La Gomera

Words by Kieran Creevy & photographs by Lisa Paarvio.

Inky black water slowly changes colour to dark cobalt then lighter blue as we finish loading the fishing boat with our supplies. Motoring gently out of the harbour in San Sebastián de La Gomera, we pass again the 35 rowing boats, silently waiting for their crews.

Out of the harbour, salt spray and thick sweet coffee bring us fully awake and out of that pre-dawn zombie state the existence somewhere between deep sleep and wide awake. Leaning our backs against the hull and bracing against the swell, we soak up the heat. Bird calls break our reverie. We search the cliff faces to our right, hoping for a glimpse of tiny forms diving in search of fish.

Rounding our first headland we come across an oasis, nestled in a small cove and bursting with flashes of chartreuse green, sunburst yellow and damask rose. A stark contrast to the grey, black and sandy hues of the surrounding landscape. All too soon this unexpected gem is hidden once more behind another fold in the cliffs.

Luck is with us, for the next headland falls away to reveal another spectacle. On this deserted rocky beach is a wilderness bar, seemingly constructed in a Robinson Crusoe fashion; looking like its bones of wood and stone have been bleached pale from years of tropical sun. This feeling of a long and organic construction are a beautiful artifice. Within days, this bar and wild food experience will be removed from the landscape, leaving nothing behind but memories.

For now, we have the interesting challenge of landing on the shore. A floating pontoon rises and falls, pulsing with the waves. Timing our moves, we step lightly onto the pontoon. A few steps later we’re greeted with a signature cocktail, created from wild edibles and Talisker whisky. Notes of salt, citrus and spice give the drink an unexpected depth. The salt taste marries perfectly with fresh oyster served unadorned. Simple, rustic and elegant.

A shift in the wind direction carries sounds of revelry. A second bar, seating area and a fire table are thronged with a medley of people. Athletes and adventures, writers and sailors. All on this remote beach to enjoy tales of challenge and exploration.

We’re here to celebrate and toast the forthcoming start of an epic and daunting journey.  The Talisker Whisky Atlantic Challenge. More than one hundred brave souls will soon drop below the horizon, heading west in search of a finishing line over 5,000 kilometres away in Antigua. For now, it’s time to sample various iterations of Talisker Whisky used as an integral element for cocktails and  wild cooking.

Replete and relaxed we’re joined together, flooded with light and laughter. Good food, drink and company together in a home or restaurant can bring us together. The same experience enjoyed in the wild adds a much deeper element. Connecting us to shared ancestral memories; that of communities joined as one, sharing adventures, hopes and fears, risk and reward. And most importantly pulling together as a team as we venture towards the horizon and into the unknown.

Supplies - Talisker / corn tortillas / fire table

Slow cooked goat tacos with orange, lime, chilli and Talisker whisky

Ingredients

Serves 2

200g diced goat shoulder, or for a quicker dish use lamb loin.

50ml Talisker 10 whisky

Juice and zest 3 oranges

Juice and zest 2 limes

1 tsp coriander seed

Salt and pepper

1 red chilli, deseeded and sliced

1 tsp dried seaweed

1 spring onion, sliced

Blue corn tortillas

To serve

Black lava salt - regular sea salt will suffice

A few rings of chilli 

Fresh coriander leaf, chopped

Method

• Season the goat with salt and pepper.

• Bring a saucepan to a medium heat.

• Add the lime and orange juice, Talisker whisky, half the zest, coriander seed, seaweed, chilli and spring onion.

• Bring to a simmer, add the goat and cook slowly for 30 minutes.

• Taste and season if necessary.

• Continue cooking until most of the liquid has evaporated and the meat/juice mix has turned sticky.

• Shred the meat with forks.

• Toast the corn tortillas over an open flame or in a dry pan if you prefer.

To serve

• Spoon the goat meat onto two tacos at a time - so the tacos don’t get soggy.

• Season with a little coriander leaf, chilli, zest, and black lava salt.

• Eat and repeat.

Distant Shores

Words & Photographs by Angela Terrell.

I often think the best holidays are the ones you forget, even when you’re still enjoying them. A bit like an amnesiac, days slip by in a fog of absent-mindedness; you can’t quite remember the name of the sites you visited or exactly which way you went to get there, and trying to list everything you did on any particular day becomes an amusing yet challenging dinnertime game.

