luxury item being upcycled. ‘We were still in that phase of upcycling being new,’ says Lily, who had gathered a whole rolodex of new clientele, as well as loads of new materials.

While driving around the Hamptons delivering facemasks she’d meet customers face-to-face who were curious about her creations. ‘Nine times out of 10 they would be like: I have an Hermès beach towel,’ she says. Many of them wanted their own custom pieces fashioned from their personal towel collection. ‘[They’d] be like: I have this towel, can you make me a hat or a jacket?’

Lily, who had initially wanted to study fashion, was thrilled to start creating custom pieces. She could do the designs with ease, but wasn’t as skilled at sewing. She asked around town and, of all places, got a recommendation for a tailor from her local fish store. They told her she had to meet Michel Cantin, a tailor who lived in Springs. ‘I just assumed Michel was a woman, because Michel sounds more like a woman's name,’ says Lily. When she pulled up at Michel’s house in Springs, she did not expect to find an older French-Canadian man waiting at the door. A very ‘chic’ one, she adds. Lily joined him on his porch as he told her all about his storied career: how he once worked for a designer who sold at Bergdorf Goodman and had owned a womenswear store in East Hampton for 45 years, which he shared with his partner. ‘I just loved him immediately,’ says Lily.

They were an unlikely pair. She, a young, British-born designer with whacky ideas, and he, a 93-year-old French Canadian tailor, who has more traditional taste. But Lily saw more than just chemistry between them — she had been looking for someone she could learn from too. 'I never got that mentorship [from] someone who's had [so] much experience [and] knows a whole different side of the industry,’ she says. ‘[He] was so willing to talk me through things.’ They also challenge each other, often bickering or disagreeing, but always ultimately align.

The duo's endearing relationship spanned six years before Cantin sadly died a few months ago. Together, they expanded LilyEve's range, offering beach bags and hats made from towels as well as sharp jackets and trench coats. Standing in her slick showroom, surrounded by all their creations, neatly hanging on the rails, Lily is still slightly surprised she now has a physical space and a steady stream of clientele. Everything happened so quickly and organically that at times it all feels a bit like a dream.

Cantin used to mostly work from his house in Springs, focusing on their ‘blanket series’ — jackets made from merino wool and cashmere fabrics. Lily is often in the studio, taking appointments with clients and working on designs. Other times, she’s sourcing materials — connecting with people who have collections or reseller sites. On weekends she used to go to the Hamptons to see Cantin. She is open to new designs — as was Cantin — but the through-line is working with the Hermès brand. Not only because Lily adores the bright, graphic patterns, but because the quality is so superior. ‘They’re blankets, but we want them to feel like a jacket,’ she says.

The quality is of course part of the attraction. Most of her clients — a large percentage who are American women, from Florida, Texas and New York — know the Hermès brand and like that Clempson is reimagining it. With most luxury brands now readily available in every corner of the globe, it does tend to breed a kind of same-ness, which nobody wants when you’re dropping thousands of dollars on a piece. ‘I've always felt [that] if you're spending that amount on a garment, the last thing you want is to be walking down Madison Avenue and see five other people wearing it,’ she says. ‘Our aim is to keep it unique to the customer — offer them that experience.’ As the showroom is by-appointment only, Lily and her team (her mum works with her too) can also offer clients a one-on-one experience where they can try different items on at leisure and perhaps have something altered or custom-made.

So far, Lily has not worked with Hermès directly. ‘I'm obviously a huge fan of the brand,’ she says. ‘I’ve dabbled with other designers [but] it just didn't have the same appeal and quality.’ She works carefully with unspoken guidelines — first, authenticating the pieces, never showing the logo and ensuring she honours the fabric through the design, elevating the silk and wool scarves in imaginative ways. ‘I try to remain as respectful as possible to the brand,’ she says.

While she enjoys upcycling materials and inventing one-of-kind designs, she wouldn’t ever rule out a collaboration with Hermès if they came knocking on the door. ‘Maybe that’s in the future!’ she says with a hopeful smile.

From masks in East Hampton to a showroom on Madison Avenue, Lily has already proven she doesn't need Hermès to come knocking. But, she says, it would be nice.

You may or may not have seen Netflix’s My Octopus Teacher when it graced our screens during the pandemic. If not, here goes: a South African filmmaker starts free-diving and forms an unlikely bond with a female octopus, which (spoiler alert) dies at the end of the film. The climax comes as the increasingly trusting creature wraps itself around the director’s arm — a scene that’s hard to stomach if you like polpo alla luciana.

My Octopus Teacher brought to fore the belief that sentient beings, akin to the octopus, are beyond human consumption. Yet this creed goes some way back. In certain societies, eating polpo has always been taboo: many religions see it as impure and some even view the beast as a monster. Not in the Mediterranean, however, where octopus is a culinary staple.

Now, due to warming waters, our eight-armed friend has begun to migrate. More and more octopuses are being found near Welsh, English and Scottish shores. This is a nuisance to some of our swimmers; and, to fishermen, a concern.

The molluscs are said to be eating too many crustaceans; lobster, with which British waters abound, is among their favourite foods. That said, the claims that we are experiencing a shortage of shellfish due to hunting are exaggerated. Our supply of lobster has always outstripped local demand: one in three Britons has never eaten it and we remain the animal’s top catcher in Europe.

More certain, and interesting, is the glut of octopuses now on the menu. Britain, unlike southern Europe, is friendly towards the bottom feeder: following a 2021 report, the Government announced greater welfare provisions for the animal. Its decentralised nervous system and capacity for spite render the octopus a complex and intelligent being that many say is too smart to be eaten.

The eugenicist undertones of such an argument, however obvious, are countered with the claim that octopuses are not only smart, but sentient. The problem is, so are sheep. A stronger case against eating the cephalopod might instead look at bottom trawling, a deep-sea practice targeting shrimp and sole and in which octopuses end up as bycatch.

Modern packaging means the meat’s provenance is often hard to verify; yet the animal’s proliferation in our shallows suggests its growing availability as product has more to do with local efforts than industrial fishing. In this sense, catching an octopus is no different to culling deer. Although questionable projects are in the works in Spain [since the time of writing, controversial plans for the world’s first commercial octopus farm in Spain’s Canary Islands have been abandoned], the animal is not yet bred for consumption, eliminating the risk of eating something farmed.

Remember this the next time someone brings up the subject over dinner. No beast, no matter how clever, is above eating — except our pets.

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

Some vehicles become more than just a way to get from A to B. They become part of the landscape itself. Across farm tracks, village lanes and winding roads that disappear into the hills, the Fiat Panda has earned a place in country life that few cars can match.

For more than four decades, this unassuming little box on wheels has been carrying shepherds, farmers, foresters and families through all weathers and over terrain that would make many modern SUVs think twice. Modest, dependable and full of character, the Panda has never chased fashion or prestige. Instead, it has quietly built a reputation for doing exactly what rural life demands: getting the job done.

From the snow-covered mountain villages of Italy to the muddy back roads of Britain, the Panda's story is one of practicality, resilience and surprising charm. As we discover, this humble small car has become an unlikely country icon.

The Panda reached the UK in 1981. Its slab sides, flat windows and simple interior with washable materials were an instant hit among those seeking cheaper transport. Then, in 1983, the legendary 4x4 Panda appeared. It still retained the 2WD Panda’s Wellington boot-like appearance — square, sturdy and utterly unfashionable — but could now navigate muddy tracks and country adventures.

In 2024, after three generations, a new iteration arrived: the Grande Panda. And it might just be one of the best cars on sale today.

Lots of manufacturers are joining the retro trend, but only a few have gotten it right, like Renault with the 4 and 5, or Fiat with the 500e. Others struggled to bottle that all-important original essence in a retro revival, resulting in ridicule.

Yet again, Fiat has judged the mood perfectly. Rather than producing another anonymous hatchback destined to disappear into supermarket car parks, the Grande Panda doffs its cap to the original, borrowing just enough of its ancestor's charm to stand out from the crowd. Its bold pixelated LED headlights never failed to capture the attention of oncoming drivers.

Inside, the Grande Panda strikes a delightfully eccentric balance between nostalgia and modernity. Bold geometric shapes and splashes of neon yellow ensure there is little danger of mistaking it for one of today's more anonymous interiors. It’s filled with charms, from the so-called 'BAMBOX' glovebox, fashioned partly from bamboo fibres to trim pieces made using recycled drinks cans. My favourite touch, however, is the oval dashboard, complete with a miniature Grande Panda circling its perimeter — a playful tribute to Fiat's famous Lingotto rooftop test track.

Finished in a pleasing shade of Lago Blue — not the colour I’d choose, as I feel it better suits vibrant palettes — my mild-hybrid Panda came with £650 of extras, including a heated windscreen, heated steering wheel and heated seats — three items that rapidly migrate from the 'nice-to-have' column to the 'how did we ever cope without them?' category. The final bill stood at £22,645, which sounds rather a lot for a Panda until you've spent a winter's morning trying to thaw both yourself and your car before breakfast.

In hybrid form, the Panda churns out 108bhp and 151lb ft, meaning 0-62mph takes about 10 seconds, like the old Panda 100hp. Once you’re over the initial throttle input lag after pulling off, the Grande Panda feels nippier than those figures suggest. Unlike previous models, this one is only available with a six-speed automatic gearbox; however, it's paired with an electric motor, allowing it to reach 18mph on electric power alone.

Fiat suggests the Grande Panda Hybrid can achieve up to 55mpg if treated with a degree of mechanical sympathy. Happily, this appears to be more than a marketing department daydream. My loan car averaged 54mpg during its stay, while shorter trips saw the figure settle between 34 and 40mpg — still respectable enough for a dash to the farm shop, or an urgent expedition in search of forgotten dog food.

As for interior space, I easily squeezed my 5'11 "frame inside and still had plenty of legroom and headroom. Things were tighter in the rear, but you can’t have everything for £22k. Likewise, the car’s 10.3-inch touchscreen features Android Auto and Apple CarPlay; top marks go to Fiat for including an ADAS switch amongst the array of physical switches.

Yes, I largely prefer my Renault 4. But comparing the two is rather like comparing a labrador with a Jack Russell: both are charming in their own way, but they were bred for slightly different purposes. The Grande Panda occupies a different corner of the market and judged on its own merits, makes a compelling case for itself.

Those expecting pillowy soft-touch plastics and the hushed refinement of a luxury saloon may need to temper their expectations. The Panda's priorities lie elsewhere. What it offers instead is a cheerful, practical package that delivers almost everything one could reasonably want from an affordable runabout, wrapped in styling that has considerably more character than most of its rivals.

Winged, on all fours or slithering around: when it comes to jewellery, animal mascots come in all shapes, sizes and guises. It’s a design feature with history. Consider, for example, the animal motifs chosen by aristocratic families, guilds and royal courts to signal influence, power and, above all, centuries-spanning lineage. Henry VIII and Elizabeth I chose greyhounds — symbols of speed and loyalty; in France, Francis I, who reigned from 1515 to 1547, favoured the salamander, for resilience against fire and temptation.

Big cats have long been popular mascots. In a November 1990 issue of Country Life, Diana Scarisbrick enthused that ‘of all the naturalistic themes which have inspired jewellers since Antiquity, none strike the imagination more powerfully than the monarchs of the animal kingdom: lions, tigers and panthers.’

Scarisbrick then chronicled the motif's history, from lion pendants cast by Greek goldsmiths in 7BC, to the panther cameo ring worn by Prince Eugene of Savoy (1663-1736). The Prince was a brilliant military commander who, alongside the Duke of Marlborough, fought against and defeated the armies of Louis XIV. As stylish as he was savvy, his ring was carved from intricately patterned moss agate, by Roman artisans.

Big cats also inspired jewellery creations at the start of the 20th century: in Cartier’s Parisian ateliers, a 1915 bejewelled wristwatch was set with diamonds and onyx in tribute to the panther’s piebald pelt. The stealthy cats soon became synonymous with the important maison. Jeanne Toussaint, director of fine jewellery from 1933 to 1970, was nicknamed ‘panthere’; Peter Lemarchand, a designer from 1927 until his death in 1970, released them from the constraints of stylisation and brought them to life following long hours of observation at the Vincennes zoo, followed by intensive study of the Egyptian bronze figures of the cat goddess, Bastet, in the Louvre.

As such, panther-shaped Cartier jewels are scattered across decades. In London, at expert dealer Susannah Lovis’s Burlington Arcade set-up, my vintage finds include a yellow gold panther brooch patterned with hand-applied black enamel and decorated with glinting emerald eyes (above), and a Cartier Panthère Lakarda ring in yellow gold, cleverly constructed to wrap around the finger. Both date to the nineties.

Another wild cat, the lion, has assumed authority of CHANEL. Its use in jewellery — in addition to fashion and beauty (it lent its name to the Le Lion Eau de Parfum, by in-house perfumer Olivier Polge) — is inspired by Gabrielle ‘Coco’ Chanel. The house's founder was born under the Leo star sign and lived her life surrounded by likenesses of the animal. Lion Emblematique is the name of one chapter of the brand’s latest high jewellery collection, Signes & Symboles. Among the treasures is the Lion Puissant necklace in white gold set with white diamonds, and the magisterial Lion Emblematique white, rose and yellow gold brooch, its mane frosted with yellow diamonds, white diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds and turquoise.

It’s all about the snake at Bvlgari. The Italian maison, which was founded in 1884 Rome by Greek master silversmith Sotirios Voulgaris, presented its first Serpenti bracelet watch in 1948. The now iconic creation was fitted with a tactile, scaley Tubogas bracelet, in homage to both Roman and Greek mythology which promoted the reptile as a symbol of healing, renewal and protection. The first watch soon evolved into a larger collection of timepieces, and went on to inspire necklaces, rings and more. Among this year’s snake-like novelties is a pink gold Serpenti ring set with two pear-shaped sapphires, 22 fancy sapphires and 132 pavé-set diamonds (below).

Avian mascots have been all the rage at Tiffany & Co. ever since important jewellery designer Jean Schlumberger dreamt up his Bird on a Rock design, a gold and gem-encrusted cockatoo perched happily on top of a large, colour gemstone in 1965. Schlumberger was stirred into action by the exotic birds he saw while travelling through the Caribbean and Asia. There have been myriad variations of the Bird on a Rock since including, in September, Bird on a Rock Feathers, a new high jewellery suite that seeks to celebrate the bird’s plumage. Rings, earrings and more have been assembled from individually sculpted and carefully interlocking feathers in gold and platinum. Some of the pieces are studded with diamonds.

Insects, too, make for mascots in jewellery design. Bees have been important to Chaumet since 1804, when founder Marie-Étienne Nitot became the official jeweller to Napoleon Bonaparte. The emperor chose the golden bee to replace the royal fleur-de-lis of the old Bourbon monarchs, not only to signal the changing of the guard, but to establish deep historical ties with France’s oldest sovereigns — and, therefore, project his own legitimacy. In 1653, golden bee-like ornaments (it turns out they were actually cicadas) were discovered in Tournai in the tomb of Childeric I, the founder of the Merovingian dynasty, the ruling family of the Frankish peoples from the 5th century until 751, and father of Clovis.

The Place Vendôme maison pays tribute to its illustrious history, by continuing to author bee-influenced designs across high and fine jewellery collections. Two dinky bees decorate a white gold, diamond and sapphire ring. Less figurative pieces lean into geometric honeycomb patterns.

The bee is also a mascot at Dior. In his memoirs, Christian Dior likened his Paris atelier at 30, Avenue Montaigne to ‘a little beehive bursting with activity’, populated by his ‘bees’, or highly skilled seamstresses. A Rose des Vents multi-charm necklace, which launched this month, buzzes with tiny gold, diamond and hardstone bees (above).

Earlier this year, Van Cleef & Arpels debuted their Lucky Spring collection and butterflies feature in five pieces, including a brooch and a long necklace — the delicate animal’s wings rendered in lapis lazuli and blue agate, to match the green agate foliage and mother-of-pearl flowers.

Van Cleef & Arpels is also known for its long love affair with ladybirds, dating back to the 1930s. In the Lucky Spring offering, the traditional good luck charm appears in rose gold, onyx and red carnelian form, in rings, bracelets and a stand-out long necklace. The plucky, polka-dot beetle is a favourite of the Country Life team too, and we’ve hidden a picture of one on every front cover since the middle of 2019.

Last, but by no means least, to horses, who reign supreme at Hermès. The luxury French brand's former chairman, Jean-Louis Dumas, once said that the majestic creatures were their first clients — a nod to the fact that Hermès started life as a harness and saddlery workshop.

Hermès’s new high jewellery collection, Into the Horsescape, celebrates this rich equine heritage. It totals 90 pieces — the largest offering to date — 22 of which are one-of-a-kind. Look out for the Galop Hermès cuff whose two sculptural horse’s heads hug the wrist and more abstract, horseshoe-adjacent pieces from the Centaur chapter.

The citizens of Yorkshire’s North Riding are noted for their modesty, so it is no surprise to discover that the shop on Pateley Bridge High Street calling itself The Oldest Sweet Shop in England is, indeed, the longest continually opened purveyor of aniseed balls, liquorice and sherbet flying saucers on Earth.

When it opened in 1827, George IV was King, the Duke of Wellington commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces and the country was running through prime ministers at a then unknown rate.

‘I don’t think of myself as owner so much as custodian,’ admits Ben Howie, a former agriculture student who fulfilled every child’s dream by buying his local sweet shop in 2021. ‘Everything in here has history attached. It’s a living, working museum. I grew up in nearby Knaresborough and came here as a youngster. My mother did, too, so I know the place the shop has in people’s lives and memories.’

The timing of the shop’s opening was propitious, because Britain was entering a golden age of confectionery. The world’s first branded sweet, the liquorice Pontefract cake, had been created 60 years earlier some 50 miles away. Toffee was invented in about 1800. In the 1820s, these sweetie-jar staples were joined by the mint humbug. With increased mechanisation and the abolition of punitive sugar taxes, an industry emerged.

In 1847, Fry’s of Bristol made the world’s first chocolate bar. Barley sugars, marshmallows and acid drops appeared on the shelves in the 1850s. A decade later, jelly babies (first sold under the disturbing name of ‘unclaimed babies’), coltsfoot rock and Victory V lozenges made their debuts.

Fry’s created the chocolate cream as its rival in York, Rowntrees, produced the first fruit pastille in 1881. Wine gums arrived in 1893. Yorkshire was the epicentre of the British Empire’s sweet trade and Pateley Bridge was well placed to enjoy the fruits of its invention.

'We sell all sorts, but the traditional hard-boiled sweets — pear drops, humbugs, cola cubes and rhubarb and custards — are by far our bestsellers,’ Howie notes. ‘I’ve sampled every sweet here. When I came here, there were old-fashioned items such as sweet peanuts that were popular with an older generation of locals, but of which I’d never even heard.’

By 1900, the sweet shop — selling chocolate, ‘aerated water’ and Pateley Bridge rock — had become a fixture of the High Street. There were bumps along the way, of course. The confectionery trade in Yorkshire suffered fallout from the infamous 1858 Bradford Sweet Poisonings, in which trader ‘Humbug Billy’ Hardaker caused the deaths of more than 20 people after adulterating his boiled sweets with what he thought was gypsum (a cheap sugar substitute), but which turned out to be arsenic.

International events have also disrupted business at the sweet shop. Rationing during the Second World War limited Britons to 2oz of sweets a week. The relaxation of the ration, in 1949, caused troubles of its own. The Pateley Bridge & Nidderdale Herald reported that the shelves of the sweet shop were empty due to ‘bulk buying, mainly by adults’ and scolded that the ration might not be repealed fully if people didn’t get a grip and ‘show some restraint’.

As it was, sweet rationing stayed in place until 1953. It was at the start of the new millennium, when Keith and Gloria Tordoff took over what was then called The Olde Sweet Shop, that its days in the international spotlight truly began. Keith Tordoff is a former police detective with a gift for entrepreneurship (he was awarded an MBE for business services in 2018).

The appearance of the shop in Julian Calder and Alastair Bruce’s 2005 book The Oldest: In Celebration of Britain’s Living History sparked regional and national interest. Then, in 2014, the newly named Oldest Sweet Shop in England was crowned by Guinness World Records the world’s oldest confectioner, creating further headlines.

Today, customers come from as far afield as Australia and China and the tiny shop — no bigger than the average sitting room — is often filled by coach parties from Germany and the Netherlands. They find an interior that would be recognisable to its Edwardian patrons.

There is a long, wooden counter polished to a sheen by thousands of elbows, dark wooden shelves lined with hundreds of sweet jars, an ancient cash register that rattles up totals with a sound like a tommy gun and weighing scales that might have been used by Mrs Beeton.

There’s an antique vending machine that once dispensed Beech-Nut chewing gum, stacks of striped paper bags, tin signs advertising Ovaltine and Velvet Lady ice cream, wicker baskets filled with packets of cinder toffee and candy walking sticks hanging from a string above the fireplace.

Reputedly, the building, which dates from 1661, is haunted by a ghostly pipe-smoker whose spectral tobacco smoke still wafts from open doorways, although how you would smell it over the jolly scent of pear drops and Turkish delight is anybody’s guess.

The sweet shop’s array of what Yorkshire folk call ‘goodies’ is immense and sometimes bewildering. ‘We often get people standing trying to decide between raspberry bonbons and Black Jacks for 20 minutes,’ notes Howie. Not that he minds. ‘Sweets conjure up a lot of memories. It’s great to hear people’s stories.’

Despite financial crises since he took over, including the pandemic, Howie reports that the appetite for sweets has not diminished. In fact, it’s increased. In tough times, people find comfort in sweets, he explains: ‘Whatever’s happening, most can afford to buy a quarter-pound of Midget Gems or sherbet lemons. For a small amount of money, the enjoyment, well, it can last a lifetime.’

All this bodes well for the future. ‘It’s my hope that people will still be coming in 200 years’ time, to buy a bag of dolly mixtures and have a chat,’ avers the shopkeeper.

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

The best watch advertisements in Country Life's 130-year-old archive are a timely reminder that great watchmaking never goes out of fashion.

From Victorian pocket watches to modern feats of engineering, the adverts chart the watch's evolution from practical precision instrument to object of desire — as well as consumer's changing tastes.

However, one thing remains reassuringly the same: there's always time for a beautiful watch.

Mappin & Webb

Founded in Sheffield in 1775 by Jonathan Mappin, Mappin & Webb began as a silversmith before becoming one of Britain's foremost jewellers and makers of silverware.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the company sold its own pocket watches and wristwatches including the robust Campaign watch which was popular with British military officers and the Admiralty.

Today, Mappin & Webb no longer manufactures watches under its own name, instead acting as one of the UK's leading authorised retailers for prestigious Swiss brands.

Garrard

Garrard is the world's-oldest jeweller and has long been associated with exceptional watchmaking — especially during the 19th and early 20th centuries when it retailed elegant pocket watches and wristwatches.

The former Crown Jeweller (1843-2007) stopped manufacturing watches about two decades ago, but second-hand timepieces regularly appear on the market for affordable amounts. Look out for models made with nine-carat gold.

Vacheron Constantin

Vacheron Constantin was founded in Geneva in 1755 by Jean-Marc Vacheron making it the world's oldest watchmaker in continuous operation. The maison's motto, 'Do better if possible, and that is always possible', reflects its relentless pursuit of excellence. It is one of the prestigious Holy Trinity of Swiss watchmaking brands, alongside Patek Philippe and Audemars Piguet.

Watches of Switzerland

Watches of Switzerland was founded in London in 1924 as a specialist retailer dedicated to Switzerland's finest timepieces. Since then, it's expanded across the UK and into the USA.

Zenith

Zenith was one of the first watch manufacturers to bring every stage of production under one roof when it was founded in 1865.

Renowned for technical innovation, the brand achieved horological fame in 1969 with the launch of the El Primero, the world's first high-frequency automatic chronograph calibre. Its movements have powered some of the industry's most celebrated watches, including early Rolex Daytonas.

Jaeger-LeCoultre

Jaeger-LeCoultre has created more than 1,400 calibres and holds hundreds of patents. Its most celebrated creation, the Reverso, debuted in 1931 with a swivelling case designed to protect the watch face during polo matches.

Tissot

Throughout its history, Tissot has pioneered innovations including the first mass-produced pocket watch and the first watches made from materials such as plastic, stone and wood.

It is the official timekeeper of numerous international sporting events and synonymous with precision and reliability.

Piaget

Piaget began as a maker of high-precision watch movements before establishing itself as a leading luxury watch and jewellery house.

The brand's defining product was the Piaget Altiplano (1957) which was powered by an ultra-thin mechanical calibre (Calibre 9P). A 2018 iteration — the Altiplano Ultimate Concept — measures just 2 millimetres thick.

Omega

Official timekeeper of the Olympic Games since 1932, Omega also made history when the Speedmaster became the first watch worn on the Moon in 1969.

Along with the Speedmaster Moonwatch, the Seamaster and Constellation models best encapsulate Omega's legacy. The latter — pictured above — was its flagship chronometer.

Patek Philippe

Rolex

Rolex was founded in London in 1905 by Hans Wilsdorf and Alfred Davis before relocating to Geneva in 1919. The company created the first waterproof wristwatch, the Oyster, exactly 100 years ago; subsequent iconic models include the Submariner, Datejust, GMT-Master and Daytona.

Courgette carpaccio with burrata

Ingredients

• As many courgettes as you like (and their flowers)
• One ball of burrata
• Olive oil
• One lemon
• Sea salt
• A handful of basil

Method

Shave a small courgette into delicate, thin ribbons using a vegetable peeler and season with sea salt and a squeeze of lemon. Set aside to soften.

Set a burrata ball on a serving plate, gently tearing open the centre so the cream spills and then drape it with the courgette ribbons and scatter with torn courgette flowers (stamens removed).

Add basil leaves, a drizzle of olive oil, a squeeze of lemon and seasoning. Serve immediately.