A recent sojourn in Ubud, approximately an hour from Denpasar in the mountainous folds of Bali’s hinterland, was particularly wonderful, and even though its exactness remains a little hazy, an alternate reality endures, one  bursting with a kaleidoscope of colour, sound and fragrance. I’m sure it’s because instead of remembering, I absorbed, allowing my senses to be overwhelmed by both the evocative nature of the beauty and the everyday; the sweet-smelling air, the flower-bedecked shrines, the muddied walls of cloud-reflecting rice paddies, raucous cicadas trilling from bamboo giants, women threshing grasses and their generous smiles as we passed by, centuries-old rock-hewn steps leading to temples devoured by forest, the smell of freshly ground coffee, the spicy aromas, the piquancy of mie goreng noodles.

Being a photographer I’m used to looking at the world through a viewfinder; finding the perfect combination of colour, shape and shadow and committing that to memory, but in Ubud, I experienced something else entirely. Here creativity is boundless, culture is respected and there’s a generosity of spirit that sees you bond to and consider what you see. Wander anywhere, and you’re sure to be mesmerised.

Of course, like many destinations, mayhem and quietude exist side by side. Ubud town’s streets are a mass of shops, restaurants, bars and spas, and the brilliant yet overwhelming art market takes pluckiness to navigate, but leave its confines and in minutes you’re able to wander in silence, the Sacred Monkey Forest or the Campuhan Ridge Walk ringed by tangled vines and greenery, perfect examples.

A cycling trip was ideal for discovering what lay further afield, following our leader through tranquil country villages where rice dried on the roadside and families shared meals together, and deftly around rice paddies - a challenging pursuit when pathways were little more than goat tracks. He took us to Pura Tirta Empul where we contemplated both Hindu worshipers and tourists seek purification under fountains flowing with blessed water, and to Gunung Kawi temple nestled by a cascading waterfall, its shrines carved into the rock-face  impressive and humbling.

Come to Ubud to recall or not recall. Here there’s no right answer.

The India Magazine

We’re at home - like so many right now - and looking back at past projects while pondering what will come next. Before being forced to slow down like this, it felt like we were running from project to project (which was glorious in its own way), falling utterly in love with the country we were exploring, before being overtaken by wanderlust anew.

Thinking about the adventures we’re embarked on, the tales and work amassed, the people we’ve met, has been surprisingly comforting - it’s not often that we take the time to pause and remember, to be excited by what we have done, rather than what we hope to do next. It has been wonderful to take stock of the beauty and passion out there, and to be reminded that when this passes - which is shall - that travel, curiosity, respect and support will be vital.

We wanted to share the editor’s letter from our India magazine (which is still available here) , as well as a few photographs from the issue. Hope the colour and besotted ramblings bring a little joy.

Creating these magazines is joyous, a chance to see the world in extraordinary detail and share the work of contributors driven by awe, curiosity and a need to create. The process is both inspiring and unpredictable, with each issue taking on a life of its own, but I can’t think of any as delightfully eccentric or lively as India.

Or as demanding for that matter - for how do you capture a country this diverse? I considered producing two magazines - North and South - or focusing on a single state, yet ultimately decided not to meddle with the Lodestars’ status quo. We would, as always, offer vignettes, snapshots of India’s attractions, culture and communities, its myriad of ever-shifting personalities. For even if our focus had been narrowed, you simply can’t do India’s immensity justice.

Understandably, selecting this issue’s featured locations proved challenging. Our best hope was to offer a geographical spread, a window into worlds which, whilst they might seem remote, are still kith and kin to Mother India. But I also made some personal choices. For me it was vital that Darjeeling be featured. The gateway to the Himalayas, this is an India far removed from the sun-baked Rajasthan I’d explored - a place where great snows fall and time seems to slow. My grandfather, Alan, spent his childhood in Darjeeling, on Nagri Farm, a working tea plantation to this day, where he remained until Partition, a time of heartbreak and violence seared into his memory yet rarely discussed. You can only imagine the horror and pain this period caused for Indians. Alan had grown up looking at the mountains, too young to be aware of the political and social ramifications of his family’s presence, yet absolutely alive to the magnificence of the world around him.

I wasn’t sure how appropriate it was to share this story, especially when on the ground, but what’s surprising about India is how open everyone is when it comes to discussing history and how willing people are to share their stories and listen to those of others.

This country is generous to travellers. It is bewitching, tumultuous, electrifying, maddening and addictive. You will adore or despair of it, whatever emotion it draws out guaranteed to be extreme. Travelling here you nd that life’s nuances, its highs and lows, are on full display. There will be moments when it all feels too much, when your mind yearns for calm, but then you’ll see something that takes your breath away. India will sweep you up, envelop you, and leave you enraptured. Then you depart and all those experiences seem like a distant dream, so at odds with the ordinariness of your everyday. People ask me what I thought of India and I have to take a moment to remind myself I was even there. And then it all comes flooding back.

Alive as it is, this issue is slightly different. We’ve published something particularly photo-heavy; a magazine that will take you on a journey you feel rather than understand - one I hope allows you to respond to its pages the way you would to scenes on the ground. You’ll find within images of Holi in Varanasi, a lesser-known Goa, reclaimed fortresses, architectural marvels, beaches by the Arabian Sea, cosmopolitan madness, rural artisans, temple-dotted mountains and wilderness.

I feel even now, trying to describe a magazine that describes an impossible country, I’m failing somewhat, because India is beyond words. It is changing, harrowing, rousing, radiant and unparalleled. It is all things at once - constantly, unendingly - and more than I could ever say.

Maana Homes

Words & Photographs by Holly Farrier

While I was in Japan in March, as part of a lengthy journey across Asia, COVID-19 began escalating day by day and the worrying news was coming in thick and fast. We arrived on the 10th, and got to spend two incredible weeks in a very quiet Japan before cutting our trip short and following the government’s advice to return home to the U.K. Right now, while we are all staying home, I am holding these memories so dear and hope that these photographs can bring you some zen or escapism. 

Having perused hundreds of beautiful photographs, Kyoto was the city I was most excited to see … and it did not disappoint. There were seemingly endless places to explore, eat, have coffee, shop and immerse ourselves in astounding nature. It is a photographer’s paradise!

Due to the situation evolving as we were travelling, we appreciated more than ever having a wonderfully calm and secure house to call home for the week. We stayed in two of Maana Homes immaculately renovated machiya houses, which mix traditional Japanese design and craftsmanship with a minimal style. It was calming just being in these spaces and they have everything you need to practice the Japanese concept of Zen; yoga mats, stunning ceramic tea sets for ceremonies and a bath big enough to feel like a private onsen. For those in Japan, they are still operating business as usual for now, and for the rest of us I urge you to visit when this is all over, for an accommodation experience in Kyoto that inspires the mind. 

To learn more, or make a booking, click here.

If you’re after a little more travel inspiration, the Japan magazine is available over on the online shop.

Greetings from Spain

We’re going to take you on a visual journey by diving into the archives of Mercedes Catalan, a Switzerland-based, Spanish photographer who contributed wonderful work to our Swiss magazine. Below you’ll find a dreamy selection of photos from her homeland, taken in Frigiliana (one of the prettiest villages in Spain), Nerja (found right by the sea), Antequera (famed for its churches and monasteries), El Torcal (known for its strange rock formations) and glorious, iconic Sevilla.

Travel feels like a strange concept right now, but we hope these images fill you with joy, remind you that this shall pass, and that there is an awful lot of beauty out there … just waiting, for when we are ready.

TextileSeekers

In February, I ventured to Vietnam, travelling from Hanoi to Sa Pa with TextileSeekers, a boutique travel company founded by Thao Phuong that is dedicated to promoting sustainability, community, craft traditions and artisanal expertise. Thao curates these tours for women (in partnership with local tribeswomen and charity organisations), introducing her travellers to the region’s cultural wonders. It is a unique chance to slow down and seek beauty - and a reminder that travel is about connection as much as adventure.

Understandably at the moment, travel is on hold as we come to terms with our new circumstances and focus on keeping safe, staying home and helping those in need. It is not an easy time for anyone. So I wanted to share these images - captured by Angela Terrell, my mother, who often joins me on these jaunts - as a reminder of how vibrant, diverse and wonderful our world is. They are postcards from another place … and another time.

TextileSeekers shall continue to offer intimate, guided tours through Vietnam in the not too distant future (you can keep and eye on Thao’s plans, progress and collaborations by clicking here), but until then, we hope you enjoy these snapshots - reminders of what is out there, waiting to be discovered, when the world is ready. Liz Schaffer & Angela Terrell

Mexico, my love

Our Mexico magazine is off to the printers in April and before we bid it farewell, I wanted to share a collection of photos that - while utterly stunning - we simply couldn’t fit in our ever-explanding magazine … oh to have even more pages. I’ve run them here with part of my draft editor’s letter (don’t worry, still have a little time to polish it up before it hits the press), to give you a taste of what’s to come - biased as I may be, this magazine is going to be rather special.

I’ve waxed lyrical about diversity before, yet Mexico is something else entirely - a destination that lends itself to lists, to half finished thoughts, rather than sentences. It is a sensory overload, an explosion of colour and passion, a place with no desire to be captured, tamed, frozen on the page. The cultures, traditions, accents, flavours and designs are so manifold that should you travel from the north to the south, you’d swear you had stumbled upon a different world. Heck, Mexico City and Puebla, separated by a two hour bus ride, could well be countries apart. Mexico is impossible to know in full, and is a nation that is forever evolving, while somehow remaining beholden to its past. 