Courgette-flower galette with brown-butter ricotta

Ingredients (serves 4–6)

For the dough

• 125g unsalted butter, cubed and cold
• 150g plain flour
• 50g rye or wholemeal flour
• 1tspn sea salt
• 1tspn apple cider vinegar
• 2–3tbspn cold water

For the filling

• 30g unsalted butter
• 1 clove garlic, grated
• 2 anchovy fillets, mashed
• 150g ricotta, drained
• 50g Parmesan, finely grated
• 1 lemon, zest of
• 8 courgette flowers
• 3 small courgettes, green and yellow ones, ideally
• 1 egg, beaten
• Fresh basil
• 30g pine nuts, lightly toasted
• Bottarga cured fish roe, available online (optional)

Method

With your fingertips, rub the butter into the flours and salt until the mix resembles coarse breadcrumbs. Add the vinegar, plus cold water as needed, and gradually bring the dough together. Flatten into a disc, wrap with clingfilm and chill for an hour.

To make the filling, brown the butter in a pan over a medium heat until brown flecks appear. Remove from the heat and add the garlic and anchovies, letting them melt in the heat. Cool to room temperature and beat in the ricotta, Parmesan and lemon zest. Season with pepper, but taste to see if salt is needed.

Open four of the courgette flowers and remove the stamens before piping a little ricotta mix into each. Set aside.

Preheat your oven to 180˚C fan/200˚C/400˚F/gas mark 6. 5 Take the dough out of the fridge and roll it out to the thickness of a £1 coin (about 3mm). Roll it to 30cm (12in) diameter and transfer to a lined baking sheet.

Spread the rest of the ricotta mix onto the dough, leaving a 4cm (1½in) border. Finely slice or use a mandolin to slice the courgettes into coins and arrange these in a shingled spiral design. Nestle the stuffed flowers into the spiral and fan the unstuffed flowers in between them. Fold in the dough edge and pleat it all around. Brush the edges with egg and bake for 35 minutes or until the edges are golden and the base crisp.

Serve the warm galette scattered with basil and toasted pine nuts, and grate over more lemon zest and the bottarga, if using. A lightly dressed salad will complete this summery lunch.

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

Dogs once knew their place, usually a back room furnished with a plastic ‘bed’, which bore the marks (and odour) of various generations of four-legged forebears. Roaming rights might well have been extended to the kitchen, but not to any of the more formal rooms of the house — and never upstairs.

As their place in the hierarchy of a house has risen from faithful and obedient servant to — in some cases — kingpin, the way houses are decorated has evolved accordingly.

Floor surfaces are chief among them; although terracotta, tile, natural stone and engineered-wood floors can cope, carpet, whether it’s loop-pile wool or woven seagrass, is unsuitable for the daily post-walk muzzle dives — and worse.

Enter the increasingly popular option of faux sisal, which offers the aesthetic warmth of natural fibres, but with the durability, waterproof and stain-resistant qualities of man-made materials. ‘It resists damage from scratchy claws, wet dogs drying themselves and muddy paws and — in most cases— c an be bleach cleaned,’ explains Barney Green, founder of Unnatural Flooring, one of the first to pioneer this method of floor covering. ‘A bonus is that the synthetic yarn we use doesn’t attract or accommodate fleas, pests or textile moths and all our fitted flooring can be easily wet cleaned if necessary.’

Increasingly, dogs in this country, where there is an estimated population of 13.5 million (the highest in Europe), are not content to slumber on the floor; interior designers are discovering that the dogs and their needs are just as important as those of the client themselves.

Witness the fact that elevated interpretations of indoor dog kennels and dog beds have become regular features at WOW!house held each summer at the Design Centre, Chelsea Harbour in London. This year, Henri Fitzwilliam-Lay’s bedroom suite for Misia had a stylish dog bed created by Porta Romana to sit within her Art Deco-inspired scheme. Meanwhile, in Sara Cosgrove’s serene celadon morning room with Phillip Jeffries, a dog kennel sits next to a sofa upholstered in silk. Two words spring to mind: good luck.

To address the inevitable damage, the solution is to embrace a fabric that can withstand such treatment, says interior designer Rebecca Hughes. ‘Engineered for durability, high-performance textiles are designed to withstand everyday wear and tear and resist stains and moisture,’ she says. ‘Better still, many are fully washable, making it easy to deal with muddy paws, pet hair and the occasional spill.’

Advanced synthetic materials, such as solution-dyed acrylic and high-tech manufacturing processes introduced in recent years, have raised these fabrics from stiff and scratchy to soft and barely distinguishable from any natural alternative. ‘They evolved so much that most people would never know they were originally designed for outdoor use,’ believes Gareth Marc of Zimmer + Rohde. ‘You get all the practical benefits without sacrificing comfort or style.’

A further flourish comes in the form of additional plumbing facilities installed just for dogs. The post-muddy-walk hose-down using an outside tap that might have sufficed for generations has been upgraded to a dedicated indoor dog-washing area. Usually located in a utility or boot room and supplied with hot and cold water, these take the form of specially designed dog showers or generously sized sinks. Some have low-level pot-filler taps to keep the dog bowl topped up with fresh water.

Last year, Emma Sims-Hilditch demonstrated how to do it with style at her WOW!house Courtyard Room. ‘It reflects a broader shift towards designing spaces that cater to every member of the household, pets included,’ says studio lead Christina Bull.

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

This is a mean looking machine

It most certainly is. This right here is the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio, a saloon on steroids. At some point, when developing this car, the good people at Alfa must have thought about creating something like an Audi or BMW; that is, a refined but powerful four-door car. And then when they finished thinking about that, they made this instead, which is a hornet’s nest on wheels.

A few months ago, I reviewed the Stelvio Quadrifoglio, which I was proud to admit was one of the most fun cars I’ve ever had the pleasure of driving. It will not surprise you, then, that the Giulia ‘Quad’, which is lower and lighter and equally well-endowed in the horsepower department, was also nothing short of magnificent. But it is different.

For 70% of the time you are driving it, it is a fast, punchy, and practical saloon car. The other 30% of the time it is like being covered in bees.

Not sure being covered in bees is a good thing

Not if you are Nicolas Cage in the Wicker Man, no. But if you are driving the Giulia, it’s certainly a sensation. And one you will learn to love.

The Giulia is pulled along by the same twin-turbocharged V6 that you’ll find in the corresponding Stelvio, which produces about 510bhp and will take you to 60mph in a smidge under four seconds, and will continue to take you up to 191mph if that’s a thing you would like to do.

That engine, which is partly designed by Ferrari, is an absolute delight. It sounds fantastic, particularly when run through the organ that is the Akrapoviç exhaust system. The turbos are snappy and sharp, and 510bhp is more than enough to shift the car’s 1,600kg weight through the rear wheels.

And shift it it does. In sport mode, the car is achingly quick and assaults every sense. The torque means that it can take off at pretty much any rev range, and the automatic gearbox does a good job of letting you climb through the revs before settling down. There is, of course, a manual mode controlled by two gigantic shifters behind the wheel, if that is your preference.

The bit where the bees come in is when you decide to get really brave. Track mode is not for the faint-hearted, but sometimes in life you have to live a little. Engage it, and the suspension stiffens and all 510bhp are yours to command. The car buzzes and vibrates, like a dog on the leash itching to get after a squirrel, and once it slips the collar, you’ll find yourself on the limits of grip rather quickly. The tires will spin, they will squeal and they will smoke, and the smile on your face will have to be surgically removed.

Because that is what driving a fast car is all about, isn’t it? To make a lot of noise, feel your stomach being left behind and having (responsible) fun. There is plenty to be said about cars being comfortable, practical or powerful, but what about passion? The Alfa isn’t the quickest, comfiest or most usable car you’ll ever buy, but my goodness it is so very Italian, in that the passion is manifest in every rev, every stitch, every weld and in all four wheels.

It’s all a bit cliché to say it, of course, but you really don’t find many cars like these any more. So much is done for you and to you, that the simple act of driving is akin to having a desk job. But not in this. In this, your skin feels alive and you are taming the tiger.

I think I read somewhere that Clarkson said this car is unbearable over 50mph?

He did say that. Everyone’s allowed an opinion, I suppose. The ride is certainly a little firm, which when combined with the scandalous state of the UK’s roads, can make bumps and ruts a little unpleasant. But also, you’ve bought a sports car? If you want something that floats across the country, get a Range Rover.

Where Clarkson is correct, of course, is the suite of ADAS systems that are now as standard in the Alfa. These are annoying to turn off and even more annoying to leave on, but they are also the law now, so I am not really sure what can be done about it. It’s a bit like complaining that the sky is blue.

What’s it like the rest of the time?

Very usable. Compared to its big brother the Stelvio, you lose a certain amount of every day practicality, and the firmer ride means you likely won’t want to drive across the country in one, but the interiors are comfortable, there is room for five full-grown people and two sets of golf clubs in the back and there are lots of buttons and switches, which is nice.

Like the Stelvio, the interiors were designed in 2016, and haven’t been updated much since. But that’s actually a good thing, because car interiors have generally gotten worse since 2016. The leather is fat and rich and it smells comforting, like John Travolta’s jacket in Grease. When you are running it in comfort or eco mode, you can get 28mpg, which is more than enough. The infotainment screen is not very big, but it can connect to your phone and give you Spotify and Google Maps, which is what you want.

So you like this car, you would say it is a good car and you would admire your friends if they bought one?

Absolutely. Alfa Romeo were originally planning to retire the Giulia and Stelvio Quadrifoglio models earlier this year, but then they sensibly decided not to do that, so they will remain on sale until the end of 2027. You should get one, because cars like this will not exist forever.

Despite the fact that they are excellent, the economics of making them doesn’t work out, and sadly in this world the economics will come for us all. So if you want something fun, that you can also use to do the weekly shop and take the kids to school, this is your chance before you’ll be forced to buy something that isn’t fun. Take the leap, kick the hive and embrace the bees.

William Hogarth was a serial dog painter. Look in the corners of his 'A Harlot’s Progress’ (1732) or ‘Marriage à la Mode’ (1743–45) series and there they are, silent witnesses to the moral decay of the human subjects.

His own favoured breed was the pug and, in 1745, he immortalised his favourite in The Painter and his Pug (below) — in which the dog is the real subject. Hogarth shows himself in the guise of a painted portrait in the background, drolly suggesting that the animal had painted the man.

Pugs were known as Dutch mastiffs and the one in the painting was called Trump, possibly an anglicisation of ‘Tromp’, the name of two famous Dutch admirals. In 1742, Hogarth’s sculptor friend Louis-François Roubiliac made a statuette of Trump, which was later copied by the Chelsea Porcelain Factory; it sold very well.

In his later life, the painter, then living in Chiswick, would habitually drop by a local pub in the evening. If he stayed too long and supper at home was in danger of spoiling, Trump would be sent to fetch him and the publican would let Hogarth know: ‘Your servant is come for you, sir.’

When Trump died, Hogarth had him stuffed and kept him on his chimneypiece, and in 2001, a statue of the artist with his four-legged friend, made by Jim Mathieson, was unveiled by Ian Hislop and David Hockney on the Chiswick High Road, close to Hogarth's House, the artist's residence from 1749 until his death in 1764.

‘These are objects that are not meant to be displayed as accessories… It’s human heritage. It’s world heritage…’ This is what Professor Sussan Babaie, Iranian historian and Courtauld institute professor made of the 3,000 year old earrings worn by Zendaya at the premiere of Christopher Nolan’s latest epic, The Odyssey.

The backlash to this particular fashion choice was immediate and widespread, not least because the earrings are made from ‘looted’ antiquities and worn to promote a film made in part on occupied land. Historians were concerned though, not simply that the cultural significance of the earrings was ‘flattened and hijacked’ by the celebrity wearing them, but that they are not pieces of jewellery to be worn, that they are in fact pieces of art to be preserved and admired from the safety of a museum or gallery cabinet.

I find this to be a fascinating dichotomy. That fashion, an ancient and universal art form, is inherently about self-expression, about conversing with others in an ‘instant language, as Miuccia Prada put it, and yet at a certain point items are removed from circulation. Pieces no longer adorn human bodies as intended. They cease to be chosen by a person looking to say something about themselves or politics or society and instead they stop still, become trapped in a case, frozen in the time at which they are preserved.

At what point does a piece of jewellery or item of clothing become too precious to wear? Is it when it is 200 years old? 500? When it is worn by someone culturally significant? How does one decide? And who gets to decide?

When Kim Kardashian wore Marilyn Monroe’s dress on the red carpet there was huge backlash for fear she had caused damage (denied by the owners, Ripleys, who purchased it for $4.8 million) and that pieces so precious and important should be protected for their cultural significance. It could be argued that Kim Kardashian wearing the dress only serves to make it more culturally significant. That as a piece of art that dress was witnessed and marvelled at by an entirely new generation. Cultural significance is not determined by taste or nostalgia. Kim Kardashian is culturally significant whether one likes it or not.

The Iranian earrings that Zendaya wore belong to a private Mayfair gallery. Those earrings, like so many pieces of art, are available only to those with the money, contacts and unique opportunity to witness them. In Zendaya’s ears they were witnessed by millions. It is impossible, in this particular instance, to ignore the fact that they are stolen goods. However, the fact is, there is no plan to return them to Iran, whether they are sitting in a gallery or worn — culturally appropriately or not — in someone’s ears.

Obviously, I do not think that in every case ancient objects that were once worn should be out on the red carpet. If a piece of jewellery or item of clothing needs particular treatment in order to be preserved of course it should remain in a place where it is safe. I am not advocating for the Mona Lisa to be loaned out and displayed in someone’s kitchen for a week. But I am of the mind that pieces created as fashion — to be worn and moved in — are living objects, designed to be in motion. It is heartbreaking to think of them trapped and lifeless, viewed only by the few with elite access to them.

With vintage and antique items becoming more and more desirable in the luxury fashion world there must be a way to protect pieces, but also give them contemporary purpose, to utilise them and bring them back to life. It seems like a wasted opportunity that pieces with so much history, so many stories to tell, may sit hidden in a cabinet rather than being worn and admired in full view of the world.

The 2026 Met Gala dress code was 'Fashion is Art' — but is it? Click here to find out what our contributor Susanne Madsen thinks.

By all accounts, the dog in the 1968 hit musical film Oliver! belonged to the wrong character. Say ‘bull terrier’ and many will immediately think of Bull’s-eye, the famously unfortunate companion to Oliver Reed’s sinister criminal Bill Sikes, a fierce, brutish dog as feared as his cruel, unforgiving master — but anyone who owns a bull terrier will tell you that this dog is no villainous sidekick.

This is a breed with a big heart, a comical nature and an eye that holds a mischievous twinkle. Bull’s-eye would surely have been more at home with the film’s gentler interpretation of Fagin, charming his way around town and slyly picking a pocket or two — and nothing illustrates this better than Butch, the dog that played Bull’s-eye in the cinematic classic. ‘Butch was an old boy when he started filming Oliver!,’ recalls Cindy Sharville of her beloved family pet. ‘He was loving, clever and obedient, so long as treats were involvedv—vduring breaks, he would carry his bowl up to anyone eating, scrounging for food. Reed loved him and would sit on the floor with Butch on his lap.’

With its unique downfaced egg-shaped head, keen, bright eyes and muscular physique, this striking breed naturally catches the eye. David Mason’s first bull terrier Purdey made a splash in 2005, when she was photographed for The Sunday Times in a bespoke coat by Nutters of Savile Row, a brand then owned by Mason.

‘Purdey was such a lovely dog and when we lost her, it really was like losing a member of the family,’ admits Mason, founder of Mason & Sons, which champions and restores established British brands, such as Anthony Sinclair and Mr Fish. ‘It didn’t take us long to get our next one, Lulu. You’ll find that with bull terriers — once you’ve had one, you won’t want anything else.’

Currently the owner of two-year-old Vesper, who cheerfully greets customers at the company’s headquarters in John Lennon’s former Marylebone home, Mason concurs that the breed has become somewhat synonymous with Mason & Sons, thanks to his dogs taking a starring role in several campaigns.

‘They’re an important part of our life story — everything at Mason & Sons is British, including the dog,’ he laughs. ‘Bull terriers are an acquired taste. I think they’re beautiful, of course, but it’s their character that really has the appeal. They are notoriously stubborn and somehow always getting in trouble. They know right from wrong, but they can’t seem to help themselves. It can be maddening, but ultimately you love them for it.’

The breed owes its origins to James Hinks, an animal dealer in Birmingham who developed a new strain of all-white ‘bull-and-terriers’ during the 1850s. Having kept and bred fighting dogs, Hinks is believed to have crossed the bulldog, the now-extinct white English terrier and the dalmatian to produce his white ‘bull terrier’. Despite its ancestry, this dog was not bred with the fighting ring in mind — Hinks had set his sights on the show world, determined to establish a companion dog with a striking pure-white coat and a more refined appearance.

As his son James Hinks Jnr later wrote, the bull terrier was to be ‘the old fighting dog civilised, with all of his rough edges smoothed down without being softened; alert, active, plucky, muscular and a real gentleman’.

The conformation of the bull terrier has evolved through the years. Most notably, the head took on its distinctive long, domed ‘egg’ shape and the white coat gave way to colour as brindle, red and fawn were accepted in the breed standard. It has, however, retained its original characteristics: the strength and courage of its bulldog ancestry and the terrier’s wit and mischief. Perhaps most of all, it has stayed true to Hinks’s vision that it would become a companion dog — enthusiasts will tell you that the bull terrier’s purpose in life is to be right at your side.

‘After her morning walk, Olive will sit under my car and wait for me there, so I have to take her with me wherever I’m going,’ reveals Fleur Worsley of her bull terrier. ‘On the occasions I have to go to work without her, she hates it.’

A keen horsewoman, Worsley works for Oxford Polo where, she admits, a bull terrier tends to stand out. ‘My colleagues have spaniels, labradors, lurchers and whippets. I park up, open the boot and out jumps my bull terrier — people can be horrified,’ she admits. ‘But give Olive 10 minutes or so and they’ll be fussing over her.

'Bull terriers have an unfair reputation. Our postman was scared of Olive at first, but they’re now best friends. My husband never wanted one, but he adores Olive — he takes her shooting with him. She happily sits next to him on the peg.’

It is the natural comedian in the bull terrier that has hooked Worsley for life: ‘I’ll never be without one. They are hilarious — every morning, we’re woken up by Olive dramatically yawning in the kitchen. My sister got me a fridge magnet that says “Life is much merrier when you live with a bull terrier” and, for me, that sums it up.’

Breeder and judge Elaine Clark concurs that the bull terrier has a knack for comic timing, as she once witnessed in the presence of The Princess Royal. ‘Many years ago at Crufts, Princess Anne walked into the bull-terrier ring holding a bouquet of flowers,’ she recalls. ‘She stopped to talk to the judge, who was standing with a handler and their bull terrier. The next thing we knew, the dog had jumped up and snatched Princess Anne’s flowers, scoffing the lot. Luckily, she burst out laughing (The Princess Royal has kept English bull terriers for decades, which may explain her not minding the loss of the blooms.) If you don’t have a sense of humour, the bull terrier is not the dog for you.’

Smitten with the breed since she got her first puppy 40 years ago, Clark owns six miniature bull terriers, a breed almost identical to its larger counterpart in everything but size — although, sadly, the miniature is currently on the Kennel Club (KC)’s vulnerable native breed list, with only 264 registrations in 2023.

‘Bull terriers and miniatures are great family dogs. They adore children and know when to be gentle with them,’ enthuses Clark. ‘They’re happy to go on long walks, but don’t necessarily need loads of exercise. What they do like is a lot of attention and they can’t be left at home for a long time.’

Bill Lambert, the KC’s health, welfare and breeder services executive, grew up with bull terriers and, when it came to buying his own dog, there was no other breed. ‘My wife didn’t like the look of them at first, but that’s the wonderful thing about pedigree dogs — you need to go deeper than looks and the bull terrier is a great example,’ he says. ‘They don’t have universal appeal, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s their temperament — fun, stoic and kind — that makes them so special.’

The breed has its faults, Lambert notes. The white bull terriers in particular can be prone to deafness — although this issue has lessened thanks to the Brainstem Auditory Evoked Response (BAER) test, which many breeders now use — and the bull terrier’s stubborn nature can also make them difficult to train: ‘They are strong-willed and haven’t got great recall, so you need to be on the lookout and prepared to put them on lead around other dogs — they are strong and muscular, so you have to be responsible.’

Working at the KC, Lambert would be forgiven for being tempted by one of the many other dog breeds out there. ‘I love all dogs,’ he concludes. ‘The thing is, if I got another breed, that would only mean I’d have one fewer bull terrier — and, honestly, nothing else quite matches up.’

If money is no object, there is a great variety of high-performance cars available to the discerning enthusiast. But while the numbers of Aston Martins and Ferraris sold in Britain may be very small, there is a healthy market for the sub-£20,000 sports car. Here Porsche is the market-leader with the 944 (£18,234), but it has to face stern opposition from the Jaguar XJS 3.6 (£19,495) and Lotus Esprit (£17,630).

Unlike its two rivals, the Jaguar has a higher standard of equipment as standard, with leather-faced seats, air conditioning and central locking, even though the latter operates only the two doors and not the boot. Thus, by the time you have paid to raise the level of equipment of the Porsche and Lotus to that of the Jaguar, the latter proves to be the least expensive car.

Alas, where the big cat fails to score so highly is with its looks. Long, sleek and elegant it may be, but it lacks the grace of line of its feline namesake. Awkwardly shaped headlights, a cumbersome rear roof pillar and a curiously modelled rear end give the Jaguar low marks in the beauty-contest stakes. The same design has been around now for the best part of 10 years, and over-familiarity means it no longer receives a second glance.

The same can scarcely be said of the Lotus Esprit. It, too, first appeared 10 years ago, but its striking Giugiaro-styled body is an attention-grabber, attracting small boys as readily as wasps to strawberry jam. The Porsche also has a great deal more presence than the Jaguar, with its wide, flared arches and deep front spoiler giving it the appearance of a car that really means business. It is an astonishingly successful adaptation of the rather more ordinary-looking 924. But if it is admiring or envious looks you are after, the Lotus is the clear winner.

Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but the real attraction of these three cars is not what they look like, but how they go. With a 3.6-litre six-cylinder, twin-cam engine, fuel-injected and developing 225bhp, the Jaguar is by far the most powerful. The Lotus has to make do with 160bhp from its mid-mounted, 2.2-litre, four-cylinder unit, while the Porsche's 2.5-litre, four-cylinder engine gives a very similar 163bhp. The heavyweight Jaguar needs all those extra horses to give it comparable acceleration and top speed to the Lotus and Porsche. All three will reach just short of 140mph if shown a clear stretch of Autobahn, while the Lotus wins the 0–60mph sprint with a time of 6.7sec, closely followed by the Jaguar (7.2sec), then the Porsche (7.5sec).

Where the difference lies in how they make use of their power. With its mid-engined, racing-car-style layout, and huge rear wheels and tyres, the Lotus is able to put all its power onto the road with supreme ease. Those massive tyres bite hard into the tarmac on even the most brutal standing start, while at speed in the wet it is almost impossible to lose traction. The 16-valve engine is supremely responsive, and as smooth at 2,000rpm as it is at 6,500rpm.

As a driver's car, the Lotus is without peer. You can forgive it its outdated switchgear and instruments that reflect, and the fuel-warning light that distractingly flashes when only half-full: show it a winding country road and it will respond in the way only a race-bred sports car can. Beautifully weighted (unassisted) steering lets you place the car with total precision, the poise and balance of the chassis shrugs off with disdain the severest of bends, and you can play tunes with the engine through the short-throw gearbox. Under the right conditions, there can be few more satisfying cars to drive than an Esprit, and certainly none under £20,000.

Not that the Esprit is perfect. It is 73in wide, making it much too broad for narrow lanes. From the driver's seat you can see nothing of the bonnet, and such a low seating position means a certain loss of confidence when approaching the brow of a hill. The pedals are too close together, and it is easy to hit the brake instead of the clutch, but there is at least a brace to rest your clutch foot on. Ventilation is abysmal, which can make motorway driving on a warm day a chore, and remind you that the extra £835 for air conditioning is money well spent. But despite all this, it remains a magnificent machine.

Climb straight from the Lotus into the Porsche and you are instantly aware why this German machine has been so successful. It is much easier to get in and out of, while simple Teutonic attention to detail means that you need only a single key for everything — the Lotus has one for the door, ignition and petrol cap(s), while the Jaguar has no fewer than four keys. The Porsche's clutch is perfectly weighted, there is a foot rest for the left foot, and the gearbox moves smoothly and easily.

Furthermore, the redesigned interior of the latest 944 has an impressive new dashboard that owes more than a little in its design to the 928, and extremely comfortable seats. It exudes a feeling of precision and quality. Once on the move, the 944 has the handling and cornering ability that gives instant confidence in its ability. That big four-cylinder engine has plenty of low-down pulling power and is every bit as responsive as that of the Lotus, if not quite as smooth. It is only when you follow the Lotus along a winding Welsh mountain road that you discover that it has not quite the English car's ability to cope with the bends, and it will slide, albeit in a predictable and undramatic way.

However, the Porsche is an easy car to drive, less demanding than the Lotus and so ultimately less rewarding, but far more practical in everyday use. The back seats may be scorned by anyone more than eight years old, but they are there in case of emergencies, while there is far more carrying space in the 944 than in the Esprit.

In such overtly sporting company, it is easy to dismiss the Jaguar as a two-seater saloon car. It is a very long car for such a small passenger compartment, and its back seats are as impractical as those in the Porsche. The interior is traditionally English, if of another era, with polished elm veneer dash and door cappings, dated switchgear and too much reflective chrome, but it is all beautifully put together. Unlike the automatic-only XJS HE, the gearbox is a five-speed manual with a somewhat clumsy change. Nor is the engine as refined as one would expect — and to get the best from it you have to make free use of the gearbox.

Compared with the perfectly weighted power steering of the Porsche, that of the Jaguar is too light and lacks feel; the suspension gives a much better ride than the other two cars, but it is at the expense of handling. Despite its sporting aspirations, the XJS is not so much a driver's machine, more a car to travel in and arrive as relaxed and fresh as when you set off. The air conditioning is admirable, ensuring a perfect climate whatever the weather, while the vehicle's quietness and overall level of refinement are of the highest order. It would be difficult to find a better car for long-distance, high-speed motorway cruising.

Economy is not the Jaguar's strongest point, and although 22mpg may be much better than that of the V12, it cannot compete with the Lotus, which returned more than 26mpg during the test, or the very frugal Porsche, which gave nearly 28mpg.