When it comes to Mexico - where grace and joy are intwined with sorrow, heartbreak and the etherial - 164 pages doesn't feel like enough … and an editor’s letters seems entirely useless. So, instead of introducing some of her many guises (as the land of powerful matriarchs and enterprising women, Mexico is indeed female), I shall instead explain why I chose our cover photo, captured during Día de Muertos celebrations in Chiapas by Jimena Peck. 

The world is in flux at the moment - things are fast-changing, difficult and far from predictable. However, I wanted to release this Mexico magazine on schedule, not only for the sake of our wonderful contributors (who are talented beyond words and travel in such daring, brilliant ways) and those we have featured (some of whom are inevitably struggling at the moment), but because the world needs beauty. Wanderlust, support, escape, appreciation and joy are vital, and I so hope in some small way this issue provides that. Be kind, despite all that is happening, we are astoundingly connected. 

These photos come from Ellen Hancock, Angela Terrell, Jimena Peck, Emma Phillips and Leila Ashtari. Click on their names to visit their websites.

To pre-order the magazine (and right now, every pre-order helps more than you could know), click here.

Annapurna Mellor

We chat to Lodestars Anthology cover photographer Annapurna Mellor about the joys of photography and travel - to see more of her work be sure to check out our India magazine here. 

What drew you to photography?

I never studied photography and initially I fell into it. After I graduated from university, I felt quite lost in my life and decided to travel solo around Asia for a year. I first went to Nepal to hike the mountain I was named after, and then continued through India, South East Asia and Mongolia. I started with a small camera which I didn’t know how to use outside of Auto mode, and throughout that year got more and more into shooting. I learnt techniques from other travellers and the photos I was taking got better and better. I had a blog at the time and family and friends back home started telling me I should do it as a career. My dad is actually a travel photographer too, so I think I have a natural eye from him which is perhaps how my images developed very quickly at the beginning. I loved the idea of being able to have a job where I could travel and tell stories of people and places around the world. Finding the incredible work of photographers like Steve McCurry and Alison Wright just inspired me even more. Of course, over the few years since then I have found out that this is a very hard career to make money from, and it isn’t just all about travelling and taking photos, but my love and passion for image making has always carried me through.

How would you describe your style?

I describe myself as a travel photographer because while I shoot a mixture of portraits, street photography and landscapes, I am always trying to portray a sense of place through my images. I want people to look at my photographs and feel like they are in a place; meeting the people, walking the streets. My work definitely has a documentary angle, as I’ve always been drawn to cultures when I travel and I love capturing people and telling their stories.

Has your style changed over time?

Yes, to a degree. I only started taking photographs around four years ago and I found very quickly that I mostly connected to photographing people and that is also what my audience responded to. Quickly my portraits have become what I am known for, and they are still my favourite thing to shoot. Overtime, my style has definitely become more refined and I think my skills as a storyteller have improved. In the beginning, I was just shooting things which I thought were beautiful, without much regard for how the images fitted together and how they might make a story. Now it’s one of the main things I think about when I’m shooting.

Has there been a particularly memorable shoot?

I’ve had some amazing opportunities to shoot beautiful places and people all over the world, and different shoots stand out for different reasons. My first big magazine assignment (for National Geographic Traveller) was along the English/Scottish Borders. It was a location totally different for me, and after having spent a few years living in Asia building my portfolio, I was nervous if I could capture the UK in a way which still felt like my style. I took my sister with me as my driver/model and we spent four days driving along the border. It rained constantly, we had to sleep in an unheated barn one night (in early February) due to a lack of any budget, and we ended up in a lot of locations I was supposed to shoot thinking ‘is this it?’. It was a really tough shoot but in the end I think I captured some images which really celebrated the beauty of the place, and it made me realise that sometimes challenging shoots end up being the most rewarding.

You've travelled the world taking photographs, do you have a favourite location or subject?

India is my favourite place both to travel and to take photographs. I feel a very strong connection with the country and when I’m there I feel very at home. As a photographer, it’s a paradise. The colours, the faces, the festivals and spirituality. I feel like I could spend a lifetime photographing India and there would still be more to see, more to capture.

Can you tell us about capturing the Lodestars Anthology India cover image?

That photograph was taken at the Pushkar Lake in Pushkar, Rajasthan a few years ago during my second trip to the country. Pushkar is a gorgeous little town between Jaipur and Jodhpur, and I spent almost a month there over the annual Camel Fair, capturing local herders and families on the dunes.