Thus there is no clear winner here, for all three cars have their own attractions. If your driving includes a great deal of motorway work, then the Jaguar is far and away the best choice. If you want a car that your wife can happily take shopping, or you can use daily for a hard cross-country commuting route, then the Porsche is the winner. But for an uncompromising sporting car, the Lotus is in a class of its own. It may have more faults than the other two cars put together — but it remains a classic car at a not unreasonable price.

1 Pick up after your dog in public places and on farmland. No exceptions, no theatrics.

2 Carry extra bags; being prepared is the backbone of dignity, but never, ever, leave full ones hanging on trees.

3 ‘He’s never done that before’ is no excuse: train your dog.

4 Leads exist for a reason. Most dogs need them...

5 …but retractable leads should be banned in tight spaces.

7 Accordingly, training your dog to respond to the whistle is more refined than screaming like a fishwife.

8 Recall should be instant, not interpretive.

9 Jumping up is not being ‘friendly’, it’s rude.

10 Similarly, muddy paws belong on the ground, not on strangers’ clothing.

11 Children are not chew toys.

12 ‘No dogs’ signs are not a suggestion. Observe them.

13 Barking at all hours is not ‘character’.

14 Doggy clothing is tragic.

15 Other people’s front gardens are not canine lavatories.

16 Some dogs are nervous; respect their space.

17 If a venue is clearly unsuitable, don’t insist on bringing the dog anyway.

19 There’s nothing funny about your pooch’s bad breath. Sort it out.

20 A collar with ID is the law.

21 If you happen to fart, blame it on the dog. Even if there isn’t one.

22 Begging at tables is ghastly. Bad in children, worse in dogs.

23 If cattle show an unnerving interest, let your dog go; they will chase it, not you.

24 When in the park, your dog requires your full attention, not your social-media feed.

25 Rough play is charming, until it isn’t. Intervene.

26 If your dog misbehaves, apologise properly and immediately.

27 And yes, pay for any damage without fuss.

29 On public transport, keep your dog close and unobtrusive. Carry them on escalators, even if yours is a Great Dane.

30 Groom your dog properly — overt scruffiness is not a lifestyle choice.

31 They say dogs look like their owners, so make sure yours is a hottie.

32 You may allow your dog on the sofa, but others may not. Respect their house rules.

33 A hot car is not a kennel, not even for 10 minutes.

34 Dogs don’t sign Christmas cards...

35 …but you can get away with buying them a Christmas present.

36 Dogs are designed to walk, not be carried in a handbag.

38 Your dog is a reflection of you. Try not to disappoint.

39 Not everyone finds your dog as enchanting as you do: try to cope.

Across the marshes of the Suffolk coast, surrounded by children’s ponies, chickens and ornamental turkeys, a perfectly fired brioche bun surveys her land.

It’s been a good morning for Peggy — waking at 6am was swiftly followed by a rhinoceros charge around the house and garden, during which the devilish robot lawn mower received a thorough ticking off. Breakfast was supplemented by a lick around a couple of jam jars, a snaffle of honey (again, straight from the pot) and half a packet of Dorset Cereals Nutty Granola as somebody had carelessly left the dining-room door open and miniature bull terriers are athletic enough to scramble up onto the table.

Deciding which cheeky canine would take home the accolade of Britain’s Naughtiest Dog in association with Honey’s Real Dog Food was not easy. There were so many titillating tales of counter-surfers, coffee-table chewers, puddle-makers and displays of sheer greed that, despite extensive conversations deep into the night between our esteemed judges, there is always that niggling thought—‘did we pick the naughtiest one?’

On the announcement of our Chosen One, a swift response from Peggy’s owners Sir Edward and Lady Greenwell followed: ‘She is — surprise, surprise — being sedated as we speak for eating something disgusting… the vet says, despite all this, she is very jolly and keeping everyone at Aldeburgh Vets entertained. I will buy her a new bed in celebration as she’s eaten her latest one. I had told her that was it (she’s already destroyed six).’ It was in that moment that I knew we’d made the right choice.

‘She is very naughty,’ Clare beams in confirmation, ‘but there’s nothing malicious about it, she’s just full of fun, mischief and curiosity.’ Two-and-a-half-year-old Peggy was sourced from a litter bred by Mary Riall in Dorset. ‘We weren’t really looking, but a friend spotted an advertisement on Radio H-P,’ Clare remembers. ‘I said I’d had two standard bull terriers in the past — Phoebe and Plum — so I passed the test and we drove all the way down to Dorset. It was a sweet set up, a farm with lots of horses and dogs, and there was Bojo [Peggy’s mother] and Beetle, a miniature wire-haired dachshund who thought she was a maternity nurse in charge of bossing the puppies around.’

The Greenwells remain in touch with Peggy’s extended family, too — her almost identical brother, Simba, belongs to event rider Bubby Upton and her grandmother, aunt and cousin to Bubby’s mother, Rachel Upton.

Since arriving in Suffolk, Peggy’s bow-wow bad behaviour has garnered quite an audience. ‘We took her to the Hadleigh Show and we may as well have had our own stall there. All we needed was a couple of chairs and an umbrella and we could have charged £5 to pet her,’ Clare laughs. As well as eating three pairs of Edward’s Crocs, breaking numerous valuable vases (with and without flowers), nibbling antique furniture and far too many books to list, Peggy also enjoys turning her paw to a spot of light interior design, both structural (chewing skirting boards and ripping up flooring) and decorative (plumping soft furnishings and ‘editing’ prized family photographs). ‘She knows upstairs is off limits, so when she sneaks up there she goes mad,’ Clare reveals. ‘Nothing is safe up there — handbags, shoes, pictures — and she thunders through the bedrooms tossing all the cushions and pillows around. It’s like being in a sweetie shop for her.’

She also enjoys ‘helping’ around the house and garden, alerting the Greenwells to the presence of hedgehogs on her daily patrol and breaking into the larder a little too frequently to give it a ‘spring’ clean. In the kitchen, she is a dab paw at opening jars and once ate an entire bowl of fermenting grapes, which left her a ‘little bit tipsy’, but thankfully had no further ill effect.

Her worst misdemeanor? Attempting to ‘manage’ the poultry. ‘I came home, opened the kitchen door, and there was Harold, our rare-breed cröllwitzer turkey sitting on top of the Aga, bald and surrounded by a sea of white feathers, staring down at Peggy who was barking and bouncing around,’ remembers Clare. ‘I wrapped Harold in a couple of tea towels and rang Edward. It took us an hour and two big bin liners to clean up all of his feathers. Luckily, Harold recovered after being smothered in Sudocrem and all of his beautiful feathers have grown back.’

Country Life is delighted to report that Peggy, Harold and his cröllwitzer wife, Maud, are all still friends. Despite this minor lapse in terrier judgement, the Greenwells still love Peggy dearly, as do their children and 17 grandchildren. Little Alma, aged five, dotes on her and enjoys dressing Peggy up and popping her in a pram. Baby Archie, only 19 months, will crawl into her basket and sit in there hugging her and kissing her. ‘Peggy adores children,’ affirms her owner. ‘One of her favourite things to do when we’ve got grandchildren staying is to escape upstairs and join us for tea and toast as we read stories in bed or, if they’re all watching television, she’ll go and snuggle in between them all on the sofa. She’s very loving.’

Although Peggy doesn’t quite have the innate elegance of Edward’s black labradors, sensible Gus and seven-month-old Maud, Clare describes Peggy as jolie laide, an endearing expression used to define unconventional beauty. ‘She may be boisterous, but she’s unbelievably affectionate,’ she smiles. ‘Edward pretends he doesn’t love her, but he does, deeply. He’s amused by her and every so often I see a little glint of pride in his eye. It’s always, “Where’s Peggy?”’

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

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Since the dawn of time, pearls have won human hearts, from queens to brides and philosophers — and it’s not hard to see why.

1. Pearls ought to be the eighth wonder of the world. They are created by bivalves — highly sensitive marine animals with shells in two halves — of which there are 9,000 species, including oysters and mussels. If anything squeezes its way into these shells, such as a tiny parasite or a grain of sand, the bivalve will very occasionally respond to the irritant by slowly coating it in something soft. In the case of oysters, the substance is called ‘nacre’ and the resulting object is, of course, a pearl

2. Unlike any other valuable and coveted gem, pearls emerge fully formed. They don’t require cutting or polishing (or even, for that matter, setting) to reveal their loveliness

3. There was a period during the 1980s when the ‘twin set and pearls’ was nigh ubiquitous, to the extent that they subsequently fell out of fashion and were briefly considered passé. It is probably the only time in human history when this was the case and it was swiftly over — there’s a reason Country Life’s Frontispiece, the most famous page in publishing, is known affectionately as ‘Girls in Pearls’

4. Real pearls (that is to say both natural and cultured) come in a wide variety of colours, from pale white to a metallic black. The colour is determined by the variety of oyster in which they have been grown. Different countries specialise in different colours. For example, Australia has always been known for its large, white pearls, whereas Fiji grows a range of distinctive hues, from pastel shades of yellow to intense shades of aubergine

5. Julius Caesar’s primary motive for invading Britain in 55BC was that the country was a major source of saltwater pearls. Wealthy ancient Egyptian women were buried with theirs. In ancient Greece, they were given to brides on their wedding day to stop them crying. Elizabeth I had 3,000 gowns and 80 wigs decorated with pearls. During the 19th century, they accounted for three-quarters of the jewellery sold in America

Country Life's top pearl picks

Our collective tastebuds have never been more a-tingle. The traditional world of British condiments has become decidedly heated in recent times, with hot sauces blazing their way into the mainstream like never before. Adding a fiery pep to our food has turned into something of an obsession — be it soups, sandwiches, steaks, salads or scrambled eggs — and our kitchens now regularly see chilli-laced bottles standing shoulder to shoulder with old stalwarts such as ketchup and brown sauce.

This rise in popularity is more than anecdotal. Waitrose reported a 55% jump in hot-sauce sales earlier this decade; Tesco revealed in mid 2025 that its customers had purchased an additional 2.5 million bottles of the stuff over the past 12 months; and almost every farmer’s market worth its salt (or should that be spice?) now features artisan hot-sauce producers.

Where has this enthusiasm come from? Those in the know point to everything from the effects of the pandemic lockdowns — basic sauces being relatively easy to make at home — to an ever-growing interest in different global flavours. Another factor is the simple, colourful pleasure of growing your own chillis, a joy requiring little more than a gardener’s eye and a south-facing windowsill.

The sauces themselves can be addictive, too: scientific studies suggest that consuming chillis tricks our brains into releasing endorphins to counteract the ‘burn’ of the heat. None of this would hold as much weight, of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that hot sauces can elevate a dish like little else. They now come in such a dizzying array of different strengths and varieties that the best of them have heat and flavour profiles that please the palate to delicious, and well-balanced, effect.

Craft chilli growers and hot-sauce producers are now dotted all over the UK. We speak to five British makers of hot sauce to hear how and why they got started, as well as what makes their piquant products very much worth a dollop or two on your plate.

Sheldrake & Sheldrake, Aberdeenshire

When chef and fermentation aficionado Jonathan Hope met brothers Cosmo and Merlin Sheldrake — a multi-instrumentalist musician and a microbiologist, respectively— in 2018 with a view to collaborating on a condiment, the results were always going to be out of the ordinary. The process of finalising a recipe at Sheldrake & Sheldrake, however, was not quick.

‘The Sheldrakes had always made one at Christmas to give to family and friends and they wondered if it was possible to turn that into a business,’ recalls Hope. ‘This conversation went on for about 18 months. They’re very detailed, so it developed at a glacial pace, but then we got it right.’

The end result takes the Sheldrake family recipe and combines it with koji — an ancient fermented food made by introducing a specific fungus to cooked rice — to produce a thick, umami-rich sauce. The brothers are renowned mycologists (‘they’re presently on field work digging for mushrooms in Nepal,’ explains Hope, so the approach seems fitting. ‘It’s essentially like a textured, hot, soy sauce,’ he continues. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone else doing it this way.’

Hope makes the sauce from his base in Aberdeenshire, using largely organic ingredients from places as diverse as Scotland, Galicia, Japan and Mexico.

How should the sauce be enjoyed? ‘The thing I do most often is put it on eggs, whether they’re poached, scrambled or fried,’ reveals Hope. ‘Second to that is making chipotle mayonnaise. I take a tablespoon of our hot sauce, whip it through with a dollop of mayonnaise and put it on roast potatoes.’

Great Scott Hot Sauce, Cornwall

‘To be honest with you, I put it on absolutely everything apart from a roast dinner,’ laughs Freya Scott. When she and partner Joseph Love went travelling to Mexico and Central America in 2016, they weren’t expecting to come back with a business idea. Then serendipity stepped in.

‘In Mexico, we noticed that everywhere made their own amazing hot sauces,’ recalls Scott. ‘We started keeping a diary of the ones we’d tried at different restaurants, then we visited a small hot-sauce factory in Belize, which was a very cool set-up.’ Back home in London, they started experimenting with making their own.

A move to Falmouth in Cornwall followed and, after striking up a relationship with a local chilli farm, they began selling hot sauces at markets and food festivals around the region. Scott and Love now produce 10 different hot sauces as Great Scott Hot Sauce using Cornish chillis, ranging from milder choices such as Apple or Gooseberry & Serrano to ‘not for the faint-hearted’ options, such as the Black Garlic & Balsamic Reaper.

Pairing a chilli with ingredients that complement it needs careful thought. ‘It really helps if you try the chillis raw,’ explains Love. ‘It’s like wine tasting, there are background notes: some chillis have more of a stone-fruit flavour, others are more citrussy or have an immediate peppery harshness to them. Balance is key.’

Legendary Sauce Co, Cumbria

When the pandemic forced Richard and Sarah Gore to close permanently their café in the Yorkshire Dales, they needed a fresh outlet for their culinary skills. ‘I’d always been really interested in chilli sauce and tinkered with it,’ says Richard. ‘I did a couple of flavours and they went down very well, so we took it from there.’

A few years — and a move to Cumbria — later, the small-batch sauces they produce have already garnered two Great Taste awards and eight prizes at the National Chilli Awards, with flavours ranging from Pineapple Scotch Bonnet to Blueberry Armageddon.

The name they gave to their start-up business, Legendary Sauce Co, is fast becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Impressively, Gore still makes all these sauces from scratch in his kitchen at home in Carlisle. ‘A batch of 200 bottles will generally take a full day,’ he explains. ‘That’s an hour or so of prep work, three to four hours of cooking, then the same again to bottle and label it all. Then I have to give the air some time to settle for a few days.’

The key to finding the right flavour profile? ‘You’ve got to be able to taste the chilli. That’s the important part. You’re not just trying to blow people’s heads off,’ he smiles, ‘although that’s a good byproduct.’

South Devon Chilli Farm, Devon

‘Most people aren’t looking for really, really hot sauces,’ believes Amrit Madhoo. ‘The average person wants something to add some zing to their tacos or chili con carne. If you reach for a generic supermarket chilli sauce, it’ll just taste very vinegary, but a good one allows you to add that spike of heat without altering the dish’s core flavour.’

He and his wife, Jenny, took over the long-standing South Devon Chilli Farm, a few miles inland from Salcombe, in 2022. Since then, they’ve overseen a roll-out of renewable energy across the farm and Madhoo has appeared on Gardeners’ World and James Martin’s Saturday Morning. The farm is a large-scale operation. ‘We’ve got eight crop tunnels, each of which is about 50 yards long,’ notes Madhoo.

‘We’re growing about 3,500 chilli plants overall — they grow directly in the ground and we’re harvesting about 40 varieties each year. They differ in their spiciness, their style and their heat. We’re on a nice south-facing slope, but the main challenge is getting the seedlings ready to be planted at the start of the season — about May time.’ The chillis go into a range of fiery jams, chocolates and some 17 different sauces, including the ‘truly evil’ Green Demon sauce, featuring unripened ghost, reaper and scorpion chilli varieties.

Big Ginger Sauce Co, Surrey

Peter Bennison can trace his obsession with spicy food back to his schooldays. ‘My best friend was Pakistani. Whenever I was at his house, his mum always brought out these incredible foods — I was instantly hooked.’ Fast forward a few decades to the pan-demic and Bennison, by now a fan of making his own heat-laden dishes, occupied his time by chilli-growing.

It bore fruit, in more ways than one. ‘I ended up with about 30kg of chillis in my freezer, thinking, "What on earth am I going to do with them?"’ The answer was experimenting with small-batch hot sauces. Feedback was not only effusive, but sustained. Therefore, after leaving a finance job in 2023, he founded Big Ginger Sauce Co.

His five sauces already have seven Great Taste stars and several National Chilli awards between them. Based in Pirbright, Surrey, Bennison now sources all his chillis from his local green-grocer, who has ready access to the London fruit and vegetable markets.

‘You’d be surprised what you can get,’ he says. ‘Even some of the more exotic varieties are readily available.’ Although he produced more than 20,000 bottles in 2025, the cooking remains his own work. ‘It’s only me,’ he admits. ‘Me, a big pot and a big stove. I love the creativity of it.’

This feature originally appeared in the print edition of Country Life on July 8, 2026. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

'The more I see of men, the more I like my dog,’ declared General de Gaulle. In this increasingly turbulent world, it’s a sentiment that resonates with anyone seeking refuge from the depressing headlines and finding solace in the form of a gentle nudge from a cold wet nose and a meaningful glance from soulful eyes.

Whereas Man may be complex, untrustworthy and difficult, Canis lupus familiaris can be a hero, a friend and a source of joy. At this year’s Crufts, the Royal Kennel Club Hero Dog Award went to Asha, an eight-year-old Staffordshire bull terrier who provides round-the-clock support and companionship to her 17-year-old, wheelchair-bound owner, Logan. Earlier this month, two-year-old black labrador Millie, a search-and-rescue dog from Kent, was selected to assist in the humanitarian effort following the Venezuelan earthquakes.

Yet despite their contribution to society, assisting, policing and even alerting us to medical conditions, dogs are afforded few rights or privileges — the British legal system classifies them as chattels rather than family members. Our firmest friend, one with the capacity to enrich our lives with unwavering love and loyalty, was once said to possess ‘all the virtues of Man without his Vices’, although if Lord Byron had been on our judging panel for this year’s Britain’s Naughtiest Dog contest in association with Honey’s Real Dog Food, he may have rethought that statement. Any dog owner knows that they occasionally come with their own form of chaos, a reality perfectly illustrated by our winner — a whirling dervish of mass destruction in appealing furry form.

It seems, however, that we can easily forgive the odd mischievous misdemeanor; Britons are indulging their dogs like never before. Gone are the days when Rex would be satisfied with a musty old tennis ball, a bone to gnaw on and a trip to the vet if he knocked at death’s door. A recent survey valued the British ‘pawprint’ economy at £10 billion, with more indulgent owners lavishing their dogs with spa-grade grooming experiences, gourmet food, designer beds and even private-jet charter.

We don’t blink when dogs appear on the catwalk or in fashion campaigns (the latest Hermès effort, directed by Tom Emmerson, depicts dreamlike vignettes of pups in luxurious settings), we take them to restaurants and modify cars to keep them safe. Inside our homes, interiors are evolving to accommodate the revised roaming rights according to canine command.

Yet have we gone too far? Enlightened attitudes to animal care are commendable, but the anthropomorphism of our pets and reluctance to enforce boundaries can only result in behavioural issues — our dogs are a mirror of our own attitudes. Only time will tell, but for now, the dog days are merely beginning.

In a list of the greatest watches, you will seldom find one that isn't in some way linked to one of the greatest human beings — and, particularly, to a man on whom history has bestowed greatness.

The relationship between these men and their watches is eternally curious. It’s symbiotic, but it’s not always clear which party, if either, benefits most.

The prima facie conclusion is that the watches benefit immeasurably more. Omega’s Speedmaster, for example, would be far less but for NASA’s moonwalking astronauts, just as TAG Heuer’s Monaco might have been a non-starter had Steve McQueen not picked one out as filming began on Le Mans.

That, however, is the simplistic view. Doesn’t the humble timepiece deserve some say in the matter, too? How much more presidential does John F. Kennedy seem for wearing an ultra-thin Omega on his wrist during his inauguration? How much more professional do adventurers, such as this generation’s ne plus ultra mountaineer Nims Purja, appear for wearing military-grade Bremont watches during their madcap expeditions? No, we mustn’t underplay the wristwatch’s hand. The benefits of this symbiosis are often evenly distributed.

Rolex’s part in this is particularly acute, of course. Having accompanied Chuck Yeager through the sound barrier in 1947 and Sir Edmund Hillary to the summit of Mount Everest in 1953, it later felt confident to add this footnote to its advertising campaigns: ‘Men who guide the destinies of the world wear Rolex watches.’

Seven decades later, the claim may not be exclusive, but it doesn’t seem the remotest bit fanciful. The notion that a Rolex gives a man a leg-up in life rings true.

This link between image and commodity, embodied by the great wristwatch designs of the 20th century, was a central tenet of Andy Warhol’s work. He was said to have owned more than 300 high-end watches, but regarded few more highly than his Cartier Tank. ‘I don’t wear a Tank watch to tell the time,’ he once said. ‘Actually, I never even wind it. I wear a Tank because it is the watch to wear!’

Warhol recognised that in wearing the right — if we can call it that — watch, his value as a commodity would rise. The theory of mutual benefit appears to work. Yet, as with any theory, the challenge is in establishing whether there’s a point at which it expires — in this case, to identify where the kudos exchange between a watch and its wearer is entirely one-directional.

Royalty, for example, might be beyond it. What could a quotidian accessory, even one in solid gold and created by the most skilled artisans, possibly add to a king? Well, imagine if The King were to have worn a Sekonda to his second son’s wedding, rather than a hand-finished Parmigiani Toric. Had that been his choice, one could safely assume his credibility among sartorialists would have diminished considerably. Still, there’s no question that perceptions of the elite Fleurier manufacture, established only two decades ago, were greatly enhanced by the association with the man who sits on the British throne.

Music, then? Its leading exponents enjoy god-like status, after all. Although again, rapper Stormzy may be a regular visitor to Audemars Piguet’s first-floor Bond Street hideaway, but by shopping what appears to be the length and breadth of the Royal Oak collection, he has proved that some watch designs hold far greater sway over popular opinion than others.

Sir Winston Churchill is a trickier case, even if one often visited. As I’ve written for Country Life before, our war-time leader was a hopeless timekeeper and relied routinely on his Breguet pocket watch to ensure he kept people waiting. Breguet’s unassuming excellence lends authority to all who wear it, but would Churchill’s story be as easy to romanticise had he taken a lesser brand?

Not to categorise it as such (at all), but it was only on researching this story that I discovered Churchill was gifted an IWC pocket watch on his 70th birthday, in 1944, by a group of ‘admiring Zurich physicians’, as the inscription has it. The golden ‘hunter’ pocket watch (one with a hinged cover) carried the further inscription ‘umbra fugit opera manent’, which literally means ‘the shadow flees, but the work remains’.

Perhaps, as an allied victory began to look inevitable, those physicians were alluding to the burden of responsibility that would await the world’s victorious leaders in the aftermath of the conflict. The original is rumoured still to be in the Churchill family’s possession, but IWC has a replica of it in its Schaffhausen museum in Switzerland.

IWC’s legend may grow with the tale, but then so, somehow, does Churchill’s, the watch lending additional gravitas to the moment.

Sticking with the conclusion of the Second World War, Franklin D. Roosevelt wore a Tiffany & Co gold dress watch during the Yalta Conference of February 1945, a piece that serves as a reminder that not all great associations lead to great creative longevity.

The aesthetic of the watch that kept time as F. D. R. met with Churchill and Joseph Stalin to determine how Germany and Europe would be reorganised after the war is completely timeless, yet Tiffany’s recent return to the form has done little to revive its fortunes as a watchmaker.

Further back in time, Jaeger-LeCoultre’s flip-case Reverso was little more than an outlandish concept when Edward VIII abdicated. Because of his decision, the Reverso engraved for his inauguration never reached its intended owner, instead ending up in the Le Sentier company’s archives. Despite the painful ignominy of his path, the upward trajectory of the Reverso continued. Today, it’s seen as a staple of a watch wardrobe of any merit.

There is, of course, a glaring omission in the brands and watches subjected to the theory to this point. Unlike Rolex or even more stoic dial names such as Blancpain (which famously equipped Jacques Cousteau with watches for his early diving expeditions, an association it still trades on today), Patek Philippe has never ventured to create links between its watches and men of any particular distinction. That is not to say they don’t exist, merely that Patek has never been overt in its courtship of greatness. Many of its best watches were commissioned, perhaps a sign that, in some cases, the watch has greater power to augment its owner’s status than the other way round.

Plutocrats of the early 20th century, most famously Henry Graves Jnr and James Ward Packard, entered into a slightly unseemly battle of one-upmanship, commissioning watches with ever greater numbers of complications from Patek. In doing so, they prompted some of the most valuable watches ever made (and the most complicated imagined before the dawn of CAD technology).

In 2014, the Henry Graves Jnr Supercomplication was sold by Sotheby’s for a then-record sum of $24 million (£18.9 million). Were it not for such watches, it’s highly unlikely that these men would still enjoy the oxygen of column inches they do today.

It’s settled, then? Not quite. Because there is one watch that owes almost if not all its greatness entirely to one man. If not for Paul Newman’s love of the Rolex Daytona with an ‘exotic’ dial, the model would almost certainly have disappeared into the archives.

Introduced in the 1960s, the dial configuration that now distinguishes a Rolex ‘Paul Newman’ Daytona was a commercial flop — but thanks to the association, vintage examples routinely sell for six-figure sums and up.

His own watch, given to him by his wife and inscribed with the words ‘Drive Slowly, Joanne’, went under the hammer in 2017 for $17.8 million (£14 million). Newman’s greatness singularly elevated the watch to its current grail status.

There’s an exception to every rule — but, otherwise, great watches and great men co-exist in a sort of mutual-appreciation society. And what a society it is.

Standing out at the Festival of Speed is not the easiest thing to do. But painting your Porsche in the style of a particularly raucous acid trip is one way to do it. It is, of course, one of life’s great questions: how do you make a Pagani look plain? The answer, it would seem, is to seek inspiration from the Summer of Love.

In 1970, Porsche knew that their 917 was underpowered when compared to the other giants of Le Mans, and so it was that the Long Tail (or ‘Langheck’) was developed, specifically for the straights of the famous 24-hour race. Innovation is the key to success, and when the 917LH hit 240mph down the Mulsanne straight, it became clear rather quickly that what Porsche couldn’t solve with pure power, they could defeat with innovative design.

But the Martini 917LH was innovative in more ways than one. Anatole Lapine, Porsche’s designer in 1970, realised that not only did the 917LH need to stand out on the stopwatch, but also on the track and to the spectators. Armed with 1,500 paint cans, the team got to work to create the swirling green and purple car that graced the grid on June 13, 1970. It finished second in a race plagued by torrential rain, behind another 917K (short-tail or ‘Kurzheck’), for a 1-2 finish for the 917s. Now it was here at the Goodwood Festival of Speed.

‘On the straight, the biggest problem was the spray — it was so thick that we couldn’t see,’ Gérard Larrousse, one of the car’s drivers, tells me. ‘When we arrived behind a 911, it was a complete fog. You had to guess whether to pass on the left or the right.’ Larrousse is 86 years old and, as we talk, he signs autographs from passing punters, mesmerised first by the car and then from his recollections of driving it. He sits in his race overalls with a twinkle in his eye, clearly delighted to once again be driving the world's fastest painting. ‘This car was the first 917 I ever drove. It was prepared for Le Mans, and when we arrived at Le Mans it was in a certain livery,’ he says. ‘And then the day after, it had another one, this one you can see now, which is very nice.’

Looking at the ‘Hippie Porsche', as the car soon became known, is a reminder to the assembled younger generation (myself included) that they weren’t the first people to invent sex, drugs and rock & roll. ‘The car came at a time of enormous cultural change,’ Frank Sytner, its co-owner, explains. ‘We’re talking about the Woodstock era. It was an amazing period of change and exciting new developments. The hippie movement and the psychedelic era introduced so many new ideas. It was a changing attitude to life, and designs like this came from imagination that may well have been influenced by….’ Sytner pauses, with a knowing smile, ‘certain chemicals.’

The Hippie Porsche existed not only at a time of cultural change, but engineering too. Purpose built for Le Mans, it never raced on another track, and was designed purely to make the most of its immense top speed on the various straights of the Circuit de la Sarthe, which in 1970, was even straighter than it is now. It existed at an inflection point between digital and analogue design. ‘It was really man versus the elements — a combination with no outside aid, no sat-nav, no ABS. Just a guy in a car,’ says Frank. ‘The 917 wasn’t designed by a computer. It was designed by a gentleman with a pencil and a piece of paper, drawing what he believed would be the most aerodynamically effective machine.’

‘That became the basis for what followed. The cars that came afterwards are still fantastic machines, but they followed the path the 917 pioneered. Motorsport has always been about pioneering spirit — that has been the part of its foundation from the very beginning.’

In 1971, the car returned to Le Mans, qualifying on pole and recording the fastest-ever top speed and lap time in the process, a record that stood for 37 years. Sadly, the psychedelic colour scheme was lost, with the Gulf Wyer team re-painting the car in its own blue and orange livery. It was sold to the Czech car dealer Vasek Polak, who in turn sold it to Massimo Padrazzi, who planned to race it in the South American Interseries. Alas, Padrazzi decided to build his own car, a Sabre D4, and the 917 was considered lost, spending 47 years hidden away in Padrazzi's garage, until it was sold to its current owners in 2024.

All around us, engines begin to sputter into life, and whistles blast. It’s time for the Porsche 917LH-043 (to give it its full title and chassis name) to once again stretch its legs up the Hill at Goodwood, and the small tent fills with smoke and thunder. A pioneering piece of art, a pioneering piece of engineering, an assault on almost every sense, makes its way to the start line, traced by countless eyeballs. Pioneering and unforgettable, almost 60 years later. A trip, in more ways than one.

For more information about the Hippie Porsche, click here.

'Time is a lot of the things people say that God is.’ Thus begins Outlander, the first book in the best-selling fantasy series by American author Diana Gabaldon.

Time is to an extent the protagonist of her story — a historical novel with romance and time-travel elements — but also a reason for the book’s changing fortunes.

When she first wrote it in the 1980s, publishers hesitated because they didn’t know how to categorise it: was it a romance? Fantasy? Historical fiction? Fast-forward several decades and genre-straddling books have almost become a genre of their own, Outlander is an immense success and has spawned an equally popular television series, starring Caitríona Balfe and Sam Heughan as the protagonists, 20th-century nurse Clare Fraser and her husband, 18th-century laird Jamie.

With the final season airing now, Bonhams in London is offering a selection of costumes and props on August 5. Among the highlights are the costume worn by Heughan in the Battle of Culloden scenes (estimate £1,500–£2,000) and the red ball gown created for Balfe (£3,000–£5,000). A special exhibition of the lots runs until August 4.

Bonhams previously oversaw the sale of replica royal costumes, coronation robes, furniture, props and set pieces from The Crown (2016-2024). The 2024 auction had a total estimate of around £525,000, but went on to make more than £1.67 million. The house described the sale as a major success, helped by huge international interest and more than 30,000 exhibition visitors before the auction.

In 2023, Kerry Taylor Auctions sold Colin Firth's famous wet shirt from Pride and Prejudice (1995) for £20,000, roughly double its estimate. As well as film and TV costumes, Kerry Taylor specialises in vintage and contemporary fashion, fine antique dress and European, Asian and Islamic textiles.

The house negotiated the private treaty sale of the wedding suit of James II to the V&A Museum and organised the sale of most important private collection of Audrey Hepburn's haute couture dresses and accessories to ever come to market. It included a black lace ensemble which was worn by the star in the film How to Steal a Million (1966). The Givenchy masterpiece sold for £55,000.

We're on the runway at RAF Wittering near Peterborough, Cambridgeshire, and there is a yolky-yellow JCB in front of me. It is very low, very long (32ft) and narrow; sleek like a missile and just as quick (and potentially devastating). Agricultural is the last word you’d use to describe this thing. Ballistic, more like.

It is powered by two hydrogen-gas-powered engines that have been developed, mind-blowingly, from regular JCB four-cylinder blocks (specifically the 3CX Backhoe Loader), raising power from 80bhp each to a combined 1,600bhp. That is alchemistic tuning; Jesus may have upgraded water into wine, but he had nothing on this. In between the engines and their digger-derived clutches sits a 63-year-old man without a hi-vis vest or construction hat. Instead, he wears a lemon-yellow race suit and a full-face helmet. He is retired Wg Cdr Andy Green, the fastest man on earth. The plan for this JCB, christened ‘Hydromax’, is to exceed 350mph on the salt flats in Bonneville, Utah in the US of A.

Strangely, JCB is no stranger to speed. The Guinness World Record holder for the fastest tractor belongs to the JCB Fastrac Two, which Guy Martin got up to 153.771mph back in 2019. Twenty years ago, chairman Anthony Bamford came up with the idea to construct the JCB Dieselmax and break the world land-speed record for a diesel-engined vehicle, given that diesel engines powered the vast majority of his products. It had two engines producing 750bhp each and, in Bonneville on August 22, 2006, a JCB tractor gave it a bump start from which the Dieselmax sprinted into the distance, clocking 350.092mph.

Two decades later, Lord Bamford is ready to try again. JCB is producing hydrogen-gas-powered products, so why not create the Hydromax and go for the zero-emission land-speed record (LSR). This machine has already beaten the previous hydrogen internal combustion LSR of 185.5mph, set in 2004 by BMW’s H2R prototype. It should surpass the hydrogen fuel-cell record of 303mph achieved in 2007 by Venturi and Ohio State University’s Buckeye Bullet 2 without breaking a sweat. The electric vehicle top speed of 342mph achieved by the Buckeye Bullet 3 in 2016—also built by OSU and Venturi—is well within JCB’s sights, if everything goes to plan.

‘This is not just about speed—it’s about showcasing the world-class engineering talent we have here in the UK and the robustness of our new hydrogen engines,’ says Lord Bamford. ‘Dieselmax was always a bit of an unusual idea, but it proved a point. Putting an advanced engine into a land-speed car showed the world what it could do in a way a digger never could. It’s the same thinking with hydrogen today.’

The 2006 Dieselmax and 2026 Hydromax look similar. However, the only carry-over part is Wg Cdr Green. He served in the RAF from 1980 to 2019, where he flew Phantoms and Tornados and captained the Cresta Run team. Between 2003 and 2007, he was the commanding officer at RAF Wittering, where we are for the Hydromax’s shakedown.

In 1997, aged 34, Wg Cdr Green (whose callsign was ‘Dead Dog’) found a new hobby; going supersonic on the ground. He set his still-unbeaten record of 763.035mph in the cockpit of ThrustSSC, the Richard Noble-built jet car powered by two massive Rolls-Royce engines. He was behind the wheel of Dieselmax’s 350mph run in 2006, and now Hydromax, which must be a bit ‘pipe and slippers’ compared to the ThrustSSC. Of course, cars, lorries and construction vehicles have little use for jet engines. Hydrogen has a lot more relevance for the future of land-based mobility.

JCB booked out RAF Wittering’s north taxi-way to test the machine and invited Country Life to bear witness. Horsepower was ratchetted up gradually. Like its predecessor, the new LSR car requires a push-start, this time courtesy of a powerful Land Rover Defender Octa (nicknamed ‘Octapushy’). After a couple of false starts, Wg Cdr Green was off, whooshing down the 1km (0.6 mile) tarmac straight, revving to a pre-agreed limit and triggering the parachutes at 180mph. The vehicle consumed a little over 2kg (4.4lb) of hydrogen during that day’s run and produced 18-litres of water as its only by-product.

Later in the week, the team would achieve 208mph, but it’s not about top speed for now. It’s about systems checks, gradual development and ironing out all the niggles. In Bonneville, which has 10 miles of straightaway, they’re looking to double that V-max.

‘It is an extraordinarily ambitious attempt,’ says Wg Cdr Green. ‘The chairman’s either completely mad or totally brilliant, but he’s willing to ride with that. And the rest of us are going, yeah, alright, we’ll give it our very best shot and see if we can make that happen. Based on what I’ve seen so far, we will.’

After Bonneville, the wing commander intends to hang up his helmet. It will be his final journey towards the record books and this national treasure will finally slow down to the national speed limit. ‘I’ll be 64 when I leave Bonneville this time and I think I’ll draw a line under it after this visit. I’ll say I’ve been very lucky to drive some very fast cars.’

I first came across a pair of Bavarian mountain hounds at Badminton Horse Trials. They were tucked beneath the counter of the Hiho Jewellery stand with rich chestnut coats, soulful eyes and slightly furrowed brows. Their markings were wonderfully distinctive.

Clem Ransford, their owner, says she can only bring them out when the customers have left: ‘They ask us more about the dogs than the jewellery!’ Clem and her husband first discovered the breed at Blair Atholl Horse Trials. They called their first puppy Minke, later breeding from her and keeping her daughter, Orca.

Today, Minke and Orca live with Clem and her family in West Dorset. Indoors, she laughs, they’re ‘more like dachshunds’, happiest buried beneath a blanket. It’s a far cry from the determined working hounds they become the moment they catch a scent. ‘They are not a dog, they are a hound,’ cautions Clem. ‘They make very good pets, but they are a working dog. When their noses go down, they are difficult to stop.’ However, despite being bred for the mountains of Bavaria, they’re curiously unimpressed by a wet English afternoon. ‘They hate the rain,’ says Clem. ‘They just want to be close to you.’

The breed originated in Germany during the late 19th century to track injured game through the mountains and, unlike many working breeds, have remained remarkably true to their original purpose.

Designed to work on steep slopes, they’re agile, athletic and built for difficult terrain. Clem jokes that they seem to have a ‘spring in their legs’, scrambling effortlessly across uneven ground. To call them scent hounds feels almost inadequate. Their noses are extraordinary. A Bavarian mountain hound can follow a scent that is up to 48 hours old, often over several miles and, perhaps most impressively, without becoming distracted by fresher scents that cross its path. They are occasionally utilised by the emergency services.

Perhaps their most remarkable quality, however, is their silence. When tracking, they do not bark continuously. Instead, they move quietly, only giving voice once they have located the injured animal.

There are thought to be around 1,000 Bavarian mountain hounds in the UK and the Royal Kennel Club records only 90 puppy registrations each year. With numbers that small, finding a well-bred puppy takes patience, and The Royal Kennel Club recommends breeders carry out a variety of best practice schemes and tests, including one for hip dysplasia, before proceeding. Prioritising genetic diversity and the fact that they’ve never been fashionable has also helped the breed to stay so true to its origins.

Would-be owners don’t need to live in a large house, but they will need a sizable garden with secure fencing. Consistent and patient training is a must, and they shouldn’t be left alone for too long — the dogs forms a deep attachment to their owners and can suffer from separation anxiety. The Bavarian mountain hound is not for everyone, but nor, one suspects, would it want to be.

Had you been invited to join James I and Anne of Denmark for the first royal performance of The Merchant of Venice in the Banqueting Hall of the Palace of Whitehall on the night of February 10, 1605, I am sure that on arrival you would have been struck by the smell (pitch from the torches, crushed strewing herbs and heavy perfumes) and the noise (gossiping courtiers, musicians tuning up their hautboys and viols).

However, what really would have caught your attention would have been the jewellery. The period between the mid 16th century (after Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries and confiscated their treasures) and the mid 17th century (when Charles I, the last of our kings to wear an earring, was executed) was a golden age for jewellery.

One visitor described its commercial epicentre, Cheapside, as the ‘most remarkable thing in London’, going on to say that its craftsmen offered more magnificent jewels than ‘in all the shops in Milan, Rome, Venice and Florence’.

Demand was so great that some of the most talented jewellers in Europe moved to England. Indeed, Henry VIII made Peter van der Wale, from Antwerp, the ‘King’s Jeweller’, and later Elizabeth I made John Spilman, a German, the ‘Queen’s Jueller’ — and the Jewel House in the Tower of London became the repository for unimaginable wealth.

Not that our nation’s passion for jewels was confined to royalty and the aristocracy. There were jewellers in every important town and city. Journeymen served the more rural areas and itinerant chapmen sold inexpensive pieces at the innumerable fairs.

The growing popularity of jewellery can partly be explained by the fact that the 16th century was a time of increased prosperity for the country and its rulers. Henry VIII and his court used jewels to reflect their status, but by the time of the first Stuart king, jewellery had become much more than an expression of power. It was given and received in exchange for (or in anticipation of) favours. It was used to declare love, mark significant events and commemorate the dead. It could signify a membership or act as a memento mori. Even the well educated believed that certain gems had the ability to protect, heal and attract good fortune. Above all else, jewellery was how those with a position in society expressed themselves.

So, it was not by chance that Shakespeare incorporated gems and jewels into many of his plots: The Merchant of Venice, of course, but also Cymbeline, All’s Well That Ends Well, Macbeth, Othello and Hamlet. Nor is it a coincidence that they are mentioned in almost every play or sonnet he ever wrote. He knew his audience — an audience in which the men wore as much, if not more, jewellery than the women.

To attend The Merchant of Venice, the King would almost certainly have sported one of his famous Hat Jewels, either the Mirror of Great Britain, which incorporated the 55.23-carat Sancy diamond (now in the Louvre) or the Three Brothers, three giant spinels (now lost).

He, and his male courtiers, would have been wearing gold and gemstone chains, pendants, bracelets, rings and brooches. Not to mention bejewelled accessories: hatbands, scent bottles, swords, sword belts, daggers, garters and watches. More than this, there would have been any number of diamonds and other coloured gemstones — rubies from Burma, spinels from Afghanistan, sapphires from Sri Lanka, emeralds from Colombia, garnets from Bohemia, turquoise from the Sinai Peninsula, opals from Hungary, pearls from the Persian Gulf — sewn into their clothes.

For Tudor and Jacobean men, according to historian Natasha Awais-Dean: ‘The entire body from head to toe acted as a site for the placing of jewels.’ Indeed, the Duke of Buckingham was described by a contemporary as being ‘manacled, fettered and imprisoned with pearls’. Earrings for men, if not universal, were not uncommon, as William Harrison, a clergyman, wrote: ‘Some lusty courtiers and gentlemen of courage do wear either rings of gold, stones or pearl in the ears.’ The Chandos portrait, believed to be the only painting of Shakespeare from life, shows him with a simple gold hoop in his left ear.

The Banqueting Hall, by the way, was not large enough to accommodate the court. Only a few weeks earlier, one attendee had written that there was such a crush: ‘It were infinite to tell you what losses there were of chains, jewels, purses and such like loose wear.’ A taste of what was to come.

The Reformation, Cromwell and the French Revolution each had the effect of reducing the amount of jewellery that Western men wore so that by 1800, according to J. C. Flügel, they had ‘abandoned their claim to be considered beautiful’. Happily, this sad state of affairs is now being corrected and, once again, male jewellery is back in fashion. Shakespeare would have approved.

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

Depending on how you measure it, Britain has somewhere between 7,000 and 11,000 miles of coastline (the exact figure is surprisingly hard to define with precision due to a curious phenomenon known as the coastline paradox).

That’s more than France, Italy, Spain or Denmark; amazingly, only the European coastlines of Norway and Greece are longer, and that’s largely because of all those never-ending islands.

With so much coast, it’s not really surprising there’s a smörgåsbord of places to dine along the seashore, from beachside cafés to old harbourfront pubs and Michelin-starred seafood bistros.

We’ve chosen 15 of our favourite eateries around the UK here; a mix of well-known and out-of-the-way. Some we’ve selected for their chefs or the quality of their produce, and others for their settings, with views of craggy cliffs, coves or harbours.

Argoe in Newlyn, Cornwall

Cornwall has no shortage of top seaside restaurants, but this little diner down in the rough-and-ready fishing port of Newlyn is a locals’ tip. It’s lodged in an old whitewashed fish-packing warehouse, opposite the harbour where dayboats land their catch, so the fish couldn’t get fresher, and chef Rich Adams keeps things simple, allowing the catch to speak for itself.

£££ | Mains £50-68

The Seahorse in Dartmouth, Devon

Devon has shoals of seaside restaurants, but the Seahorse in Dartmouth is a stalwart. Now run by Ben Tonks (son of Mitch, the original chef-patron, and Rockfish founder), it’s in a pink building overlooking the quay. Have a pre-dinner drink in Joe’s Bar, then sit down for whatever has flopped in from the Brixham Fish Market that day — perhaps a whole Dover sole, turbot or John Dory, with Italian-inspired flavours. At £35 for three courses, the lunch menu is great value.

££ | Three-course lunch menu, £35; dinner menu, £60

Sandro’s in Lyme Regis, Dorset

An under-the-radar find, run by the titular chef (full name Alessandro Strillozzi), who’s returned to his roots at the same premises his mum and dad ran two decades ago. Sandro’s CV includes River Cottage, the Gaff in Abergavenny and three years as head chef at The Walnut Tree Inn, so he knows his seafood stuff, and the menu showcases his Italian heritage. His partner Vicky runs front-of-house. The location in cobbled Lyme Regis is lovely, but there are only 16 covers, so bookings are essential.

££ | Mains £27-30

The Grain Store in Weybourne, Norfolk

Foodie pitstops abound along the Norfolk coast and this restaurant at the Maltings Hotel in Weybourne deserves a detour. The focus is on sharing — small plates of Brancaster Staithe smoked salmon, Malting’s fried chicken with coriander or a deliciously crispy asparagus, goat’s curd and black garlic tart. Alternatively, splash out on a platter of lobster tail, crab, oysters, rollmops, prawns and pickled cockles. The setting in an old flint barn, with exposed brick and steel beams, adds atmosphere.

££ | Three-course lunch menu, £33; mains £24-36

The Suffolk in Aldeburgh, Suffolk

There’s something quintessentially English about Aldeburgh, with its shingly beach, colourful houses and higgledy-piggledy streets: Benjamin Britten called it home for almost 30 years. The seafront Suffolk slots right in, serving classy seafood a pebble’s throw from the beach. Formerly a pub, it’s been prettied up with banquettes, parquet and willowy lampshades. Standout dishes: lobster and chips, herring on toast, smoked mackerel rillettes or a whole brill to share.

££ | Mains £22-26

Whitstable Oyster Company in Whitstable, Kent

Never mind Margate: for oysters, head east to Whitstable and snag a table at this red-brick beauty, which sheds its bivalves from the beds opposite. The oysters are the stars, of course — served plain with a dash of lemon, dressed up with wild garlic butter or black truffle, or spiced with chimichurri — or you could go for Kentish scallops or mussels, or a whole cracked crab. For drinks, try a local Gusbourne wine, or an ‘oyster shooter’ with bloody mary or black stout.

£££ | Mains £32-59

Beach House in Oxwich, Glamorgan

Hywel Griffith is a Welsh boy through and through — from Bethesda in Gwynedd — and his Michelin-starred restaurant beside Oxwich Bay champions the best his home nation has to offer: Gower saltmarsh lamb, Swansea Bay seafood, Middle White Pork from Myrddin Heritage in Carmarthenshire, biodynamic wines from Monmouth’s Ancre Hill Estate. His signature bara brith soufflé is a wonder. Also worth visiting is Lan Y Môr, Hywel’s new venture at Coppet Hall Beach in Saundersfoot, which he runs with Gerwyn ‘Gez’ Jones.

£££ | Three-course lunch menu, £78; six-course tasting menu, £122

The Potted Lobster in Abersoch, Pwllheli

This cute spot is just the ticket for a Welsh seaside lunch: simple, tasty seafood in Abersoch on the Llyn Peninsula. Tuck into big bowls of moules marinières, crispy calamari or the house special potted fish platter (lobster, shrimp, crab and crayfish): you can’t really go wrong here. On a sunny day, the front terrace almost has the feel of a Provençal bistro. There’s a second outpost in Bamburgh, Northumberland.

££ | Mains £12-30

Stark in East Mersea, Essex

With its six-course set menu, evening-only opening and resolute refusal to cater to dietary requirements, Ben Crittenden’s cultish restaurant on the Essex island of East Mersea won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s an experience to be savoured if you can put up with the strictures. It’s open for dinner from Wednesday to Sunday: check tide times if you’re driving, as the road to the mainland is sometimes submerged.

£££ | Six-course tasting menu, £100

Lury in Hastings, East Sussex

Hastings hasn’t quite got Brighton’s culinary cachet, but it’s getting there — as evidenced by Jack Lury’s lauded little restaurant, where the young chef explores his Sri Lankan heritage with a cheffy showcase of emulsions, powders, foams, gels, hits of subtle spice and sour notes. The space is tiny — a maximum of 10 covers — so it feels more like a chef’s table than a restaurant.

£££ | Tasting menu, £90-100

The Hut at Colwell Bay, Isle of Wight

Unless you’re a regular to the Isle of Wight, you might have missed this chilled cafe near Ventnor, but it’s popular with locals who come here for morning coffee, laid-back lunches and suppers, and late night cocktails. It caters for all eventualities: go big with a surf-and-turf to share, or stay small with a selection of taster plates for the table. The food here is unfussy, and in summer, the patio is the place to be.

££ | Mains £20-48

Riley’s Fish Shop in Tynemouth, Tyne & Wear

Adam Riley opened his original fish shack on King Edwards Bay a decade ago, and he’s now expanded with this upmarket fishmonger in Tynemouth village. The open counter is stocked with catch from the North Shields fish market, five minutes down the road, and you can watch the chefs at work, or pick up preparation tips while they make your lunch. By evening, the shop becomes a bit more like a bistro, and the menu gets a little fancier.

££ | Mains £20-40

Seafood Ristorante in St Andrews, Fife

Beach views don’t get better than here, a statement of glass-and-steel beside St Andrews Bay. It’s the chicest place for a seafood supper in town, and a favourite for graduation celebrations: Orkney Scallops, Shetland crab, Aberdeen smoked salmon, North Sea turbot. While it’s not cheap, the view is worth the price-tag on its own.

£££ | Lunch menu £50; dinner menu £105

The Pierhouse in Port Appin, Argyll

Hunkered on the banks of Loch Linnhe, framed by pine forest and the Morvern hills, the Pierhouse is one of the best small boutique hotels on the Scottish west coast. Its restaurant is a belter. Chef Michael Leathley is from Newcastle, but his food shines with Scottish flavours, whether it’s an Aberdeen Angus steak, langoustines, mussels and lobsters harvested from Loch Linnhe and Loch Etive, or oysters from Loch Creran. The whisky menu alone is four pages long.

££ | Mains £22-34

Cafe Canna on Isle of Canna, Inner Hebrides

This beachside restaurant requires a pilgrimage, on a Hebridean island a two-and-a-half-hour-long ferry ride from Mallaig. Spend an hour or two hiking round the seaweed-strewn shore, then head here for hearty, honest grub: big bowls of Arisaig mussels, Canna-caught crab langoustines served in baguettes, or homemade mackerel slathered on thick-cut toast. The CalMac ferry only runs five days a week.

£ | Mains £15-25

The surge in gold prices is prompting the melting down of vintage and luxury watches as the value of the component metal exceeds that of the timepiece.

At the time of writing (July 1), the value of gold per troy ounce is about £3,153, up from £1,842 in June 2024.

‘The increase in scrapping this year has been substantial,’ says Jon White, founder of Gold Traders in Wiltshire and manager of a local auction house, ‘particularly for mid-tier luxury watches not yet considered collectors’ items.’

Jon explains that a number of additional factors is driving people to the scrap heap over the salesroom: some strap designs are difficult and costly to adjust; the time it takes to value and sell on the second-hand market; the fact that dealers typic-ally offer about 30% below market value; and how readily available the model is.

Scrapping can prove more practical and may now yield a better sum. Meanwhile, for dealers, costs of servicing, operating and warranties required for resale make melting down more commercially viable.

Although top-tier investments (Patek Philippe is a sure bet) remain largely insulated, what could emerge is a tussle between the value of craftsmanship, sentimentality and fiscal expediency. ‘On the flipside,’ Jon says, ‘as the supply of particular models on the market reduces over time, one can assume the collectible value will increase. Still, it is awful to dismantle something of significance.’