Some days, I would take time off and sit around the lake where it was very peaceful and quiet. Most of the lake is for pilgrims, who bathe in the holy waters, which are said to be tears of Lord Shiva. I was sat on the opposite side one day when all these women in vibrant dress walked past. I loved the contrast of their bright clothes with the white background of Pushkar town and the lake. Little unexpected moments of magic like this often happen in India.

You also run ROAM magazine, can you tell us about this project?

I started ROAM two years ago with my sister Athena. I felt like there was a lack of a platform which focused on storytelling and cultures, and too much travel media was becoming about the traveller not about the place. I wanted to change the conversation about travel, and create a platform to celebrate the work of travellers who seek out deeper cultural connections and off the beaten track places.

We publish photo essays, stories, interviews, guides and features from all over the world. We aim to delve into places a little more off the beaten track, or to highlight cultures you may never have come across. Imagery is a huge focus for us, and we love finding beautiful photography to illustrate the magazine with. We are contributor based, and have published stories from amazing photographers, writers and creatives from around the world. Our aim is eventually to make ROAM into a physical magazine, full of stories and beautiful photography.

What advise do you have for someone looking to begin a photography career?

Firstly, this is a really hard and unpredictable profession and you really need to love it with all your heart to want to pursue it as a career. If you do, then I think it’s really important to develop your own style and unique way of telling stories. This is what will make you stand out from everyone else.

To see more of Annapurna’s work, click here.

An English Summer

Photo essay by Chanel Irvine.

 ‘An English Summer’ is a documentary photography project produced over the English summer of 2019 - three years after the referendum that saw 51.89% of the population vote to leave the European Union, with 48.11% voting to remain. From the very beginning of the campaign, and still persisting today, there has been an incredible amount of uncertainty and conflict regarding the issue. This was emphasised by the overwhelming number of protestors and participants in the ‘People’s Vote’ marches; in October 2018, March 2019 and again in October 2019, with an estimated one million people taking part in both of the 2019 protests. 

With these images, Chanel turned away from the visible political tension and outrage and focused instead on the subtle and simple things that make the English summer months so very nostalgic; unguided by place and unaffected by the political climate of the time. Drawn to the “quintessentially British”, these images offer a sense of consistency that wasn’t reflected by the government’s negotiations, communication and promises over the last three and a half years.  Whilst uncertainty surrounding Brexit continues to shake and unsettle the nation, this body of work was created to give viewers an opportunity to pause and consider the timeless British joys that will remain, despite everything we stand to lose in leaving. 

Artist bio: As a documentary photographer, Chanel’s practice seeks to portray the power of human initiative, connection and contribution. Inspired by the importance of solution-based journalism, she embraces visual communication that empowers and inspires. Her stories often focus on livelihoods, environments and communities that are susceptible to change based on emerging trends, development demands and the technological progressions that inevitably accompany today’s increasingly modern society. In this way, her photographs aim not only to serve as a historical preservation of their subjects, but to shed light on their most admirable, steadfast and necessary presence in today’s world.

Using a retrospective lens, Chanel’s more personal work similarly reflects this tension between preservation and change. With an eye for moments she deems timeless, her observations consistently focus on scenes that are reminiscent of older, simpler times, which persist seemingly unaffected by the advancements that continuously transform the world we live in. As a result, her photographs accentuate the “ordinary” - reasserting its importance as a photographic subject and highlighting the beauty that can constantly be rediscovered in the everyday.

Chanel is based in London and recently completed an MA at the Spéos Photographic Institute following a Bachelor of Politics, Philosophy and Economics at the Australian National University, where she focused on questions of social and global justice.

The Montagu Arms

Words by Sarah Jappy, Illustrations by Piera Cirefice & Photographs by Liz Schaffer

“DONKEYS!” My companion emits an ear-piercing shriek of excitement and bashes her hand violently against our bedroom window. It’s a testament to The Montagu Arms’ durable windows that ours resists this assault, somehow emerging unscathed and unshattered.

I’m by no means playing it cool either. Together we press our faces to the glass and peer down in delighted wonderment at the dozen or so donkeys languidly pottering past the tea shop opposite. The locals we spy at their tables, midway through mouthfuls of buttered crumpet, carrot cake and brie-and-cranberry sandwiches, are not at all perturbed by this equine procession; clearly living in Brockenhurst makes one somewhat blasé when it comes to streetside animal encounters.