It would be a stretch to call Chez Wong a restaurant. Situated in Puebla Nuevo, one of the less salubrious parts of Lima, the capital of Peru, it’s little more than a sitting room with a few random tables, hidden behind a nondescript door. There’s no menu, wine list or waiters, only chef proprietor Javier Wong, a small, brusque Chinese-Peruvian man, armed with knife and chopping board. Entry is strictly by reservation (no walk-ins here) and the place is only open for lunch.

Wong serves just two things. A stir fry, which is decent enough, and ceviche, raw fish ‘cooked’ in lime juice, the national dish of Peru and the real reason for my visit. His is said to be one of the best on Earth, and the dozens of awards and accolades that plaster the walls seem to wholeheartedly agree.

Freshness is everything: the alpha and omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. This is no place for frozen fish, nor specimens even a moment past their prime. Before the days of mass refrigeration, ceviche was not even traditionally eaten after lunch. Wong still goes to the market early every morning, choosing only the firmest, fleshiest and most bright-eyed of specimens.

Once back at Chez Wong, he gets to work, slicing red onion before filleting the fish (which are vast) with the precision of a neurosurgeon and cutting them into hearty chunks. Some cooked octopus is added, alongside a fistful of salt and a flurry of black pepper. Freshly squeezed lime juice next, rivers of the stuff. One good stir and the dish is ready to eat. Aji chillis, fierce and fruity, come chopped on a plate by its side.

Dear God it’s good, bracingly pure and startlingly clean, as if you’re supping on the very soul of the sole. This is high-octane eating at its finest, each mouthful a heady riot of citrus zing and chilli heat. The fish, however, is very much the star, its delicate, almost winsome texture in marked contrast to the muscular chew of the cephalopod. At the bottom of the bowl is a milky puddle of ‘leche de tigre’ (or tiger’s milk), containing the essence of the dish. It’s said to work wonders with hangovers. Wong’s ceviche may be minimalist, but it’s also a bona-fide masterpiece.

Lima is a magnificent place for those craving ceviche and you’ll find everything from the quick hit of the street-cart classic, guzzled on the hoof, to the elegantly heady highs of Maido, where Nikkei (or Peruvian-Japanese fusion, made famous by Nobu Matsuhisa) cuisine reaches its shimmering peak: ceviche served with dashi, ginger and shoyu, a masterclass in subtle restraint. You’ll also find tiraditos, a close relative, for which the fish is cut sashimi style, rather than cubed.

For those after something a little more baroque, there’s chef Gastón Acurio’s Criollo at La Mar in Miraflores, where flounder is tumbled with tiny shards of crisp calamari. And don’t miss the sole tiradito with sea urchin at El Mercado, dark and thrillingly dangerous.

Although the Peruvians may have perfected the dish, they didn’t necessarily invent it. Limes were only introduced by the Spanish conquistadors in the 15th and 16th centuries, meaning earlier versions used alternative acidic ingredients. Two millennia back, the Moche people of present-day Ecuador and Peru ‘cooked’ their fish in tumbo (or banana passion fruit) juice, whereas the Incas, a little later, used chicha, a fermented maize drink.

The Polynesians have their own cured-fish tradition, best seen in poisson cru, and I’ve eaten a dish called kinilaw in the Philippines, raw fish dipped in vinegar — very good it was, too. Yet every Latin American country with a Pacific coastline, from Mexico to Chile, Colombia to Ecuador, has its own take on ceviche and usually also claims it as its own.

One of the very finest I’ve ever eaten, up there with Wong’s, is at El Guero, a small and very famous seafood stand in Ensenada, Mexico. Its sea-urchin ceviche is served on a crisp tostada and will blow your mind. Everything else is pretty magnificent, too. You’ll also find agua-chile, or ‘chilli water’ across Mexico, a close cousin to ceviche, where raw prawns meet lime juice, onions, avocado and chilte-pín chillis for a dish with both kick and bite.

As for the fish, I prefer firm white flesh to the oily varieties, usually bream, bass or sole, although trout and tuna work, too, alongside clams, octopus, prawn and lobster. Do feel free to add whatever you want, from tomatoes and coriander, to deep-fried onion and cucumber. Simply seek out the very freshest fish and never leave it in the lime juice for more than 15 minutes. Too long and the fish firms up, becoming tough, woolly and dull — which is, of course, to totally and utterly miss the whole damned point.

Classic ceviche

Like Chef Wong’s recipe, this is the most simple of ceviches. Add chillis to taste. It’s hard to get hold of Peruvian aji over here, so substitute either three jalapeños (not too hot) or one scotch bonnet (fierce and fruity). Traditionally served with boiled corn — Peru has more than 50 varieties — and sweet potato, you can also use tortilla chips or tostadas.

Ingredients

Serves 4

1kg sole, bream or any other white fish, filleted, skinned and pin-boned

Juice of two fat juicy limes

3 jalapeño chillis, or 1 habanero, finely chopped (remove seeds and white for less heat)

1 red onion, finely sliced

Big pinch of sea salt

Big handful of chopped coriander

4 soft tortillas, fried until crisp (optional), to serve

Method

Slice the fish into long strips, then cut into 2cm (1in) dice.

Put in a bowl, mix with the lime juice and leave for 5–10 minutes.

Gently mix the chillis, onion and coriander, as well as the salt.

Serve alone or with fried tortillas

How does one assess a car that costs more than most people pay for their house? After slightly more than 24 hours and 350 miles in an Aston Martin V8 Volante, I am not sure. List price of the Volante is a formidable £68,500, but the cost of the car I drove, equipped with the most powerful Vantage version of the Aston V8, would be well over £70,000.

Prices of the Aston Martin range start at £55,000 for the V8 Saloon, now equipped with a fuel-injected version of the 5.3-litre V8 engine, developing 305bhp. Next comes the V8 Vantage, claimed by Aston Martin to be the world's fastest production car, at £59,500. This is a faster version of the Saloon, with power bulge on the bonnet to make room for the four twin-choke Weber carburettors, plus flared wheel arches to accommodate the huge Pirelli P7 275/55 VR15 tyres. Options on these two cars are few, but cruise control (on the automatic only) — the Saloon is offered with a choice of three-speed automatic or five-speed manual; the Vantage is manual only — will set you back a further £429, and electric sliding sunroof a massive £1,993.

If your enthusiasm for open-air motoring extends beyond wanting a sliding sunroof, then the Volante convertible is for you. Most expensive of the Aston Martin range is the Lagonda V8 Automatic Saloon (£79,500).

With prices like this, Aston Martin does not expect to sell many cars. Current production at the Newport Pagnell works is about 200 vehicles a year, of which around 90 are sold in America, perhaps 45 in Britain, and the remainder in Europe and the Middle East.

Natural competitors to the Aston Martin range are few in number. Prices of Porsche's V8-engined 928 start at a modest £38,519, but the mass-produced Porsche does not have any of the Aston's traditional handmade appeal, even if its ability as a grand touring car far exceeds that of the Aston. There is, of course, the Ferrari Testarossa (£62,666), powered by a superb flat-12 engine, and almost certainly faster than the Aston Vantage, regardless of the British company's claims, but the Testarossa has an eye-catching vulgarity that the Aston Martin totally lacks.

No, it is probably best to think of Aston Martin as a sporting alternative to Rolls-Royce. Both marques have similar pedigrees, and are built to the same exacting, old-fashioned standards, with a surfeit of hide and lacquered walnut trim. And compared with the £92,995 the company from Crewe charges for the Corniche convertible, the Aston Martin looks to be something of a bargain.

I climbed straight into the Aston after several hundred miles in Ford's inspiring Granada Scorpio 4x4, which fairly bristles with modern technology. It was like stepping back 20 years, for the Aston has changed very little since it was launched in the late 1960s. One had to admire the elegance of the English burr-walnut dashboard, the superb leather trim (even the top of the dashboard is finished in stitched hide), the old-fashioned but still pleasing instrumentation. Ergonomic logicality is sadly lacking, especially when compared with the Ford. The switches for the electric windows are in the middle of the dashboard, not in the doors; the intermittent windscreen wipe is a knob next to the radio, not incorporated in the main control for the wipers (a stalk to the right of the wheel), and even the indicators are a very long finger-stretch from the leather-bound wheel.

Starting the latest fuel-injected cars is simple, but there is a technique to master with the carburettored cars. First you select which of the four keys you need for the ignition — why four keys when most manufacturers make do with one? — then you must prime the carbs with a few deep prods of the accelerator pedal. Then turn the key and, hopefully, that mighty V8 will roar into life with a note that echoes Le Mans, and sends a tingle down the spine. There is a manual choke, but no reason to use it. Release the fly-off handbrake and you are ready to go.

The manual cars, such as the Volante I drove, are fitted with a ZF gearbox, noted for its massive strength more than the purity of its gearchange. First is a dog-leg down to the left, and opposite reverse, with the remaining four gears in the usual H-pattern. Spring loading moves the lever towards second and third gears, making this a much easier box to use than first impressions suggest. However, operating the clutch takes a strong left leg, and an equally powerful right leg is needed for the brake, for hauling this hefty car, weighing not far short of two tons, to a halt takes some effort even with servo-assisted ventilated discs front and rear.

In keeping with the rest of the controls, the steering is also relatively heavy, despite power assistance, but it retains plenty of feel and has only 2.9 turns from lock to lock. The turning circle is a cumbersome 38ft. Those huge tyres give tremendous grip in the dry, but in the wet more caution is needed: I had the back end break away while climbing a slippery but very steep hill, requiring a quick dab of corrective lock. With much of my mileage on wet roads, I was not brave enough to test Aston's claims for the car's roadholding, but I will quote the brochure: 'Through corners the handling is superb. And at a level of centrifugal forces that only a few near-racing designs can match.' But such a large and heavy car cannot hope to match the agility of, say, a Porsche 911 or Lotus Esprit, however skilled the driver.

Performance is formidable, that great V8 thrusting the car forward with amazing force when you consider not only the car's weight, but also its blunt design. Aston Martin very wisely does not give a Cd figure [drag coefficient] for the car. The company quotes a 0–60 mph time of 5.2 seconds for the hard-top Vantage, and the car I drove was probably not much slower. But I did not feel that quick; large cars never do. Top speed is well over 160 mph, while a mere 90 mph feels more like a gentle canter. The penalty for all this performance comes in the fuel consumption, which can drop as low as 10 mpg if driven with a heavy right foot, but will improve to around 15 or 16 mpg when touring.

Despite the vagaries of the English climate in early April, I tried some open-top motoring. First release the two catches which fasten the hood to the top of the windscreen, then press the power switch, and suddenly you have a convertible car. That at least is the theory, but for some reason the power-hood operation did not work on my car. I pushed it back by hand instead, which took some strength but no skill, the hood folding perfectly into its deep well.

The car's personality was transformed in an instant, and it attracted admiring glances that it never received with the hood up (or was it simply the pedestrians' reaction to seeing an open-top car on a chilly early April day?). Anyway, the Volante is at its best when open to the world, and even when driving down the Old Kent Road or up the M11, I could pretend that I was in the South of France, or California perhaps. A reminder that the car is probably better suited to those climes was the lack of heating my feet. Air conditioning is standard, but for a convertible car in Britain a powerful heater is rather more useful, while for hood-up motoring fresh-air ventilation and hot feet would be nice to have.

Looked at dispassionately, the Aston is an ageing heavyweight, well past its best. Such modern innovations as anti-lock brakes, even headlamp washers, are not available, and despite the current glut of oil on the world market I still feel that a car with a thirst as great as this is anti-social. On the other hand the Aston Martin is one of the last of an almost extinct breed: the traditional British sports car. The quality of its construction is simply superb, the paintwork a pleasure to look at. It may be an anachronism, but it is a glorious one.

In 1947, Princess Elizabeth embarked on her Hampshire honeymoon with a trio of companions: her new husband, Susan the corgi and a selection of brown suitcases she continued to use, personalised later with a monogram reading ‘THE QUEEN’.

The cases were from Globe-Trotter, established by David Nelken in 1897 to provide luggage built to last.

It was the adoption of vulcanised fibreboard that earned the suitcases an early reputation. A remarkably strong yet lightweight material, it was invented in 1859 and is made by bonding paper, cotton and wood pulp, then compressing them into sheets (the exact formula, patented by Globe-Trotter in 1902, is a closely guarded secret).

A single sheet of fibreboard is used per case, hand-moulded and still shaped on Victorian-era machinery in a process that takes 10 days.

How did the company demonstrate its strength? By standing an elephant on a cabin trunk and using the image for the 1912–13 catalogue, of course.

Today, the leather used for the distinctive corners and straps are supplied exclusively by British tanneries and no more than 200 suitcases are crafted in the Hertfordshire factory each week.

The are several Globe-Trotter fans in the Country Life team — fitting given that the luggage brand and magazine were founded in the same year. 'I have been to the factory where they're [the cases] made and it is extraordinary,' says Editor-in-Chief Mark Hedges. 'There are these wonderful old bits of machinery that are still used, alongside more modern ones. One of the most fascinating things was them repairing very old cases.'

Country Life contributor Christopher Wallace has spent the last two years travelling the world, living out of his Globe-Trotter case: 'I've actually just put it to rest. I kept it going for as long as I could and I've never had more compliments on anything in my life. It's been dinged by elephants, it's fallen off safari trucks, it's traversed five continents: Africa top to bottom; South America; China east to west. It was part of my life, and I was very sad to let it go.'

'People become emotionally attached to a suitcase,' says Mark, 'because they've been away or on holiday with it — it's been with them in all of their happier moments.'

Elephants were not the only test. In 1912, Captain Robert Falcon Scott packed a Globe-Trotter case for his Terra Nova expedition to the Antarctic and Sir Winston Churchill faced Whitehall as Chancellor of the Exchequer in 1924 with a Dispatch Case in hand. 'When I was there [in the factory],' says Mark, 'they were repairing Brad Pitt's set of cases — at least I'm 95% sure it was Brad Pitts'...'

This unparalleled rolodex of customers is one of the reasons Christopher wanted a Globe-Trotter in the first place. 'I wanted mine to have a little bit of the Golden Age of travel and some of the Poirot elements in it. I wanted the suitcase I saw as a kid in the old ads for Cunard. The kind of luggage you'd put a sticker on from the Carlton in Cannes.'

In 1900, the company introduced navy-blue luggage — a radical departure from the ubiquitous brown of the era. Last year, they marked the 60th anniversary of the 1965 James Bond film Thunderball with a limited-edition Globe-Trotter x 007 bag. Only 60 were made available, in navy with leather trim with internal artwork by the late Robert McGinnis, the brains behind many of the franchise's famous posters.

Today, more than 30 colour options are available, including a candy pink that's part of an ongoing and successful collaboration with Snoopy, Woodstock and the PEANUTS gang.

Cases from £1,195. Visit the Globe-Trotter website to view the whole range.

This feature originally appeared in the July 8, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Britain's Protestant work ethic is said to be many things: strong, stoic and evidence of our superiority over the Continent. The Government is betting big on growth, City bosses ask that employees show up to the office five days a week and the latter pat themselves on the back as southern Europe takes all of August off. Yet this mindset is not without its pitfalls. Britain’s burnout rate, for instance, is one of the highest in the world, while the pursuit of profit margins has pushed many to cut corners. New-builds, a flashpoint of the Labour administration, are frequently lambasted for being low quality. Not for nothing, a class-action lawsuit was brought against our biggest house builders two weeks ago.

The problem with a society that mistakes growth for an end goal is its failure to recognise that growth is only worth pursuing for the progress it hopes to engender. This could mean better housing, cleaner air or greater biodiversity. It’s no mistake that these improvements mostly concern the environment: against the faux outrage surrounding Andy Burnham’s push for devolution, most private conversations (at home or, indeed, in Westminster) have focused instead on the climate, from the impact of reindustrialisation (one of his key pledges) to that of rearmament.

Yet the environment is mostly absent from the new PM's manifesto. The green energy policies that he pursued as Mayor of Greater Manchester — and hopes to scale as part of a northerly boost — are discussed only in the context of job creation. The debate over whether to allow new drilling licences in the North Sea rages on.

This, to the European mind, is absurd. Britain is a leader in the field of small modular reactors (experts believe these could solve both capacity and ecological issues raised by data mining) and our 11,073 miles of coastline, per the Ordnance Survey, are the envy of larger nations who dream of having our wind power. Calling net-zero targets into question is a fallacy when Italy offers tax breaks to those upgrading their home heating systems. It is hard to find another explanation for further drilling than pure old-fashioned greed: a pitfall of our Protestant work ethic rewarding immediate results over playing the long game. Weaning ourselves of Russian gas is, of course, desirable; yet weaning ourselves of fossil fuels altogether is, surely, even more so.

We love to lampoon the French, in particular, for what we perceive as idleness. Yet their love of the durable (they shifted to nuclear energy in the 1970s) and of doing things well is more popular than we care to admit. Paris, where a military parade and flypast will mark tomorrow's Bastille Day, remains the world’s most visited city. The French national football team could well win the World Cup for a second time in eight years. Their biodiversity and rewilding efforts (not flawless, but bolder and more intrepid than ours) should be emulated.

We could only dream of such accolades. Taking August off may be the place to start.

This feature originally appeared in the July 8, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Nobody bats an eyelid, but a real-life pirate has just sat down next to me at the Big Sur River Inn — all that’s missing is a hook hand and a parrot perched on his shoulder. Perhaps the nonchalance is because this famous stretch of Californian coastline was once the epicentre of American counterculture, where anything goes.

An artistic retreat that became a hippy haven, spiritual seekers trekked here from afar to enjoy pot-fuelled, New Age mysticism in all its nascent glory. On this stretch of Highway 1 north of Los Angeles, they found free love in the woods, embracing a hedonistic lifestyle that shunned material possessions — and clothing.

Once associated with beatniks like the controversial writer Henry Miller, 60 years on, there remains more than a whiff of commune culture among the Big Sur’s giant redwoods. It carries on the ocean breeze and is deeply infused in the fabric of every bar and cafe.

Later repackaged as one of the world’s most iconic driving routes, this section of the Pacific Coast Highway has just re-opened again after a three-year shutdown. Rockslides caused by heavy rain had forced the longest closure in history, cutting off an epic slice of Americana that I’ve longed to travel.

Although demand for tie-dyed shirts and head beads was non-existent when I was a teenager, I did once own a 1960s VW camper with a genuine psychedelic vibe. However, today I’m happily singing along to soft rock on California’s Road Trip Radio, cruising Highway 1 in a Bentley Continental GT that would outrage any self-respecting hippy.

It’s the convertible GTC Azure model too, in a rather groovy shade of damson, with a white-leather cabin and outsize 22-inch alloys. Not much counterculture about a prestigious Bentley, especially one costing upwards of £300,000. Perhaps I’ll be mistaken for an aged hippy-made-good, or a Silicon Valley ‘tech bro’, investing his millions to live off-grid on the coast.

My father used to say that ‘Bentley’s are for gents, Rollers are for parollers’. Fact is, the latest Continental GT is nothing like the original Continental models he would have coveted back in the 1950s. This is Bentley’s first-ever hybrid convertible and it’s most frugal, capable of 27mpg and yet still able to glide from 0-60mph in just 3.8 seconds.

It certainly demands attention as I pull up at the Post Ranch Inn, an ultra-luxury, cliff-top resort perched 1,200ft about the Pacific. Anne Hathaway married here, while Drew Barrymore and Will Kopelman also honeymooned in splendid isolation.

As the property focuses on high-end sustainability, the Bentley stands out in a parking lot of gas-guzzling American SUVs. A plug-in grand tourer, it mates a 4.0-litre V8 petrol engine to a battery pack, powering the GT for some 50 miles purely on electricity alone. As more than 75% of Big Sur residents live off grid, surely a hybrid will curry some eco-favour with the locals?

My Azure model is also the ultimate choice for a well-heeled, Big Sur hipster — one who prefers wellness and serenity over raw performance. While the GT’s faster Speed variant focuses on power, the 671bhp Azure is designed to be a sanctuary on wheels, removing the stress of travel through some extra comfort features applied as standard.

Like what? Well, you can hire a retro VW microbus to tour Highway 1, but a 22-way adjustable seat, heated and cooled, with a six-setting massage function sounds very tempting to my derriere. The advanced air conditioning system is said to filter out harmful particles, monitoring CO2 levels in the cabin to help maintain driver alertness.

Not that I need much to keep me wide-eyed on the Big Sur. The Santa Lucia Mountains meet the Pacific here in a dramatic, vertical dance. By mid-afternoon, a bank of apocalyptic fog often edges in from the sea, adding a further layer of mystical surrealism to an already dramatic vista.

Electric roof folded away, I can sense the salty air shift to a cool, damp earthiness as the Bentley turns slightly inland toward Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. The coastal redwoods — some of the tallest living things on earth — tower above and create a natural cathedral of pine-infused loveliness.

Traffic is slow, but the view of McWay Falls — an 80ft silver ribbon of water cascading directly onto a pristine, inaccessible beach — is the kind of beauty that makes you forget to breathe.

Highway 1 was cut along the cliffs between 1921 and 1937. The difficult coastal route often used convict labour and was faced with endless construction headaches. Projects like Bixby Creek Bridge forced building work to halt several times due to the spiralling build costs.

Often closed by epic landslides, patched and potholed tarmac clearly show the continuing battle between man and nature. With rockfalls commonplace, giant metal nets now help to hold the mountains at bay, suggesting it is only a matter of time before the road is swept away once again.

To cope with such surfaces, the Azure is equipped with Bentley Dynamic Ride, a sophisticated suspension system that keeps body roll to a minimum. And you need it on the Big Sur, where the road often twists and turns like an angry rattlesnake.

And while a Continental GT convertible lacks the sharp, raucous edge of an Aston Martin DB12 Volante or a Ferrari Roma Spider, it counters with a level of effortless capability and interior opulence. Together, this glorious Bentley is unmatched in the luxury convertible segment.

Back at the Post Ranch, my head is in the clouds — literally. Some 1,200ft above the Pacific Ocean, the high-altitude location means that diners in the Sierra Mar restaurant often get to look down on the clouds.

Like the open-roof Bentley, the resort offers splendid waftability. Drift from a sumptuous cabin to a heated basking pool, ogle the night sky on a stargazing experience, or simply sit back and enjoy the serenity of it all.

Suitably inspired, the following morning, I drive down to the resort’s Yoga Yurt, where I’m joined for an uplifting hour of body-cleansing by fellow travellers, Noah and Sidney. Catching the spirit of the Big Sur, he’s wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt and she a pair of flared Spandex trousers that happen to match her blue hair.

The couple are checked in for a honeymoon weekend, having just tied the knot at the nearby Big Sur River Inn. I stop short of recounting my supper encounter with Captain Hook when Noah suddenly reveals they opted for a pirate-themed wedding — Sidney dressed as a mermaid and he in full buccaneer garb.

The doubloon suddenly drops as Noah offers to show me the handmade galleon he drove down from San Francisco for the ceremony inside a U-Haul truck. The USA may be missing some peace and love in recent times, but that unconventional hippy spirit obviously lives on along the Big Sur.

Visit the Post Ranch Inn at postranchinn.com, or find out more about the Big Sur at seemonterey.com.

‘I was working from home recently with Penny asleep at my feet. I popped into the kitchen to fetch a coffee and a biscuit, only to return a few minutes later to find Penny very much awake and standing on my desk,' says Alexander Atkins. 'They’re full of surprises and never cease to entertain.'

Penny is Alexander's four-year-old Gordon setter. Annabel Brook, who has owned two Gordons, agrees: ‘You’ll never have a dull moment as a Gordon owner’.

Not familiar with the breed? You’re not alone. This distinctive dog, known for its striking, sleek black and tan coat, is recognised by The Royal Kennel Club as a vulnerable native breed, with annual registrations below 300 puppies. Only 93 litters were registered in 2025, a 52% decline from 2024.

The Gordon owners I spoke to were fiercely supportive of the breed, exalting its merits as the perfect family dog for those with the space and time to provide exercise (at least two hours a day) and stimulation. And it seems this isn’t classic owner bias speaking: the Gordon really does seem to be an ideal family dog provided its energy needs can be met. ‘They are so conscientious and aware of others that they effortlessly embed themselves as part of the family. They’re fiercely loyal pack animals and absolutely adore their owners’, says Alexander, who was persuaded of the virtues of the Gordon after previously owning an Irish setter.

For anyone seeking companionship and affection, the Gordon fits the bill and more. ‘We went camping once only to wake up to find Islah between my husband and I with her head on our pillow,' says Annabel. Islah was subsequently barred from a luxury kennel after refusing to sleep anywhere other than beside the kennel’s owner.

Given their endearing loving nature (‘Fraser is a total tart’ were Alexander's exact words about his other Gordon), why the current lack of popularity? The answer lies in the breed’s origins as a working dog. It was originally developed by the 4^th Duke of Gordon at Gordon Castle in Scotland in the second half of the 18^th century. And much like clothes or architecture, dog breeds act as a barometer for the environments in which our ancestors lived. They are a product of their times.

The Gordon was bred for hunting grouse and pheasant, and in a time where game shooting was carried out by walking up, they thrived. Indeed, ‘the breed holds a special place in Royal Kennel Club history as a foundation breed, having been recognised when the Kennel Club was established in 1873’, a spokesperson for the Club tells me. Queen Victoria reportedly had a Gordon called Bony.

‘But game shooting has gone from walking up to driven shooting now, which the Gordon isn’t needed for’, Charlie Thorburn, owner of Mordor Gundogs, explains. Charlie founded his Perthshire training school in 2003 with a focus on training family dogs that also work in the shooting field.

Because Gordons haven’t been used for the original purpose for which they were bred for years, the breed’s genetics have shifted. ‘If you’re not working a dog, you can’t breed them for working ability because you can’t select the ones that are good at working’, explains Charlie. As a result, you’re unlikely to see a Gordon in the field. ‘I’ve trained about half a dozen Gordons, but none of them to a shooting level, more just getting them to be a bit more obedient — they’re pretty stubborn,' says Charlie.

But rather than relegating the breed to obsolescence, it seems the way forward is more about redefining the Gordon’s purpose as a dog for the active, outdoor-driven family. (I can’t help but think of the Gordon as the dog world’s equivalent of the person whose job has recently been replaced by AI). ‘Loyal, goofy, funny, kind and just adorable’, raves Annabel, whose current Gordon is a 10-year-old called Aggie. (Some Disney fans claim Goofy himself was modelled after a Gordon setter).