As exports from London and Sydney respectively, we in no way approach blasé. Had those donkeys decided to pootle into our handsome hideaway, past the guardianship of the Montagu’s two stately stone dogs and Andrew, the highly likeable hotel manager, we would have welcomed them with open arms. The Montagu Arms has more than enough room to go round; perhaps we could have joined the donkeys for convivial afternoon tea on one of the library’s squashy sofas, or for cocktails and nibbles in the cosy conservatory. We probably wouldn’t have invited them up to our room: a snug ivory-and-honey-hued haven with whitewashed furniture, toucan-and-leaf-print curtains, a tempting bed with a blue-patterned headboard and a glittering white-tiled bathroom with a generous rain shower and a big bath tub.

We definitely wouldn’t have shared dinner that night with them. The thickly carpeted, wood-panelled, ruby-walled Terrace Restaurant is a smart setting for very smart food – and donkeys aren’t permitted, even in dinner jackets.

Our meal kicks off with gin-fizz cocktails and a flurry of canapés – gobstopper-sized venison doughnuts, cheese-and-onion macarons and butternut-squash tartlets – followed by a plaice-and-lamb-and-caramel-fondant feast of gout-inducing proportions, culminating in a magnificent cheese trolley with approximately 40 ponky perks, a plethora of crackers and a lifetime’s worth of quince paste. (Bonus points to sommelier Sergio for his ruinously good wine pairings.)

Food is a running theme at The Montagu Arms, which regularly expands visiting waistlines via bacon-toting breakfasts, pastry-laden afternoon teas, multi-course dinners and leisurely, pub-grub lunches at Monty’s Inn, which remains perma-packed with happy locals and in-the-know out-of-towners throughout our stay. Likewise, we spend most of our time in Brockenhurst putting delicious things in our mouths, including five-star chicken-and-pesto paninis from The Buttery Café and old-fashioned cola sweeties from Cards & Candies. Fearing likely starvation on the train back to London, we cautiously invest in about £40-worth of chocolate bars and truffles from Beaulieu Chocolate Studio, including Turkish delight, ginger, vanilla and rose flavoured numbers.

When we’re not eating, we’re donkey-spotting. This is mainly unsuccessful, as when we loop around various rural ring roads, wander down a mad-dog-inhabited field and get lost in the Brockenhurst black hole that is the World of Top Gear; once or twice we strike donkey or mini-pony gold. Recent rainfall means that the local walking paths are gravity-defyingly boggy, causing my companion to amusingly topple over into a bath of mud at one point. Undeterred, we enjoy multiple tramps in the wintery Brockenhurst countryside, heartened by the image of the crackling fires and cracking G&Ts awaiting us back at boutique basecamp.

After two days of intrepid feasting, falling over and going on wild donkey-chases, it’s time for us to pack our bags for home and reach for those survival train truffles. We do this reluctantly. The Montagu Arms won’t make you slimmer – but it will make you happier, with or without those dinky domesticated horses.

To learn more - or simply book a room - click here.

We first ran a story on The Montagu Arms in our England magazine (along with Piera’s illustrations). You can order a copy here.

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The Great Fiat Hunt

From August to November 2015, Lodestars contributors Renae Smith and Kieren Toscan (and Gina the Fiat) took a slow trip all over Italy in search of one of its most iconic cars - the vintage Fiat 500. They documented their journey with photos and stories of the 500s they found, the people who love and drive them, and many of the other things they came across along the way.

What began as a ‘hey wouldn’t it be cool to...’ idea over a few red wines some years ago grew into one of the biggest projects they’d ever undertaken. The resulting book, The Great Fiat Hunt, is a thing of beauty - one you can order here.

Enjoy the excerpt below …

Food, Life and Love with Antonio Carlucio

Interview by Liz Schaffer & Photographs by Tom Bunning

Very sadly Commendatore Antonio Carluccio OBE passed away in November last year. We hope you'll enjoy reading this interview with him, first published in Lodestars Anthology Issue 4, Italy. 

Proudly declaring himself to be a cook rather than a chef (by his own definition a chef is professional while a cook does it for passion), Antonio Carluccio was the quintessential Italian about London. Driven by his zest for food, life and Italy, it was the passing on of wisdom that inspires much of Carluccio’s work. Arriving in England via Austria and Germany, where he worked as a wine merchant for almost a decade, Carluccio launched a fleet of eponymous restaurants, ran some of the capital’s culinary icons, became a BBC fixture and was awarded an OBE, which he retitled his Order Boletus Edulis - the Latin name for mushroom, his signature. Young at heart, Carluccio’s enthusiasm was invigorating; proof that life should be lived in the pursuit of pleasure, ardour and flavour.

Your background and training are quite unconventional. Can you tell us about this and how you came to be a cook?