‘We used to do Cannicross when she was younger and we got a Parkrun PB together,' says Annabel.

One modern conundrum the Gordon hasn’t quite turned its chameleonic capabilities to yet? White jeans and cream sofas. No doubt the 4^th Duke of Gordon didn’t have this problem in the 1700s. ‘The price you pay for their love and affection is muddy trousers and dirty furniture,' says Alexander. A small price very much worth it, it would seem.

When one British nobleman wanted to propose to his girlfriend and it was clear that no ordinary diamond would do, he turned to Karine Zacharias of KZACHARIAS, formerly of Gem Trails. ‘The bride said that, if she ever got married, she wanted an 18th-century, pear-shaped diamond from the Golconda mine. It was a very particular and exclusive piece,’ explains Karine.

Eight months and €800,000 later, the five-carat diamond was acquired through her network of Indian contacts, gathered when she was living in Jaipur. (The girlfriend said yes.)

Karine is one of a number of jewellery detectives using an extensive network to replace a loved piece that has been lost or stolen (although finding the exact item is another matter). Another common request is furnishing a nostalgic ancestor with a beautiful piece similar to one that their grandmother once owned.

Lee Siegelson in New York shares this enthusiasm for sleuthing: ‘I had someone request a specific Cartier bangle owned by the Duchess of Windsor. I knew where it was and I was able to get it quickly and offer it to the client, who purchased it and was thrilled.’

Each request is different and Lee keeps track of who owns important pieces wherever possible: ‘The ideal scenario is when someone asks for something and I already know where it is — or I already own it.’

He relies mostly on phone calls and his established and trusted contacts. ‘The big reveal is exciting, when you’ve managed to acquire the right object, but the behind-the-scenes detective work might appear boring to observers.’

Fuelling the market for jewellery sleuths is a surge in interest in Art Deco pieces and signed works by the likes of Suzanne Belperron, Louis Comfort for Tiffany and Andrew Grima. Tutti Frutti by Cartier is in hot demand and there’s a surprising resurgence in brooches.

Another sleuth who thrills in the chase is Guy Burton of St James Street jewellery emporium Hancocks, who also helps with replacing pieces that have been stolen. ‘The reality is that the likelihood of finding the exact same jewel is very slim and expectations need to be managed from the start,’ he reflects. ‘Pictures of the original pieces are absolutely essential, so we always recommend keeping good records of your jewellery collection. An important place to consider starting with is the Art Loss Register and we would be able to do research through our international sources to see if the item is on the market.’

If the original can’t be found, Guy is likely to be able to locate something similar. Auction houses are another good source. Don’t discount smaller ones, such as the well-respected Chiswick Auctions and Fellows in Birmingham, but the big three are, of course, Sotheby’s, Christie’s and Bonhams, especially when it comes to tracking down standout gemstones.

‘I have a very important private client who collects top-quality gemstones,’ says Mei Y, the then director of private sales (jewellery) at Christie’s. ‘She wanted a pair of very rare yellow Zimmi diamonds. We found them for her in Switzerland by trawling through cutters and manufacturers and set them into ear studs.’

Kristian Spofforth, head of Sotheby’s London jewellery sales, is often tasked with trying to trace or replace a stolen piece. ‘It can be really hard if the piece is very old, as, sadly, people give descriptions, not records,’ he explains. ‘If it’s from a large jewellery house, such as Van Cleef & Arpels, we can contact the company and say Mr X bought this in 1942. Its archive department is often able to help.’

When the search proves successful, however, the rewards are rich. ‘When the client says “that is exactly like my grandmother’s, it’s what I’ve been looking for”, it’s really satisfying,’ concludes Kristian.

There's a Bordeaux rule of thumb that years ending in five turn out great. This is by no means infallible: 1965 was one of the most disastrous vintages of the late 20th century. However, when you consider the legendary 1945, then add 1975 (uneven, but classic in parts), 1985 (precocious and lovely), 1995 (firm and fine), 2005 (magnificent across the board) and 2015 (ripe and forward), the theory, which has no scientific basis, seems worth entertaining.

What’s in no doubt is that 2025 is another very fine ‘five’ vintage in Bordeaux. Could it be even more than that — a vintage that for once, and for its own special and unique reasons, justifies the torrents of hype that gush out from wine merchants some six months after the harvest, as they send out their en primeur offers for wines that are still in barrel and will be bottled in the spring or summer of 2027?

The en primeur system has not had a good press in recent years. The case against it is pretty compelling: this seems to be a system that favours the seller (the châteaux) more than the buyer. For the châteaux, there’s an obvious attraction in getting money up front for a wine that’s a long way off being ready to drink or even bottled. For the consumer, there is a number of risks: for a start, the development of very young wines is always somewhat unpredictable. Wines that present attractively in extreme youth may go into their shells and never quite emerge, as with 1928 and 1975.

Secondly, how can you be sure the sample that you (or your merchant) taste is an honest reflection of the final bottled blend, rather than a particularly well- favoured component? Thirdly, there is always the risk that the merchant you buy from may go out of business, leaving you with a problematic claim on some of the contents of a barrel. Fourthly, and probably most importantly, you may find that you can acquire exactly the same wine, at a lower or not higher price, several years down the line, as has occurred with recent good, but large vintages, such as 2019, 2020 and 2022. Your en primeur purchase could turn out to be the opposite of a bargain.

Why, in this case, therefore, is your wine correspondent proposing a reverse ferret? There are a number of reasons. To answer the question about whether the vintage is truly special, a recent tasting of 2025s in London convinced me that this latest ‘Bordeaux 5’ is exceptional. To put it less formally, I fell in love with the vintage. I can’t remember a year that had quite these qualities: a sort of delectable spring in the step combined with ripeness, a perfect dancing balance.

What is special about the 2025 vintage is the combination of great ripeness — this was one of the hottest summers of recent times — with finesse. Alcohol levels are lower than in some recent warm vintages — often about 13.5%, as opposed to 14% or 14.5%. Although there was extreme heat in August, with 10 days above 35˚C, nights were quite cool and the rain that came in September was generally (if not universally) welcome. Yields were also low, in some cases dramatically so. This evokes comparison with 1961, that greatest of all vintages, and also the thought that these wines will not be as easy to come by in the future as those from bigger vintages.

This is a Mozart, not a Beethoven vintage. The wines are already attractive; tannins on the whole are not massive and forbidding. For the mature en primeur purchaser, there is hope that these wines will be ready to imbibe before the hopeful drinker passes the point of no return. Finally, in a time of such global gloom, a beautiful vintage surely gives cause for innocent celebration and enjoyment. My favourite poet Horace, who enjoined us to savour the day, would surely have given the thumbs-up.

This feature originally appeared in the June 24, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

It is always a pity to sully the pleasures of collecting watches with the taint of filthy lucre, but the soaring value of a certain model of wristwatch can function as a helpful barometer of shifting tastes.

Five years ago, one result in particular sent the mercury shooting up the scale to command the attention of the market. Trophy models by Patek Philippe and Rolex frequently fetch six- and seven-figure sums, but, on November 10, 2021, after fierce bidding, a Cartier Crash watch from 1970 quadrupled its low estimate of 200,000 Swiss francs to sell for 806,500 Swiss francs.

It was an astonishing result, made all the more remarkable because included in the sale was an insurance valuation for the watch from 1997 that valued the watch at £40,000.

The Cartier Crash was invented in the London branch of the famous jeweller in the late 1960s. Until they were reunited in the 1970s, Cartier’s three main boutiques, in Paris, London, and New York, were separately owned by different members of the family and were known for producing their own distinct styles of products.

For instance, for much of the first half of the 20th century, the London branch conducted a brisk, sometimes roaring trade in tiaras, because they were still required for Court occasions, coming-out balls and so on.

But, by the 1960s, London Society had changed: King’s Road fashions rather than Queen Charlotte’s ball dictated tastes and Cartier reflected this shift in the centre of social gravity, offering groovy designs with strange shaped cases and bold dials with large Roman numerals.

Of these far-out creations, none was further out than the Crash. The name referred to the watch’s creation myth that a timepiece damaged by a car crash had been brought in for repair. Everything about the watch was, to use a technical term, wonky: the case asymmetrical, the buckle twisted off centre, even the concealed lugs, invisible when the watch was on the wrist, were at crazy angles. It was so strange that even Cartier was unsure about issuing it, as I was told some years ago by Dennis Gardiner, a veteran designer of Cartier London, who started work in 1947.

‘Mr Emmerson [Mr Gardiner’s colleague and co-designer] was a great designer and I think there was a little bit of the Salvador Dalí in the Crash. Mr Cartier would not make it at first. He said it was too much like Carnaby Street of those days, but the first one sold immediately and they became a cherished item.’

Even so, they were too avant-garde for many traditional Cartier customers. Stewart Granger bought one, but returned after a week to exchange it for something more conventional. Such was their complexity of manufacture that only about a dozen were made in London in the late 1960s and early 1970s and a couple more on very special order during the 1990s.

London Crashes are true grail watches, but even more common, later examples made in larger numbers by Cartier Paris are increasingly sought after. In the 21st century, the design has been revisited and reinterpreted, including this year, with the release of the Cartier Privé Crash Skeleton in platinum. The collector's item first received a skeletonised dial treatment in 2015, nearly 50 years after the watch's debut, but the 2026 itineration marks the introduction of a new movement, designed to fit and follow the warped case.

However, although it may be the most spectacular of shaped case watches, the Crash is far from being the sole non-round wristwatch to find popularity in recent years. Nor is the shaped case a new thing: indeed, it is as old as the wristwatch.

In 1810, the Queen of Naples commissioned a watch from Breguet that is believed by some to be the first wristwatch. Known as No 2639, it took 2½ years to make. Emmanuel Breguet, the current historian of the Breguet brand, describes it as 'of revolutionary construction and unprecedented sophistication, consisting of a repeating watch with additional refinements, oblong and exceptionally slender with a wristlet made of hair intertwined with gold thread’.

Although this watch is commemorated by the Breguet brand today with a distinctive, egg-like oval watch for women, it would be another century before the wristwatch began to be taken seriously.

As the 19th century drew to a close, the practicality of the wristwatch for active men began to be appreciated: during the Battle of Omdurman in 1898, British soldiers wore pocket watches in cup-like wristbands. Yet even during the early decades of the 20th century the jury was still out as to whether watches should be worn in the waistcoat pocket or on the wrist and many wristlet watches, as they were called, continued to be made from converted pocket watches or ladies pendant watches.

It was in order to stress their modernity that designers of purpose-built, rather than converted, wristwatches chose non-round designs. In this, Louis Cartier was a leader, making the small, square Santos wristwatch for the eponymous Brazilian-born aviator, who was a frequent sight in the skies above Belle Epoque Paris, scooting about in his powered airships.

The Santos set a precedent and, emboldened by its success, even more esoteric models were launched including Tonneau, which found favour with the ultra-modern composer Stravinsky; the tortoise-shaped Tortue; the bell-shaped Cloche; and, of course, the Tank with its numerous derivatives. These watches are spectacular to look at and, after many years in the shadows, Cartier has once again reissued many of its quirkier watches to be worn by both women and — since the trend for oversize watches has receded — men.

Cartier was not alone in adopting non-round shapes to differentiate its early wristwatch production. At roughly the same time, Patek Philippe was supplying the Brazilian jeweller Gondolo with tonneau and rectangular watches shaped to follow the curve of the wrist — so significant were these watches that, even to this day at Patek, a non-round watch is called a Gondolo.

At Vacheron Constantin, between 1919 and 1921, a cushion-cased wristwatch was created for the American market. It was made truly different by the presence of the winding crown at the top right-hand corner of the case, roughly where one would expect to see half-past one. In 2021, the watch was revived, to appeal to 21st-century tastes.

This year is the 95th anniversary of one of the most famous of non-round watches, the Jaeger LeCoultre Reverso, a watch that, as its name suggests, can be turned over on the wrist. This innovation was conceived to protect the watch glass, the most fragile part of the watch at the time. Although synthetic-crystal watch glass has long ago obviated the need for such a protective measure, the flip-over functionality has remained as an opportunity for including either a second face for the watch, with additional functions, or as a canvas for the artists at Jaeger to use to embellish its appearance.

Whether engraved with a coat of arms or decorated with enamel painting (some art-collector clients have even had their paintings reproduced in miniature), the effect can be eye-catching.

Today, the visual effect of the shaped case wristwatch is winning new converts. When Rihanna was photographed announcing her first pregnancy, she wore a pink anorak and ripped jeans, festooned with jewellery. Distended abdomen aside, it was her wrist that attracted attention. She was wearing one of the rarest of Rolexes, the King Midas.

First appearing in the early 1960s, the King Midas used solid gold throughout. ‘Never before — a watch so daringly new, so outrageously different, so harmoniously classical. Named after the legendary king with the golden touch, sculptured from a block of solid 18-carat gold, the King Midas is a watch designed for the most discriminating people in the world’ enthused an early advertisement.

Straight on one side, angled to a point on the other, when laid flat on its edge it evokes the pediment and tympanum of a classical building. ‘We created this as a modern tribute to ancient Greece’ explained one tagline.

Even the box was truly remarkable, taking as its inspiration a masterpiece in the British Museum, the famed Midas stamnos, a lidded pottery vessel combining aspects of vase and amphora that was created in about 440 BC. The black ground is decorated with red figures depicting Silenos led before Midas.

I never saw Rihanna as a student of classical antiquity, but it seems that the strangely shaped Rolex King Midas has finally brought out her inner Mary Beard.

For a Victorian hostess, serving ice cream at dinner, turned out from thrilling moulds shaped as beehives, asparagus or swans, was the 19th-century equivalent of showing off on Instagram, ‘afford[ing] the cook the opportunity of making some of the prettiest dishes it is possible to send to the table’.

Leading the charge was the original cookery influencer, Agnes Bertha Marshall (1852–1905), an English culinary entrepreneur who became a leading cookery writer, producing two of the most important books on ice cream — Ices Plain and Fancy: The Book of Ices (1885) and Fancy Ices (1894) — earning herself the title ‘Queen of Ices’.

Born in Haggerston in the East End of London, Marshall was an illegitimate child, raised by her grandmother in Walthamstow. Little is known about her early life — or where exactly she learnt to cook — but it is believed that she trained in Paris, detailing in the preface to her 1887 tome Mrs A. B. Marshall’s Cookery Book that her recipes are ‘the result of practical training and lessons, through several years, from leading English and Continental authorities, as well as a home experience earlier than I can well recall’.

Her promotional tour for this title saw her cook elaborate luncheons in front of large audiences across the country, securing her reputation as a household name. In 1878, she married Alfred William Marshall, a union that allowed her to take advantage of the 1882 Married Women’s Property Act. In 1883, she bought a plot of land and opened the Marshall School of Cookery at No 67, Mortimer Street, London.

In 1885, Marshall patented a device that could freeze a pint of ice cream. The hand-cranked machine promised ‘smooth and delicious Ice produced in 3 minutes’. She also toyed with using liquefied gas as an ultra-rapid freezing agent — a century before Heston Blumenthal popularised the liquid-nitrogen technique in the pursuit of molecular gastronomy. When he called the ‘Queen of Ices’ one of Britain’s ‘greatest culinary pioneers’, he wasn’t exaggerating

As well as teaching Londoners how to cook, she ran a domestic staff agency business, sold domestic and cooking equipment and campaigned for better standards of food hygiene. Her 1888 recipe for ‘cornets with cream’ would put edible ice-cream cones on the culinary map, using finely chopped almonds, fine flour, caster sugar, one egg, a pinch of salt and a tablespoon of orange flower water, mixed to a paste.

Once baked, cornet shapes were quickly cut out of the paste and wrapped around a cornet tin, baked again ‘till quite crisp and dry’ and then filled ‘with any cream or water ice’. This serving suggestion was a novel concept to Victorian Londoners. Cheap ice creams had hitherto been served in small glass containers called ‘penny licks’, which were rarely cleaned between customers. They were eventually made illegal in 1926 for their role in spreading diseases such as tuberculosis.

It can be hard to tell one Volvo from another, but perhaps that is the point.

What do you, dear reader, think about when you read or hear the word Volvo? Do you think of a long line of station wagons at the school gates? A car packed to the rafters with luggage and dogs on its way to the Continent for a family holiday? Safety? Swedishness? Style? Do you think of anything at all, or is the purpose of a Volvo not to be thought about at all — to be locked up and forgotten, an idol of pragmatism on four wheels lost in a Waitrose carpark.

It is one of the many compliments that you can pay to Volvo that it is so many things to so many people. To me, Volvo has been the car of the Fisher family since I took my first steps, starting with the 240 Estate, then the V70, then the XC70 and, most recently the XC60. I have spent a lifetime in Volvos, and they have grown alongside me, a mirror of my own advancing years, but also a constant tether. Safety means many things, especially to the good people of Gothenburg, but to me it is the sight of my mother in her XC60 picking me up from the train station car park at Christmas-time.

It is rare perhaps to consider La Condition Humaine through the lens of a Swedish carmaker, but here we are. Volvos are often considered as cars that do not require thought — Plain Janes that serve a wholly practical purpose of getting kids, dogs and groceries to and from places. But consider this instead: not only are they practical, but they have long had an understated beauty that works in concert with their usefulness. These are cars that are thoughtfully designed by thoughtful people with a penchant for herrings. Practical yes; the three-point seatbelt, designed by Volvo and given to the world, has saved many lives. But also beautiful: the P1800, the best-looking car you’ve never heard of, also holds the world record for most miles driven under a single owner (3.2 million, in case you were wondering). Another good example is the marque’s latest SUV, the EX60.

The EX60 is based on the top-selling XC60 that was introduced in 2008 and has sold more than 2.8 million units. It is a very important car for Volvo on their march towards the electrification of all things — will this be the car that convinces the middle classes to swap petrol for solar power? It is certainly a promising effort.

You would be foolish for thinking that the EX60 is simply an XC60 with a battery where the petrol tank should be. This is essentially a brand-new car from top to bottom, plonked on top of the firm’s new SPA3 platform, which means many things, but principally means that it’s the latest (and by the far the most refined) version of Volvo’s electric offerings.

As well as electric power, the EX60 is also something of a computer on wheels, using various Norse-named computing systems to deliver a seamless driving experience, while the car also benefits from voice-controlled Google Gemini, allowing you to plot driving routes, stops, music, radio and so on. Somewhat alarmingly, it works very well, although having a conversation with yourself while you drive along the motorway might take some getting used to.

Back to La Condition humaine. You may (or may not) spend a lot of time thinking about Volvos, but it pales in comparison to the amount of time that a Volvo is thinking about you. Or, perhaps more accurately, how much thinking about you a Volvo can do at any given time. The EX60, which is perhaps the cleverest Volvo yet, thinks about you 254 trillion times per second, which is an awful lot. If it were a person, you could describe it as clingy. But because it is a Volvo, it is trying to keep you safe and comfortable, which is preferable.

And therein lies the real joy of the Volvo: because it thinks so much, you have to think oh-so little. Very few cars are as relaxing to drive as the EX60, because it plonks you in a well-appointed cabin, nice and high off the road and surrounded by nice things, and it sees the world before you do. Some might consider this level of technology to be a bit incongruous with Volvo, but it’s anything but. Volvo have always been innovators, but like all reasonable people (and unlike many other car makers), they are subtle about it. The EX60 has no interest in telling you about all the many things it can do, or is already doing, to improve your life on the road. It just does them.

It’s an ideology and aesthetic that extends beyond the microchip. The car looks and is sustainable and Scandi, in that the interiors are made from a wealth of recycled and eco-friendly materials, but still feel achingly premium to the touch. The cabin is uncluttered and simple, dominated by a large central screen (where Gemini/HAL9000 lives) and most of the control buttons live on the steering wheel. Any other available space has been given over to storage, underlying the car’s purpose as a family wagon. I liked the cupholders that slide out horizontally from the arm rest, and I really liked the bucket shaped storage space under the dash, which means you can root around for charging cables or whatever without having to take your eyes off the road. It's simple things like this that Volvo is famous for, but probably never gets the appreciation it deserves.

So much new stuff on wheels is overdesigned at the moment, especially in the SUV EV segment, but the EX60 is both contemporary and traditional. The shape is new, but it is also very much Volvo, especially the hipped vertical taillights that are an obvious nod to more vintage versions of the V70 and XC90. The retro renaissance clearly hasn’t passed the good people of Gothenburg by.

To drive, it is as a Volvo should be, which is inoffensive, unobtrusive and comfortable. The steering is light, the ride is soft and the single electric motor in the P6 is smooth and potent. The lineup is fleshed out by the dual-motor AWD P10 and the 671bhp P12, which can hit 0-62mph in 3.9 seconds, should you be really really late in picking up the kids. The advertised range for the P6 is 385 miles, while the P12 is claimed to be able to make over 500 miles on a single full charge, which is very impressive indeed.

Not everything is perfect, but most of it is. Because this is a car company, something that we’ve never had an issue with before has had to be re-designed, which in the EX60’s case are the doorhandles, which are now not handles, but small fins that you rub or gently grab for access. The key is now on your phone or a key tag. It all works very well when it works, but for simple but essential tasks like ‘getting in’ or ‘getting out’, I would always prefer something mechanical over digital. Volvo’s justification for the door fins is better aerodynamics. We will have to take their word on that.

Volvo have long known what they are doing when making big cars, so it stands to reason that the EX60 is spacious and practical, with plenty of room for five full adults and 523 litres of boot space. Overall, despite looking similar to the bridge of a luxury pleasure craft from the future, the interior feels sturdy and well crafted and it should certainly have no issues dealing with the rough and tumble of daily life.

That’s the thing with the EX60 and with Volvo in general. Here is a car that is well made, sustainable, elegant, futuristic and well thought out. It has what it needs, and it does more than you could ever know. So the next time you see a Volvo, whether that’s the EX60 or any other, and think maybe it’s a bit boring or a bit understated, I would urge you to maybe think again.

Sarah Corbett-Winder (below) is a fashion consultant, sometimes referred to as ‘The Wardrobe Whisperer’, and founder of Kipper clothing.

She recently moved from London to a historic farmhouse in the Welsh countryside, where she lives with her husband, three children and two miniature sausage dogs.

Gucci mega cuff coat

Obviously a piece from my wardrobe had to feature. It has been very hard to pick (I wanted to say the whole lot), but it would have to be this.

She is a recent friend I picked up from Sign of the Times — so good for vintage finds.

I had no intention of buying, but she fit me like a glove and made me smile so much that she had to come home with me.

I like to wear her in expected and unexpected situations, such as the Monday-morning school drop off or in the supermarket.

Not only does she bring me joy, but also others, and I hope to pass her onto my girls.

Engraved necklace

The day before our wedding day, my husband gave me a necklace. A penny-sized, very classic gold disc on a thin gold chain with ‘N&S 14.12.13’ — our initials and wedding date — engraved on it. I haven’t taken it off since that day.

I cherish it with all my heart and hold it when I need that extra boost or support in my life. A piece that is totally and truly tailored to my husband and I.

Portrait of a Lady EDP by Frédéric Malle

It has become a bit of an inside joke that you can usually smell me before you see me.

I have been wearing this for about seven years now and I am still in love with it. It’s such an unusual, slightly masculine, yet very feminine smell.

I am yet to smell another perfume that gets me like this one. It’s a mixture of rose, patchouli and sandalwood — a real piece of art.

It also comes as a body lotion, which might be my next luxury…

Margaret and Marigold

My two wonderful pooches. Margaret is four years old, my short-haired dappled friend, and Marigold is nine months old, my long-haired dappled friend.

They bring me so much joy and insist on being next to me or with me at all times, like my own private security. There is sometimes a competition to see who can be closer to me… Margaret always wins.

They make me feel so loved and special. A lot of my day is spent admiring my pooches, particularly when they are wearing one of their silk neck scarves (nearly always — they have a rather extensive collection!).

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

You join me on a shore of Lake Como for a scene from a James Bond film. We are at the palatial Villa d’Este, the famed grande dame hotel that’s hosted the Who’s Who of Hollywood, from Chaplin to Clooney and Garbo to Gaga. A hundred impeccably-dressed and well-heeled guests, drawn from around the world, sip Telmont Champagne on the gravelled terrace. Others totter into Riva tenders to get a closer look at the action. On the water, almost silent, is the stealthy spectacle they’ve come to witness: A bunch of 'Star Wars'-inspired hydrofoil speed boats duking it out around a rippling race track marked by buoys.

This is Spanish entrepreneur Alejandro Agag’s latest production. Having created the first electric car racing championship, Formula E, more than a decade ago, and done the same with off-road rallying in the form of Extreme E, he has now taken to the seas. Formula E was about making electric motorsport credible, and giving car manufacturers a global platform to develop and show off their EV tech. Extreme E was about taking cameras to places where the environment is under threat and funding climate initiatives. E1 Series, this all-electric regatta, intends to make battery-based mobility glamorous.

There are 10 teams fielding two drivers each: a man and a woman. In addition to the drivers and technicians, the bijou paddock that’s been formed alongside the Villa d’Este’s floating swimming pool is populated by investors, socialites and influencers. Forget grandstands full of punters like you’d find at Silverstone, or Wimbledon or Wembley for that matter. This is essentially a garden party. I daren’t imagine what the cost of this event is divided by the number of spectators in situ. Tickets can be bought for €1,500 a pop, which includes lunch and an open bar. Yet E1’s proposition is that motorsport is no longer merely competition, it’s content. E1 Series is custom made for watching on TikTok. It’s got crashes, speedy technology and sexy locations. It’s highly ‘clippable’, it’s aspirational, and it boasts personalities that social media goes crazy for.

Porsche, Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Audi, Jaguar; many well-known automotive brands invested in Formula E. They all have a fan following. Now I’m sure boatbuilders have their own loyal base, but Sunseeker, Benetti and Princess don’t have the same cut-through. The pilots don’t have the same name recognition either: Sir Lewis Hamilton isn’t battling Sir Ben Ainslie out there, alas. So Agag had a brainwave. Celebrities can bring their own brands. They can invest in teams and be the face of the series.

E1’s team owners include movie star Will Smith, DJ Steve Aoki, basketball legend LeBron James, NFL GOAT Tom Brady, footballer Didier Drogba, cricketer Virat Kohli, goalkeeper Thibaut Courtois, pop star Marc Anthony, and tennis sensation Rafael Nadal. They post about E1 to their millions of Instagram followers. Some, apparently, get quite hands on with the teams themselves. I’m told Brady is almost unbearably competitive, and Nadal is much the same. Jamie Copas is E1’s CEO. He explains the model of team ownership: ‘The celebrities are investing their time, their brand and their social media profile. It’s about their engagement.’

I asked Thibaut Courtois, who plays for Real Madrid, why he signed up. ‘I love the water, boats. My wife, she loves it, she has her skipper licence. And obviously the electrical thing, it’s not polluting the nature. Electric propulsion, I think it’s the way forward.’ Would he like to drive one of these E1 boats himself? ‘I’m 6ft 7in. Unfortunately I can’t fit.’

Aside from the very expensive hotels and indulgent spreads, the logistics and operational costs, much of the budget goes towards the boats, christened RaceBirds. These stock racing machines, which cost about €1 million, are fascinating pieces of engineering, with advanced propulsion and hydrofoils that can lift them clear of the water. Carbon-fibre foils reduce drag and the RaceBird makes significantly less wake than a conventional powerboat. The result is a cross between a fighter jet, a Formula E car and that thing Pierce Brosnan rode up the Thames in The World is Not Enough.

Don’t imagine it’ll go as fast as an F1H20 world championship powerboat, though, because it doesn’t. An F1H20 boat has a 400bhp internal combustion engine and a top speed of 140mph. E1’s RaceBird’s electric motor produces 200bhp and can only muster 58mph. Despite that, when the racing is close and they start banging into each other, it’s exciting.

‘I wish they were faster, but we do still go airborne a lot,’ says Sara Price, 33, who is the first American woman to win a stage of the Dakar rally, and who races in E1 for Will Smith’s team. ‘We haven’t flipped yet, but we’ve been close. But it’s pretty safe. Off-road is way harder on your body.’

The 20 drivers — or pilots — are drawn from different disciplines, which is also compelling. Ten come from four-wheeled motorsport, six from powerboating, two from sailing, and there’s one jet ski champion and one kitesurfer.

Oban Duncan, 19, is a ten-time British powerboat champion. She’s also a health-and-safety consultant in Glasgow. This endeavour doesn’t seem very health-and-safety-ish, I proffer. ‘No, it isn’t, but it’s my passion. I’d be very bored sitting at home if I wasn’t here.’ She undertook testing duties when the RaceBird was still in its development. Having grown up on the water, does this give her an advantage over those that only raced on land before? ‘The RaceBirds are so different to any other powerboat,’ she says, ‘because of the hydrofoils. It’s a lot harder, it’s about balancing the boat.’

Before getting into motorsport, Jamaica’s Sara Misir, 28, was an equestrian. ‘It’s the pilots who make a difference. Everyone gets the same thing; same weight, same engine, so it’s about strategy, team communication, and adapting to your surroundings. It’s not like on a race track where the surface and the braking points stay the same. On water, every single lap is completely different; the water’s getting rougher, the wind, the turbulence, the current; there’s a lot going on. Also the locations we visit are very different. Lake Como is fresh water and deep. Jeddah is open water, saltwater, with very different waves and grip levels.’

I would have thought those with powerboat racing experience would have a marked advantage, but apparently not. Catie Munnings, 28, who also works as a TV presenter, says she’s had no difficulty adapting despite coming from rallying. ‘I was matching the lap-times of the powerboaters straight away. The throttle, the steering wheel, the racing instincts; it’s all the same. I love it. Where the main difference, though, is that with cars the more you push, the more aggressive you are, the more you’re rewarded. Here you don’t, you just fall off the foil. You need to have a real feel for it to be competitive. One advantage I think we have over the powerboaters is that the way you trim, which is controlling the angle of the engine, is the complete opposite of how you would drive a boat without foils. In a way, we car racers don’t bring any bad habits.’

Munnings and many of the other pilots didn’t even have their powerboat licence before getting called up. ‘I got it in November and the first race was in January. It was very last minute. Imagine racing in the World Rally Championship three months after driving a car for the first time. The thing is, the boats aren’t that hard to drive, they’re just hard to get the maximum from. You basically stay on full-throttle the whole time, even around hairpins. When you start to turn, the drag from the foil pitches you into the corner and it’s like applying the handbrake. You’re concentrating on the trim levels, moving the engine at 0.1 of a degree at a time to power out of corners, and that’s the tricky bit.’

The series is now in its third season, and has already visited Jeddah, Venice, Puerto Banus, Monaco, Doha, Dubrovnik, Lake Maggiore, Lagos and Miami. Luanda, in Angola, and the Bahamas appear on the calendar for the first time this year.

‘The future is in the USA,’ Agag tells Country Life. ‘We need to expand a lot there. We have great potential, given the team owners we have: Tom Brady, LeBron, Marc Anthony, Will Smith. We have Miami. We need to have New York, LA, San Francisco, Chicago, Washington DC. We need to make it bigger, consolidate it, make a fanbase.’ There are eight races scheduled in 2026. I’d like 12 races a year, with six of them in the USA. And we have room for another couple of teams.’

Who is paying for all this? Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund (PIF) own 50% of E1. The main commercial partners are Hublot and Bombay Sapphire. Angola and Nigeria are putting money in to sponsor Smith’s Westbrook Racing team and Drogba’s Global Africa team and will host the rounds in Luanda and Lagos in September and October respectively. In addition to its social media reach, the series is broadcast in more than 140 territories. In the UK, you can watch it live on ITV4, ITVX and YouTube.

Powerboating was big in the 1980s, but it got overtaken by Formula One and MotoGP. E1 hopes that its many overlaps — motorsport, celebrity culture, telegenic locations, innovation, sustainability and environmental storytelling — can draw Gen Z to the water’s edge. The plan is to grow its young, tech-savvy, glamour-hungry audience and attract bigger blue chip sponsors. But PIF announced in April that it’s to stop funding LIV Golf, citing mounting losses. War in the Middle East is causing the money taps to be turned off. That’s got to make Agag nervous.

E1 is exclusive and excessive. It feels rather like pre-war motorsport or F1 in the 1960s and ‘70s, when there were no sponsors. A lot of money was spent on having a good time and they’d worry about how they’d settle the bill on Monday. Once upon a time we’d have referred to it as a playboy’s sport — but of course half the heroes here are women, and cheers to that.

Whether E1 proves a commercial success remains to be seen, but in the meantime, it sure is a lot of fun.

Round 4 of the 2026 UIM E1 World Championship will take place in Monaco on July 17-18. Will Smith’s team Angola Westbrook Racing, with pilots Sara Price and Lucas Ordonez, are currently in the lead.

The Sealyham terrier has the sort of face that suggests it has seen a great deal of life and approved of only some of it. Small, white and faintly dishevelled, with dark intelligent eyes peering out beneath extravagant eyebrows, it resembles nothing so much as a retired colonel who has wandered out of a country house in search of a whisky and an argument.

Few dogs combine such comic dignity with such complete certainty in their own judgement, which may explain why Sealyham people become so devoted to them.

The breed began life, improbably enough, as a serious working dog. In the 1850s, Captain John Edwardes of Sealyham House in Pembrokeshire, required a small terrier game enough to go to earth after badger, otter and fox, while keeping pace with his pack of otterhounds. He insisted the dog be white, so that, underground or in the thick of a hunt, it could never be mistaken for its quarry. Edwardes kept no records, so the exact recipe is lost, but the now-extinct English white terrier, the Welsh corgi, the Dandie Dinmont and a little bull terrier are all thought to have had a hand in it. The result had to be fearless enough to face a badger underground, yet civilised enough to behave respectably indoors afterwards — a curious marriage of ferocity and good manners that has charmed owners ever since.

After the First World War, the Sealyham became the dog to be seen with. It swept the show ring, taking Best in Show at Westminster four times between the wars; Alfred Hitchcock adored them and famously appeared alongside two of his own, Geoffrey and Stanley, in the opening moments of The Birds. Princess Margaret reportedly insisted hers, Johnnie and Pippin, be brought to her room with her breakfast tray each morning; Cary Grant was so fond of the breed that he gave one his original name, Archie Leach. Agatha Christie kept them too, which seems entirely fitting because I imagine they would have made excellent witnesses.

The Sealyham is lazy compared to its terrier compatriates and very happy to while away several hours on the sofa. They like their own people best and are in no hurry to be charmed by anyone else.

The Kennel Club registered more than 1,000 Sealyhams in 1938; by 2008, the figure had collapsed to 43 puppies, placing the breed among the most endangered native dogs in Britain. Even now only about 100 or so are registered in a typical year. Country Life itself sounded the alarm, devoting a 2011 cover to the cause: ‘SOS: Save Our Sealyhams’.

Salvation, such as it is, has come from a devoted few who speak of them with unguarded affection. The interior designer Bee Osborne, who keeps the breed, calls them simply the perfect small dog: loyal, but not needy, sturdy and brave, friendly and kind-spirited. The only real drawback, she admits, is practical rather than temperamental — for a dog this low to the ground and this emphatically white requires bathing rather more often than one might like. Her devotion runs further than most: she has named a whole range of paints after her Sealyhams.

And there are flickers of a revival. A younger generation is beginning to rediscover the breed. In an age of dogs bred to be relentlessly agreeable, there is something appealing about one that reserves the right not to be. Watching a Sealyham trot across a lawn, whiskered face set in faint but unwavering self-belief, one feels it belongs to a Britain quietly disappearing. The Sealyham, characteristically, seems unconcerned. It has always expected the world to come back round to its way of thinking — eventually.

Daniel Brush, who died in 2022, was a one-off, a phenomenon, a sort of genius without portfolio, a maker of marvellous objects. His output was tiny and he usually hung on to what he produced for decades before parting with it, if he parted with it at all. He never accepted a commission, seldom exhibited, didn’t have a dealer and sold only when and to whom he pleased. For these reasons, hardly anyone got to see, let alone own, the things he made.

Despite or perhaps because of his Sasquatch-like elusiveness, a retrospective of his work at New York’s Museum of Art and Design in 2012 was the best attended show in the museum’s history.

Now another opportunity to see a significant cross-section of his work has arisen. ‘Daniel Brush: The Art of Line and Light’, at Van Cleef & Arpels’ L’Ecole in Paris until October 2, 2026, comprises 75 pieces spanning most though not quite all of his career. There are some exquisite drawings, jagged, fraught and intense. There are sculptural, totemic objects of profound mystery in steel and gold. There are brooches and cuffs, some whimsical, some transcendent, in precious gemstones, Bakelite and ultralight NASA metal alloys — wearable sculptures that, for better or worse, earned Daniel a reputation as a jeweller (the finest since Benvenuto Cellini, in the opinion of no less an authority than Christie’s chairman and jewellery supremo, François Curiel).

I got to know Daniel and his wife Olivia in the mid-2000s and visited them whenever I was in New York. Their apartment on West 24th Street was itself a kind of installation, a 5,000-square-foot, open-plan living-working space and a mirror of their shared life and enthusiasms. Olivia is an artist who works primarily in textiles; Daniel’s Loose Threads — my favourite of his works, magnificently displayed in its entirety in Paris — is a moving tribute to her tendency to end each day covered in squiggly bits of yarn.

There’s such diversity among Daniel’s works that it’s difficult to believe they sprang from the same consciousness or were wrought by the same pair of hands. His conversation was no less eclectic. Looking at the transcript of our last meeting, I see that he spoke, for the best part of six hours, about cowboy boots, German bisque dolls, Bugatti engines, endangered species, the Noh concept of yugen, macaroons, calligraphy, snaphaunces, Hedy Lamarr, Vladimir Horowitz, Modern Farmer magazine, machine guns, mimesis, fishmongers, ballet, Scotch whisky, Polaroid film, ‘classic seven’ Upper East Side apartments, punctuation marks and Casio G-Shock digital watches. Among other things.

What’s the line through, the loose thread of connection? People ooh and ah endlessly about Daniel’s almost superhuman manipulation of materials, particularly metals. But curiosity, not virtuosity, is, I think, the key. He loathed the ‘v’ word. Virtuosity for its own sake meant nothing to him. Technique interested him greatly, but only as a means, not an end, a way to get things done. He was fascinated by the way well-made objects can serve as a direct and intimate link between artist and audience.

Every one of the pieces on display in Paris might be considered in terms of line and light. Some of them fit the bill to perfection: the astonishing Remembrance of Things Present sequence of ink drawings, for instance, which are all about line, and the mesmeric engraved steel sculptures, Thinking About Monet, which are all about colour.

And yet, while taking in the show, I was also reminded of something that usually happened when I went to see Daniel and Olivia at the studio — not every time, but more often than not. Shortly after I arrived Daniel would say: ‘Shut your eyes and open your hand. Here. Now close your hand and hold on to this.’ It would be something he’d made — maybe something he’d finished that morning, or 30 years ago. For as long as the object remained invisible in my closed hand, considerations of line and light were, of course, irrelevant. Daniel was inviting an act of imaginative engagement based solely on touch, a response to what I could feel but not see. I recall his fondness for Native American dreamcatchers — objects intended both to bring on dreams and to banish them while under the influence of hallucinogens in order to commune directly with the spirit world. ‘Can a jewel do that?’ he asked. ‘Can a jewel take your breath away, in and of itself, so that it doesn’t even have to be worn? Can it be held in your hand so you dream? Can it become an intimate sculpture without a utilitarian function?’

The questions were rhetorical. His belief that a jewel could do those things was absolute and unwavering.

‘So, you know,’ he went on, ‘I got this wonderful note the other day, from this sensational guy. I love it. He said he has one of my things in a fitted box in his study, where he reads about art. And every once in a while he opens the box with his eyes closed and touches it, because he wants to experience it as if he were blind. God, I love that. I absolutely love that. I keep thinking and hoping, the more I engage with people, that it’s not just the tactile nature of it, it’s that private, quiet, removed, you know, secret kind of thing… You’re engaging with another person you don’t know but you’ve become intimate with. It’s such an odd transference.’

The chance to see so much of Daniel’s work, so elegantly displayed under one roof, is unlikely to be repeated any time soon. Make your way to Paris and let the transference begin.

‘Daniel Brush: The Art of Line and Light’ is at L’Ecole School of Jewellery Arts, supported by Van Cleef & Arpels, Hôtel de Mercy-Argenteau, Paris, until October 4, 2026. Admission is free upon reservation. Click here for more information.

The one where you can smell the burning rubber — Silverstone, from £850,000

For diehard F1 fans, it doesn’t get much better than this: a property literally trackside at Silverstone, home of the British Grand Prix. Picture it: from the comfort of your home, you can watch (as well as hear, feel, and even smell) the action unfold on Maggotts and Becketts — among the most famous corners in motorsport.

The Escapade Silverstone development comprises 60 sleek properties and a clubhouse with top-notch facilities, including a ‘driver-focused gym’. There’s a myriad of other perks for homeowners too,, making the starting prices of around £850,000 easier to bear.

Think free access to major race events at Silverstone, with discounts available for friends and family. This is sure to appeal to anyone who takes their racing seriously (and more importantly, has the budget to match).

You may need to get used to sharing your trophy asset, though. According to By Design, which is marketing this four-bedroom house, Silverstone will rent out your home when you’re not there ‘to ensure each owner is making an income from their empty property’.

For sale via agents including Savills and United Kingdom Sotheby's International Realty.

The one with an underground 'Batcave' garage — Derbyshire, £6,000,000

Set on the edge of the Peak District National Park, this striking contemporary home comes with a twist: an incredible 4,000 sq ft underground haven that will have car collectors drooling.

On the lower ground floor, there’s a six-car garage with three — yes, three — automated roller doors, electric charging points and storage. And in the basement, there’s a separate garage space with enough room for a car collection, alongside a fully-equipped workshop and a maintenance lift. There is even a car wash and valeting bay to ensure cars leave looking track-ready.

And how do you reach this underground gem? Via a concealed hydraulic car lift from the driveway, of course.

The living space at this sprawling five-bedroom house is no less impressive, featuring everything from an eight-seat cinema to an altitude training room. You see, this really is an all-singing, all-dancing affair.

For sale via Fisher German — see more details and pictures.

The one with an underground garage in the middle of London — Hampstead, £16,950,000

It is not every day that you come across a London home with a private underground garage large enough for six cars. But then again, there is very little about this property that could be described as ‘ordinary’.

For starters, this glitzy penthouse is located on The Bishops Avenue in Hampstead, dubbed ‘Billionaires’ Row’. It also happens to have been rented by Ariana Grande while she was filming Wicked.

The enormous garage is only part of the appeal. The five-bedroom apartment — part of the swish Buxmead development — is packed with A-list-style amenities, including a cinema and games room, gym, and two kitchens.

If you are in the market for this type of home, privacy and security are likely to be top-of-mind. Fortunately, this home delivers on both fronts. The garage is accessed via a lift, while a uniformed — naturally — security team watches over the development. This is the sort of setup that will allow you to sleep soundly, no matter what's parked downstairs.

For sale via United Kingdom Sotheby’s International Realty and Alexander Main.

The countryside home with space to work on your Lamborghini — West Sussex, £1,800,000

At first glance, Duncans Granary looks every inch the idyllic countryside retreat. But hidden inside one of the outbuildings is a space that is likely to set car enthusiasts’ pulses racing: an ‘extensive man cave garaging and workshop’, according to selling agent Strutt & Parker.

Totalling almost 2,500 sq ft, it comprises two garage areas, a workshop and even a bar. In other words, it is a place designed as much for admiring cars as working on them. And judging by the photos, the current owners have set the bar high, housing what appear to be some pretty special engines.

The four-bedroom house and outbuildings sit within 3.2 acres of grounds, including a pond with a bridge and a decked seating area.

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

The one with its own rally stage to race on — Ceredigion, £3,500,000

Most farms come with barns. This one also comes with its own two-mile tarmac track that features loops and split roads.

Known as the Bont Dolebolion Rally Stage, the track winds through the rolling Welsh countryside. What is more, it offers the potential to generate income: a variety of motorsport events, including rally testing days, take place here. Yes, it's a rally stage rather than an F1 circuit — but it's surely the sort of thing petrolheads dream of.

Away from the motorsports action, the 395-acre beef and sheep farm includes a traditional four-bedroom farmhouse and numerous outbuildings. Some are in better condition than others...

This is a little more rough and ready than a track-side home at Escapade Silverstone — but therein lies its charm. Just try not to confuse the livestock count with your split times.

For sale via Savills — see more details and pictures.

The one that caters to every kind of horsepower — Berkshire, £2,950,000

With extensive garaging that’s in very good nick, this property has ‘car collector’ written all over it.

The stables at Willow Farm have been converted into an enormous garage and showroom, complete with an office, meeting room, kitchen, gardener’s room and games room. A separate garage and a car port sit just behind it. All-in-all, ample space for everything from cherished classics to the latest supercars.

The block is currently used as a smart showroom, but it given that it's entirely secure and has capacity for up to 20 cars, you could probably use it as a motoring museum.

And while it's one for serious car collectors, this is still a beautiful family home that's ideal for those who prefer a different kind of horsepower: the house is set in 12 acres, has a paddock, direct access to the bridleway, and the grounds are so flat, and in such good shape, that it's apparently ideal for creating a polo field.

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

The one where you can live in the home of a legend — Kensington, £2,625,000 

What this charming mews house in south west London lacks in high octane motorsports facilities, it more than makes up for in history.

This was once the home of James Hunt, the charismatic 1976 F1 world champion, who was loved by a generation of fans first as a driver, and then as the most hilariously honest commentator in motorsport. Younger readers will more likely remember him from the film, Rush — one of the best motorsport films ever made.

Unlike many F1 stars who quit racing and go to live in country homes, Hunt loved his famous playboy lifestyle in London, and moved to this home in 1980 after swapping his steering wheel for a BBC microphone — a decision he made, as he admitted, ‘for reasons of self-preservation’.

Originally two separate houses, the property has been transformed into a light and airy four-bedroom home. Unusually, all the living space is arranged on the first floor, where an open-plan kitchen, dining and reception room opens out onto a terrace.

The property comes with two private parking spaces — a feature that, according to current owner Dave Allan, drew Hunt to the house in the first place.

‘It’s been lovely owning a piece of history and hearing all the stories relating to the house,’ says Allan. ‘Apparently, during James Hunt’s time there, it was well known for hosting some rather lively parties.’

For sale via Hamptons — see more details and pictures.

I live under a number of illusions, but I’ve never thought I’d make a great watchmaker. For starters, my hands are enormous (not a humblebrag, but I can see why some might think otherwise), and I have no patience for minutiae. Honestly, all those tiny components. So fiddly. I have great admiration for watchmakers, but by the end of week one I’d be flush with rage. Or bored.

This is why I almost always resist invitations to have a go at watchmaking. But then when Richard Benc, the elven founder of British watch brand Studio Underd0g, messaged me to say he was opening a new facility just outside London with a space set aside for punters to have a go at watch assembly, and would I like to give it a try, I said yes. Why? Partly home soil, but mostly because Richard is British watchmaking’s Willy Wonka. He even looks a bit like Gene Wilder.

Benc — rhymes with sense — founded his brand during lockdown and has made a name for it with Instagram-friendly watch drops, few more fêted than those with watermelon or pizza-themed dials. It seems to have gone well. In not much more than five years, Richard has sold more than 30,000 watches. He now drives a Porsche.

For his next trick, he’s taken a ‘seven-figure’ plunge and opened up a facility where he can build watches, doubling down on the ‘Assembled in Great Britain’ tag he adds to his watch dials. It’s in Maidenhead and called the The Dogh0use, a name stencilled on the glass over the plum-coloured front door in the gently ironic sans serif typeface Richard uses to express the brand’s kooky spirit (some of his campaign artwork is very Wes Anderson). He reckons he can assemble between 1,200 and 1,500 watches a month here, an uptick of around 25% on last year.

And it’s to The Dogh0use I’ve been invited. Richard’s team have just finished phase one of the fit-out, and the smell of fresh paint lingers. Catherine Godon of the London-based Letter Studio interiors has taken the Wonka-Anderson brief to heart, creating a speakeasy of sorts where customer presentations will take place. The rich plum tree paint shade continues, and there are wicker John Cullen accent lights on the walls and a deep-pile pink and burnt orange Nordic Knot rug on the floor. The centrepiece is a rather charming bespoke two-seater crush velvet armchair that transforms into an upscale platform for a game of Connect4, played using tokens fashioned from Studio Underd0g watch dials. Despite the autumnal tones, the space is warm and welcoming.

Along the corridor, our little group of four is shown into a small workshop where we’ll assemble the 01Series Guava, a limited-edition 39.5mm version of Studio Underd0g’s signature chronograph with a pink and lime green dial that will only be available at The Dogh0use. It costs £575, but for the more dexterous with an extra £125 to spend, you can go behind the curtain and build it yourself.

Now, someone good at watch assembly will assemble 20 pieces in a day, roughly one every 25 minutes. But Richard’s head of assembly training, former Rolex employee Joshua Sable, has set aside four hours for our quartet to do just one.

At the bench — as watchmaker’s desks are called — we’re presented with a tray of components and lots of Lilliputian tools. Some are obviously screwdrivers or tweezers; others look completely alien. The mechanical movement that will sit at the heart of the watch arrives from China in one piece, and so thank goodness, we won’t be playing with tiny wheels, pinions and hairsprings. The job in hand is to attach the movement to the dial, add the five hands and the crown and its winding stem, and then case it up.

It sounds simple enough. But it’s not. The screw heads are tiny and only visible through a loupe. Some of the hands are barely thicker than an ant’s leg, and slotting them on top of an even smaller pivot is immensely difficult. More than once, my hay-baler hands gripped the tweezers too hard and sent a screw or a hand flying I don’t know where: they’re so small that once they’re gone, there’s no finding them. It’s embarrassing, but also somehow quite funny. Joshua was clearly expecting the maladroitness of his charges, and has pots of spare components ready to gloss over our mistakes.

Four hours later, though, an enormous feeling of satisfaction. In front of me is a working mechanical wristwatch. Even that skinny chronograph central seconds hand is beautifully aligned with the zero marker. A labour of love, that one. Joshua seems pleased. He tests it for accuracy and water-resistance, and signs it off. I made a watch. With these hands. Sort of. Just don’t ask me to do it again.

To book an appointment or an assembly experience at The Dogh0use, visit the Studio's website.

North Oxford in the early 1980s, sometime around noon. It’s a typically dreary Lenten day and, as dozens of ravenous prep-school boys clatter into the dining hall, battered aluminium trays are unceremoniously dumped upon scruffily scuffed tables. One glance at their contents and the happy hubbub suddenly ceases. Salad.

Oh, God, please not the salad. For this is no crisp, refreshing bite, well dressed as a Jermyn Street dandy, nor happy hors d’oeuvre, designed to pique the palate for the pleasures to come. Hell no. It’s an insidious study in sorrow, a masterpiece of barely edible melancholia, a poisonous paean to the limp and unlovely.

There’s the mass of flaccid lettuce, still soaked from its desultory wash, harbouring the occasional invertebrate beastie; a half-hearted grating of carrot, alongside a chunk of something that might officially be known as a tomato. Rock hard, this sorry fruit has all the flavour of distilled water. A few slices of cucumber, gently rotting, add their primal slime, alongside hard-boiled eggs that seem to have been on the simmer since Cain killed Abel.

Worst of all — more deranged than the shiny flaps of processed ham, with a mean splodge of salad cream so acidic it strips the enamel from your teeth — is the beetroot, deep purple and sinister, which stains the whole sorry melange with barely contained contempt. Our hearts sink. Our spirits droop. Welcome, dear reader, to the Great British salad.

Back then, it was the same in cafés and institutions across the land, the Winter of Discontent in vegetal form, a hangover from rationing, 30 years on, something to endure, rather than to enjoy. This joyless medley was made all the more awful in comparison to the simple green salads of home. Butter lettuce, freshly dug from the garden, cleaned, dried in a plastic spinner, then tossed in a mustard-heavy vinaigrette.