I was born on the Amalfi Coast and was the fifth son of a stationmaster. [We were] transported up North where I grew up near Asti, then I moved a little further up and worked for Olivetti. At the time Olivetti was something fantastic but I didn’t like it very much and I was thinking I could holiday on the Riviera and [there] I met an Austrian girl and we fell in love. She came to work in Olivetti and when my youngest brother died in 1960 she said, “why didn’t I come to Vienna?”.

I cooked all the time because in Vienna to have the food my mother used to [make] I had to cook. I remembered what she was doing because in Italy when you are the young son you participate in everything.

In Vienna I started to cook what I knew. I didn’t know very much but I cook and cook and I’m sharing it with friends and frequenting bohemian cafes. You meet incredible people and I like art so I met Oskar Kokoschka and Max Ernst and we were sharing pasta. I was having fun and cooking all the time. It was only when I came to England in 1975 [and] I was still cooking, that my ex-wife [suggested], “why you don’t [enter] the best cook competition of The Sunday Times?”. I did and I was in the final but for me it wasn’t professional, I was a wine merchant, but funnily enough the press began to contact me. For them I was ‘the Italian’, flamboyant and believing in mushrooms and pasta, and so I was in the press.

At the same time my ex-brother-in-law Terence Conran, the owner of the Neal Street Restaurant in Covent Garden, asked me to run the restaurant and I said, “look I don’t cook, I don’t do administration, but I will be there doing the restaurant and running it”, which I did. Then came the BBC and I did quite a [few] food and drink programmes. My first Italian series was going to Italy doing twelve half an hours in all the regions. The other series was with Gennaro Contaldo but I did quite a lot in between and I was also writing books. I can’t stay doing nothing.

Do you think people are drawn to the Italian attitude towards food?

Italians live for food. When we were children going to school in the morning you’re already preoccupied by what you would eat in the day. It was the end of war time and the question to other children was “what will you eat for lunch?” and after the meal it was “what did you have for lunch?”, constantly. I remember in the afternoon, when you’re boys you do things, sometimes we were stealing a cabbage from the field and cutting it very, very thinly. Somebody [brought] olive oil, somebody a bit of vinegar and salt and pepper and we were making salad with bread. It was the best salad ever.

Is there an ethos or technique that sets your food apart?

I created a motto for my cooking, ‘mof mof’, minimum of fuss, maximum of flavour, and as such I don’t go to the lengths to elaborate on food because the most important thing is the taste. If you have the taste the look can be indifferent.

In fact we have items in Italy called brutte ma buone, ugly but good; fruit, even biscuits, that show you the possibility of the flavour. I dedicate everything to that which is obtained by regional food. Italy is famed for its 20 diverse regions.

What do you think makes them so distinctive?

Italy was unified in 1861 but I think in spirit each region is a country. You find culture in Italy from everywhere because each one was coming, the French, the Persians, everybody, to Italy. Even Alexander the Great was there. They united Italy in 1861 but there are different languages, different dialects, different customs. But they are united in thinking of the food as one of the best things.

They may be united by a love of food but is there still competition between the regions?

Between little villages! If somebody makes a dish someone in the next village will say, “ahh but I do it with this and this and this”. Immediately there is a conversation. I remember as a child if you were encountering somebody on road and it was lunchtime you would say, “do you want to have lunch?”. It was very simple. They would come home with you. So this is the attitude of the Italian, they really care. I always say that Italy has two or three million Michelin starred chefs, they’re all the housewives.

What do you love most about Italian cooking?

The Italians, what they have in front of others, the Germans, Austrians, English, French, is the attitude. I remember when we used to live in the train station my mother would say, “go downstairs and see if the trains are departing on time” in order to put the pasta in the water so that when papa was coming up the pasta was perfect. When you grow up with this sense of procedure and [significance] then you know food is important. She was really thinking to please other people because cooking for others is an act of love.

[Because of the various regions and diversity] I think that Italy has a more complete menu. There are 600 shapes of pasta and each can be done as a specialty with a special sauce, special ingredients. Italians want good taste and they’re prepared to use all those wonderful shops. In Napoli especially there were shops selling only pasta, and the pasta was loose, not in packets but in drawers, and all the leftovers were put into one ‘special’ and this is for pasta e fagioli - bean soup with pasta - which is wonderful, all bits and pieces. So they really have fun. While other nations have fun in eating the Italian has fun in thinking and imagining it.

What advice do you have for prospective chefs?

You have to desire food, not being greedy but being discerning about what you eat, and pay attention and love your food. If you don’t have those three things you stop cooking because there would be no point, it would just be a job, no fun. Food, it’s not only preparation but fun in eating. It’s good for the brain, for the body, the spirit, for everything.