For us, salad was a delight rather than dirge, no mere side dish, rather a star in its own right — but it is a dish that defies easy definition. From the blessed simplicity of tomatoes, sun warmed and fresh from the vine, eaten with a pinch of salt, to the modern Instagram excesses of the Baroquely bonkers, salad has something for everyone.

What unites them all, I suppose, is not so much the ingredients (although vegetables, pulses and herbs will generally play a role), rather some form of dressing involving oil and vinegar, which takes a bunch of disparate elements and gathers them into one harmonious whole. Had I the space, and you the patience, I could fill tomes on the subject.

Caesar salad, born in Tijuana and splendidly punchy; the abundant generosity of the Cobb (see recipe) and the robustly American, blue-cheese-drenched charms of an iceberg wedge. Panzanella, all sweetly sharp, juice-soaked bread; the lactic cool of a proper Greek salad and the eternal allure of caprese. There’s that salad in Brideshead Revisited, of ‘watercress and chicory in a faint mist of chives’, and the niçoise, of course, seasoned with sun. There’s even salad as ritual and remembrance, maror, the bitter herbs eaten at Passover Seder to symbolise the bitterness of slavery.

Move east, to tabbouleh, that Middle Eastern masterpiece, and Thai som tum, as fiery as it is bracing, eaten on the streets of Bangkok; Laotian larb mixes finely chopped meat with a tangle of herbs and warm chilli burr. Smashed cucumber from China’s Sichuan province combines the numbing (ma) with the spicy (la), whereas Indonesian gaddo-gaddo and karedok provide a riot of tastes and textures, as do Malaysian kerabu timun and Mexican ensalada de nopalitos.

Every culture has its own take, each individual their own taste. As to its construction? It takes four people, according to the old Roman saying, to create the perfect salad — a miser to put in the vinegar, a spendthrift to add the oil, a wise man to season and a mad man to toss it all together. At their most basic, Roman salads, known as ‘salata’ or ‘salted things’, were little more than raw vegetables or herbs, sprinkled with a little salt, vinegar and oil.

Recipes from the likes of Columella and Apicius were altogether more complex affairs, featuring everything from almonds and fresh cheese to figs, octopus, olives, dates and bread. Dressings often used garum (Roman fish sauce) with liberal aplomb. These salads were as much medicinal as gastronomic, gentle digestive aids to prepare the stomach for the oncoming onslaught.

Greek physician Galen not only believed that raw vegetables were essential in balancing the four Humours (blood, phlegm and biles black and yellow), but managed to cure his insomnia, too. The Romans may have introduced the concept to our shores, but it was here, from medieval times, where the dish flourished. The Forme of Cury, a 14th-century proto-cookbook, defined ‘salat’ as a variety of herbs, flowers, chives, green garlic and onion, wearing a dressing made from oil, vinegar and salt. A few years later, slices of orange and lemon were added for decoration.

Then came Robert May, in 1660, with The Accomplisht Cook. In it, 14 recipes for the ‘grand sallet’, which were, like salmagundis a century or so later, epic feasts for eyes as well as belly. Cold capons, salt beef, pickled oysters, potatoes, olives and samphire were all thrown in with reckless abandon. These were the stars of the Golden Age, upwardly mobile salads, food as a show of one’s wealth.

It was with the publication of John Evelyn’s 1699 classic, Acetaria: A Discourse of Sallets, that the art of the salad reached its peak. For here was an entire book dedicated to the subject. ‘We are by sallet to understand,’ wrote the great herbalist, ‘a particular Composition of certain Crude and fresh Herbs, such as usually are, or may be safely eaten with some Acetous juice, Oyl, Salt, &c. to give them a grateful Gust and Vehicle.’

He lists 82 different vegetables and herbs, together with notes on their growing seasons and a nine-step guide to their dressing. Another salad obsessive was the French novelist and playwright Alexandre Dumas. ‘There is almost always some on hand, and it generally tastes good,’ says the sage of the salad bowl, before going into intricate detail as to exactly when to eat what.

Chicory in autumn, seasoned with nothing more than a stale crust of bread rubbed with garlic and placed in the bottom of the bowl. At Easter, lettuce dressed with herbs, marinated oysters, shrimp, turtle’s eggs, Indian pickles and Chinese soya sauce. Salad, for Dumas, was no mere whimsy, rather a concoction worthy of serious study. However, the less said about Russian salad, a modern mountebank, the better.

I once had a deconstructed version in a grand Milanese place where the pea-studded mess (which resembles cat sick) was topped with a dome of spun sugar. It still haunts me to this day. Waldorf salad holds little appeal, a turgid mess of grape and apple — I share Basil Fawlty’s pain. As for those American ‘Jello’ aberrations… get thee away, Satan.

But enough of the base and deranged. Great salad is not only about balance, of taste and texture, oil and acidity, but about feeding a very personal yen. ‘There are few dishes which are used so widely in all classes of society as this one,’ says Dumas — nor any quite as universally adored. Salads were once in a sorrowful state in Britain, but they can be a thrilling riot of tastes and textures.

Cobb salad

The Cobb is an American classic, created in 1936 at the Brown Derby restaurant in Hollywood, California, either by, or in honour of, owner Robert Cobb. This should be big and unashamedly bounteous, with gently poached chicken, and a dressing that is sharp and coats every part. If you’re not a fan of blue cheese, replace with a similar amount of Comté, cut into smallish cubes. The greens are traditionally mixed, then the rest of the ingredients laid out in colourful lines or blocks on top.

Ingredients

Serves 6

2 skinless chicken breasts

6 black peppercorns

1 bay leaf

1 celery stalk, split

½ onion

6 strips of smoked streaky bacon

Bunch of watercress, thick stems removed

1 head of chicory, separated

1 large head of Romaine lettuce, separated

4 hard-boiled eggs, finely chopped

1 avocado, chopped into small cubes

4 tomatoes, finely chopped

100g/3½oz Roquefort or other well-behaved blue cheese, diced or crumbled

For the dressing

3 tbspn white-wine vinegar

Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Big pinch of mustard powder

½ tsp caster sugar

Jig of Worcestershire sauce

150ml/5fl oz extra virgin olive oil

Method

• Put the chicken breasts in a pan with the peppercorns, bay leaf, celery stalks and onion and add water to cover. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a mere ‘blip, blip’, cover and poach for 15 minutes, until the chicken is piping hot and cooked through, with no sign of pink in the juices when the thickest part is pierced with a skewer. Transfer the chicken to a plate and leave to cool

• Fry the bacon until crisp, then roughly chop and set aside.

• Cut the chicken meat into 2½cm/1in cubes and put in a large bowl. Add the bacon, watercress, chicory, romaine lettuce, eggs, avocado, tomatoes and cheese, and toss

• Make the dressing by whisking together the vinegar, salt, pepper, mustard powder, sugar and Worcestershire sauce. When combined, whisk in the oil. Taste for seasoning, then dribble over the salad so every leaf is gleaming with it, but not drenched

This feature originally appeared in the June 17, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Retro and French — that seems to be the flavour of the month, or year, when it comes to new electric cars. The success of the Renault 4 and 5, and the much heralded announcement of the new 2CV from Citroen, shows that there is a desire and demand for new things that are based on old things. Make em small, make em cheap and make em stylish. It is une formule gagnante, as the French might say.

With that in mind, we considered what else we might like to see return to the roads over the coming years. Will MG provide another small, sporty roadster for us? Is Rover still a thing? Will the 504 light up our driveways once more? All important questions. Not questions we have the answers to, of course, but questions we would like to consider.

Below is a small selection of cheap, affordable(ish) and iconic motors from history that we think are long overdue a return, ideally in a similar style to what made them so great in the first place.

Mark Hedges, Editor — MGB GT

The MGB first rolled out of the factory doors of the British Motor Corporation in 1962, a sports car so iconic that many still terrorise the sunny B-roads of the British countryside, before inevitably breaking down in a cloud of smoke.

In 1965 came the MGB GT, a 2+2 coupé part designed by Pininfarina and one of the first ever ‘hatchbacks’. Mark Hedges’s father was a fighter pilot, but unlike Tom Cruise in Top Gun, he swapped the motorbike for an MG. ‘When I was born my father had, very impractically, an MG, a labrador, and me,’ he says. That said, it had space enough for him, his parents, and said labrador to make a journey from Cornwall to Yorkshire when required to visit the in-laws.

MG did launch a sports car back in 2023, known as the Cyberster. While it is quite handsome, it lacks the clean lines of the MGB, and it also costs north of £50,000. Not quite there.

Kate Green, Deputy Editor — Small SUVs please

In the wilds of the West Country, the small SUV is king (or queen). The potholes and fields make four-wheel drive essential, while narrow roads make size a significant issue. It’s all fun and games in the Bentley Bentayga until a tractor is coming the other way down 'take-a-deep-breath' lane.

Our correspondent tells me that on their side of the A36, the general lament is that all the cars they like have got too big. The Skoda Yeti, the Toyota RAV4 and the Suzukis Jimny and Ignis were all perfect for life out West, but the new versions of all these cars have all added on a few pounds and inches in places they shouldn’t, ruining their appeal. Bring back small, they say.

Rosie Paterson, Digital Content Director — MG Midget

Back to our friends at MG, the Midget was revealed in 1961 as a lightweight sports car that brought driving to the masses. Executed in that timeless MG style, the car was a tremendous run around, and one that is still very much desirable to this day, as Rosie Paterson explains.

‘I've always wanted one, and an electric version would be rather lovely for quietly cruising around in at the weekend’. Well said Rosie, well said.

James Fisher, Digital Commissioning Editor & Motoring — Saab 9-3

To be bewitched by a Saab is a privilege, and many were disappointed to hear of the Swedish manufacturer’s demise in 2016 (but perhaps none more so than me). It’s hard to put a specific finger on what exactly it was about a Saab that made them so cool and interesting, but like an ouroboros, that sense of mystique only added to the cool and interesting. They just looked right.

The 9-3 was always my favourite. Sportier and more raked than the 9-5, the 9-3 looked fast, but not too fast, and was always a little left-field when compared to more traditional European counterparts. That iconic Saab underbite has aged even better as modern cars become ever more smooth and aerodynamic. Also, Saab’s other business was making jet fighters, which needs no explanation.

I realise that not only am I asking for a new car, but also the revival of an entire brand. But this is a hypothetical world we are currently living in, so I am allowed to take big swings.

Toby Keel, Digital Director — Rover SD1

In 1977, Rover's engineers were charged with making a new executive car — and they went a bit wild. They lifted the design of the Ferrari Daytona, took a 3.5-litre V8 engine, and crafted a four-door grand tourer that was a sensation: the Rover SD1 was a generational leap compared to the other British Leyland designs of the 1960s and 1970s. And while most GTs were two-door coupés in disguise (think Alfetta GTV, Jaguar XJS), this was a proper five-seater — just what the well-heeled family man needs on the driveway. It was named European Car of the Year, and orders came flooding in — not least from most police forces across Britain.

The problem? A wildly thirsty engine and appalling build quality — both things that against the backdrop of the oil crisis and the workforce strikes of the 1970s, hit the car’s success hard. Both of these problems are solved by electric powertrains and modern auto construction skills, so it’s surely time for the SD1 to be reborn.

Agnes Stamp, Assistant Features Editor — Peugeot 504

Considering the rocky relationship between France and the continent of Africa, it is perhaps surprising that ‘Africa’s workhorse’ should be a car made by Peugeot. But that is precisely what the 504 was and, in many cases, still is.

It is likely that over the course of its production lifespan, which officially ran from 1970 until 1983 (with knock-down versions still produced until 2006), more than four million 504s were produced during the 20th century. That a car that looks as good as the 504 and runs as reliably as the 504 was so well produced is a testament to the car’s enduring status as a classic.

But most importantly, the 504 had a face. Cars used to have expressions, and the 504, with its slightly frowny face, was one of the more expressive autos out there. Absolutely ripe for a comeback, if you ask me.

When David Hockney died three weeks ago, my mind travelled back to the worst date of my entire life. It was shortly after starting this job and my would-be suitor said that he hated Hockney because he appealed to the lowest common denominator. Against this incident, our enduring grief for the late artist speaks to a culture that seems to have abandoned old-school notions of snobbery. People have learnt to appreciate what the classic snob could never: that joy can beget great art, just as more intentionally creative efforts can lead to dismal results.

My date, 15 years my senior, made the claim that great art should be rooted in pain — but he obviously hadn’t seen ABBA Voyage or listened to Caroline Polachek. Snobbery has always been a slippery concept: a designation that applies to both the guardians of civility and their vulgar imitators (cue Mrs Bennet). Today’s arbiters of taste are more discerning. They realise that having fun with one’s chosen art form is as, if not more, expressive than those who treat art as religion. As for making money from it, that’s a happy bonus. Good art is no longer good because it ticks this or that box, but because it excels at ticking whatever box it has set out to excel in.

Pop music provides the clearest example of this shift: it used to be seen as frivolous, but is now the music critic’s favourite genre. Nearly all of last year’s best-album lists were topped by Rosalía’s Lux, a pop record that drew on classical music and the lives of Catholic saints. Being indelibly tied to consumerism and a society that weighs success in numbers, it has evolved to offer some of the sharpest commentary on contemporary life. The same is true of hit television shows such as The White Lotus, which hold a mirror up to the very culture they satirise through gloss, fancy and artifice.

At Milan’s Teatro alla Scala, the opera’s ‘ultras’ — hardcore fans who occupy the (cheaper) Upper Gallery seats — are known for making and breaking productions through cheers and jeers. As of last week, they are also raining down flyers onto those in the stalls, lamenting a hike in seat prices that would keep out poorer, but sharper listeners such as themselves. I for one applaud them. Snobbery has always been the backbone of a healthy artistic culture (and, for that matter, of a healthy intellectual culture: what is a social-media ban for the under-16s, if not a state-sanctioned attempt to stamp out brainrot?). Only, its face is changing. Word on the block says that is for the better.

This feature originally appeared in the June 24, 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.

Is it possible to make something that is both fast and extremely, staggeringly, comfortable?

Alas, it is the question that has plagued the idealism of the grand tour since the 17th century. How can I, a person of great taste and intelligence, get from the UK to Italy and back again in relative style and comfort? Back then, the answer was most likely some kind of fancy carriage, drawn by several fancy horses. The answer these days is perhaps the same, except there are 671 horses, and they live in the bonnet of your Bentley Continental GT Azure.

The more things change, the more they stay the same

Quite right. One of the key features of the Grand Tour back then was to sculpt the minds of the rich and youthful into spending their money on beautiful things. Wealth is one thing, but what of taste?

A cursory browse on Instagram will often reveal slightly revolting people who are desperate to discuss the difference between the two. What does it mean to have money, if you spend it on the wrong things, asks some hideously angular member of a long non-existent minor European royal family, as he or she stands in front of a swimming pool in the South of France. How do you display wealth and taste with subtlety and prestige?

The first answer to that question is certainly to stop posting reels on Instagram, and the second answer might be hopping behind the wheel of the Azure, the softest and most well-appointed grand tourer around.

It certainly does look extremely comfortable and elegant

The Azure is that most special of things: English taste with German execution. What that means, in car form, is some of the most delightfully appointed interiors you’ll find in a four-wheel vehicle, engineered onto a platform that is as smooth, elegant and refined as you could ever desire. Rich creamy napa leather adjustable in ways that would make a ballerina blush. Walnut veneer and crystal-cut dials and switches, delightful ‘organ stop’ vent controls and the pièce de résistance, a rotating media screen, allowing the driver to experience pure analogue driving perfection. It’s like being in your own private members club, and all that is missing are the ashtrays and a copy of today’s newspaper. If Bentley could have engineered a butler into this car, I am sure they would have, but the best they could do is a little arm that hands you your seatbelt, and that is more than enough.

What the interiors of the Azure tell us is that it’s possible to innovate, modernise and be creative, without losing any of the tradition and heritage that has made Bentley one of the world’s most premium car brands. It does everything that a German car would do, but it’s English as a steak and ale pie and a lame-duck Prime Minister.

It is not perhaps possible to be both ‘driving a Bentley Continental GT’ and ‘be subtle about it’, but the Azure is about as close as you could get. It is still muscular in all the right places, sits on massive 22-inch wheels and the recent facelift to the single striped headlight, combined with that vast front grille, doesn’t quite shout speed, but it’s certainly louder than a whisper. It’s a strong man with a well-made suit that hangs on it well.

It’s not always been the case that the Continental GT has been a pretty car. When it was first introduced to us in 2003, it was something of an ugly duck, but with each new generation (and we are now on our fourth), it has become better and better, and become one of the world’s most beautiful cars. But crucially, it is undeniably English. The English aren’t known for too much these days, but we do still make beautiful things, and the Continental is very much that.

So it’s very nice to sit in and very nice to look at, but is it very nice to drive?

Without a doubt. It is a cloud with a twin-turbocharged V8 in the front, that responds to every input you can throw at it. The Azure specification is the most calm and restrained of the range, focused more on creature comforts, craftsmanship and style. But a restrained Bentley is still a Bentley. The hybrid V8 produces 671bhp, will pull you to 62mph in 3.7 seconds and head all the way to 168mph with an almighty roar, akin to an octogenarian member of the MCC discovering that England have once again suffered a batting collapse upon waking from his afternoon nap.

For a big car, it handles surprisingly well, using all of that German engineering to keep you planted on the road, balanced and composed. The steering is remarkably responsive, especially in ‘Sport’ mode, and the car feels lighter than its 2,500kg weight, and much shorter than its 4.9-metre length. If you are running late for the opera, the Azure will get you there on time, in one piece and un-creased.

But this is not the car for chucking about, really. The Azure is for those who enjoy the finer things in life, unbothered by raw power and handling and speed (but still reassured by its presence, if necessary). The electric engine provides about 40 miles of silent range, which is ideal for city life, and even when the petrol engine engages, it does so politely and quietly. Cruising around south-east London, people were looking at this car because it is beautiful, not because it was loud.

Like the very best grand tourers, it can demolish miles on the motorway with ease, and the hybrid powertrain makes cruising up and down various speed limits effortless. If there is one criticism of this car, it is that it is too easy to drive quickly, because it is so smooth. But for many, that is hardly a criticism at all.

So what you are saying is that ‘Bentley have done it again’

They have indeed done it again. I am often asked, in my very lucky job of driving nice cars around, who makes the best ones. It’s a bit like asking someone what their favourite film is, in that the answer is not always the same, but my answer is Bentley more often than most. The team at Crewe knows what their customers want, and they deliver it. A car that doesn’t scream status, but is undoubtedly a symbol of it. Refined, respectful innovation always. And class-leading comfort and performance. It sounds simple, and yet so many manufacturers do often get it wrong. But not Bentley.

Canonically associated with palaces and peeresses, papillons are, at heart, merry little opportunists: bubbly as Champagne and primed to hop into any arms that will stroke them.

A descendant of the toy spaniel, their name, of course, means ‘butterfly’ in French, bestowed for the extravagant ears that flare from their heads like open wings. Although, as Vita Sackville-West observed of the papillon: ‘No butterfly ever sported such richly fringed hairy wings. The first shower of rain would soon bring it down if it did.’

Believed to have been introduced during the reign of Louis XIV to complement the elaborate fashions of the court, papillons have long been favoured by members of European nobility, from Madame de Pompadour to Queen Victoria. Their admirers have also included Marie Antoinette, whose favourite dog, called Coco, is said to have stayed by her side during her imprisonment in the Temple and the Conciergerie.

Their diminutive stature meant that courtly ladies could carry them in the wide sleeves of their gowns or in their muffs to warm their hands in the winter; conveniently, papillons typically grow to between eight and 11 inches tall and can weigh as little as five pounds.

Yet the papillon’s story begins centuries before it first graced the salons of Versailles. Their ancestors can be spotted in Renaissance paintings throughout Europe — they appear in revered works by Titian, Rubens and van Dyck — where they are often depicted perching on velvet-draped seats or peeking up from beneath banquet tables.

Although be wary not to mistake them for their drop-eared cousins, the similarly charming drop-eared phalène (or ‘moth’). Indeed, papillons understand performance — as demonstrated by their many Crufts accolades. They consistently win in the Toy Breed category and have even snapped up Best in Show, for they certainly know how to turn heads.

Their fur, though profuse, is relatively easy to maintain because it lacks the dense undercoat that tangles so readily in other breeds. Regular brushing is usually enough to keep their coat glossy and free of knots. Papillons are not, however, merely ornamental. Beneath the frippery is a surprisingly hardy canine. They may look as though they ought to shy from muddy weather, but most papillons enjoy the outdoors. They take long walks and woodland explorations in stride, making them equally suited to life in a country pile as they are a London flat. Papillons are also known for their agility and speed. In dog sports, such as obedience and agility competitions, they regularly outperform much larger breeds thanks to their quick reflexes.

The breed arrived comparatively late in Britain, becoming recognised by the UK’s Kennel Club in the 1920s, quickly gaining popularity both for their handsomeness and astonishing intelligence. In fact, papillons are often ranked among the smartest of all dog breeds, capable of learning commands quickly and responding eagerly to training.

However, such intelligence can also bring with it a certain amount of willfulness. ‘He has me well-trained,’ says the Hampshire owner Dee Duff of her 12-year-old papillon, Alfie. ‘He only goes where he wants to go, and decides how long for. He can be very stubborn!’ Indeed, there is something almost comic about the contrast between their appearance and temperament. They may weigh little more than a bag of sugar, but they move through life with complete conviction.

Today, they appeal to a wide range of owners for their companionship, their trainability and their adaptability: among them are the singer Christina Aguilera and the actor George Takei.

Papillons are affectionate without being clingy and lively without becoming overwhelming. They tend to form very close bonds with their families and are often happiest when included in everyday activities. Though friendly by nature, they are also alert little watchdogs, quick to announce visitors with sharp barks that belie their tiny stature.

Their elegance is most apparent when they are in motion: their ears float, their expression is serene and their tails stream behind them like a plume, as though caught in some perpetual parade. The duality of their poise and adventurousness is perhaps what makes them so enduringly delightful.

You can buy many machines with £45 million: a fleet of 13 new Bugatti Turbillons, two Cessna Citation Longitude private jets or one superyacht where Sir Winston Churchill first met John F. Kennedy, Jackie Kennedy found her second husband, and Maria Callas once sang to a man who would eventually leave her for Jackie Kennedy. Confused? Well, allow me to introduce the witness to it all: Christina O.

Less superyacht, more floating palace of political history, sex and scandal, Christina O is one of the most storied superyachts in the world.

But she was not born into glamour. Built in the midst of the Second World War in 1943 by Canadian Vickers as a wartime anti-submarine frigate called HMCS Stormont, she served in the Arctic and Atlantic, as well as being present during the D-Day landings in Normandy.

After the war, her fortunes changed dramatically when she was sold by the admiralty and picked up by the Greek self-made shipping titan Aristotle Onassis in the early 1950s for a reported $34,000, scrap value for the former frigate.

With a floating canvas acquired, the scene was set for Onassis to create one of the most decedent displays of wealth the post-war world had ever seen. A yacht that would go on to host the likes of Maria Callas, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, John Wayne, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly and Frank Sinatra.

The works that transformed HMCS Stormont into the 99-metre Christina, which Onassis named after his daughter, reportedly cost him $4 million in the 1950s, which is approximately $55 million in today’s money. Much of that went on extravagant — and eccentric — interior details such as the on-board ‘Ari’s Bar’, which is made from the timbers of a sunken Spanish galleon, complete with whale-foreskin-upholstered barstools. Such materials might struggle to pass muster these days but, well, it was the 1950s.

Onassis spared no expense on other areas, too. Installing a mosaic swimming pool on deck, with a floor that could be raised to convert the space into a dance floor, as well as a lift, a spiral staircase, and even a surgical operating theatre with radiography equipment. The ex-King Farouk of Egypt once referred to the yacht as 'the height of opulence'.

When it came to toys, Onassis equipped her with no less than five fast launches, including a glass-bottomed boat for underwater observation, a Fiat 500, and a five-seater Piaggio P.136L-2 seaplane. That same aircraft crashed in 1973, killing Onassis’s 24-year-old son Alexander.

Christina’s wood-panelled state rooms, ornate open fireplaces and elegant lounges soon became a home-from-home for everyone from Hollywood’s A-listers, to political heavyweights. Sir Winston Churchill is believed to have first met John F. Kennedy on board the yacht, while sipping on a cocktail in Ari’s Bar — a meeting at which Jackie Kennedy teased her presidential-hopeful husband that 'he thought you were a waiter, Jack'.

The charismatic, cigar-chuffing Prime Minister enjoyed eight voyages on Christina between 1958 and 1965 and was apparently the only guest for whom Onassis relinquished his own suite. The on-board library is named in Churchill’s honour.

After Onassis died in 1975, Christina was left to his daughter, Christina, and second wife, Jackie Kennedy Onassis. Both declined the inheritance, and the yacht passed into the hands of the Greek state, where she was renamed Argo, but fell into disrepair.

She was found partially submerged at a naval base near Piraeus and picked up in a government auction by Greek shipping magnate John Paul Papanicolaou — better known as 'Big John' — an Onassis family friend. A substantial $50 million rebuild was completed in 2001, after which Big John added an ‘O’ to the name in tribute to its original owner.

Christina O has operated as a luxury charter yacht ever since, accommodating 34 guests across 17 cabins named after Greek islands. Renovated and renewed she may be, but her hold on Hollywood has never loosened. Her screen credits include The Crown and comedy Triangle of Sadness, while in real life, she played host to Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier, who celebrated their 1956 nuptials aboard. Heidi Klum was married on Christina O in 2019 and Rupert Murdoch even chartered her for a family reunion off the Amalfi Coast. Ever wondered what inspired the infamous yacht scene in Succession? Now you know.

But now the time has come for Christina O to find a new custodian. Listed for sale with both Morley Yachts and Fraser, the asking price is €52 million; a bargain for those looking for a yacht overflowing with character, perhaps, but price aside, Onassis has set an outrageously high bar for her future owners to try and live up to.

After all, Christina O is not just a yacht, she’s a front-row seat to the 20th century’s social and political history, and all the ghosts that came with it.

Christina O is for sale with Morley Yachts and Fraser at €52 million (£45 million at the time of writing).