Postcards From Slovenia

Words & Photographs by Angela Terrell.

With love in its name, Slovenia certainly infatuates. Nestled between Italy, Hungary, Austria and Croatia, this tiny nation, rich in history and folklore, abounding in natural beauty and remarkably green in ethos (International Bee Day was instigated here) is a mecca for those seeking a bit of everything in one destination. For here are pristine yet dramatic Alpine wonderlands perfect for hiking, biking and river rapid runs, culture-filled cities, Tuscan-style hills dotted with vines, olive groves and ancient villages, a short yet stunning coastline and bounty-filled cuisine from Michelin star genius to ‘kremšnita’, reputedly the best cream cake on the planet.

So undertaking a road trip with my patient, non-camera-toting partner (of course in an electric car) was an absolute joy for this camera-wielding, nature-loving tragic. We drove through hamlets brimming with flowerpots, pride and life, past WWI defence-line relics, up and down fifty switchbacks on the spectacular Vršič Pass and past mountain ranges rising abruptly from haystack-filled pastures, stopping along the way at rustic cafes and quintessential photo-spots.

Lake Bled was magical and we walked its circumference watching wooden ‘pletna’ boats, paddleboarders, kayakers and swimmers share the crystal-clear water. We followed Vintgar Gorge’s boardwalks past gentle pools and bubbling cascades, mesmerised by the water’s misty cloak, and hiked to waterfalls like the delicate Slap Kozjak encased in an emerald cavern and the dramatic Slap Peričnik, the spray from the deafening falls a welcome relief after the steep ascent. We zoomed down zip-lines in Bovec, unceremoniously screaming as we soared 200 meters above the Učja River. We rode the intriguing railway in Postojna Caves and searched for olm (aquatic salamanders) in the stalagmite-bordered pools, before heading to nearby Predjama Castle, the largest cave castle in the world. We sat in a forest hide listening to the sylvan cacophony and waiting for brown bears, spellbound when two mothers and their cubs began grazing like contented cows a stone’s throw from our perch. We swam in azure water by Piran’s ancient city walls, and watched children in an alfresco art class draw the Venetian and Baroque architecture of Tartini Square whilst an 80 year old rollerblader executed perfect lunges across its marbled surface.

Whether environmentalist, gourmand, photographer, adventurer or one seeking solace in beauty - you’ll so love Slovenia.

Swiss Seasons

Photographer Mercedes Catalan has long called Switzerland home and - as well as contributing to our Switzerland magazine - has spent much of her time roving around the county capturing its landscapes, people and festivities. One of her more recent projects saw her document the festival of Alpabfahrt in the towns of Entlebuch (where one of the largest celebrations takes places - complete with yodelling) and Elm (a little village in canton Glarus). During the festival farmers drive the flower-festooned cattle from their Alpine summer pastures to their winter stables - and the images are suitably divine.

Japan ... revisited

Rather thrilled to announce that we are re-releasing (and updating) our sold out Japan magazine - so if you fancy ordering a copy (it shall be heading out into the world on 22 October) you can do so once more!

The issue is filled with some original classics - jaunts to Ago Bay, feasts in Osaka, ambles along the Kumano Kodō, soaks in Kinosaki Onsen, cherry blossom chasing, Okinawa swimming and Hokkaido adventures (to name just a few tales) - as well as new escapades in Shimane, the Gotō Islands and a host of rather excellent hot springs …

Here is a sneak peak of some of the photographs gathered on our recent wanderings, as well as some older gems. Can’t wait to introduce the mag (and some of these images) to the world!

You can order a copy by clicking here.

Photographs by Greta Rybus, Renae Smith, Angela Terrell, Orlando Gili and Holly Farrier.

An English Country Garden

Photographs by Orlando Gili & Words by Isabelle Hopewell

I always forget just how easy it is to get out of London. And while the English capital is an utter delight - a city well worth moving across the globe for - getting out every now and then is remarkably good for the soul.

Drive an hour and a bit from the bustle of Bermondsey, as I did one glorious September morning, and you’ll find yourself amongst the fields and forests of Sussex … the deliciously verdant county that is home to the dreamy/stately/divine Gravetye Manor. Flower bedecked, wondrously historic and with a flair for luxury, this country-manor-house-turned-17-bedroom-hotel boats 1,000 acres of lovingly-tended grounds, a Michelin-starred restaurant and opulence aplenty. It is a hideaway for all seasons, a bolthole with character, an ornate, brilliantly decorated secret you long to keep all to yourself.

While it’s difficult to pick a stand out feature, the gardens themselves are things of absolute beauty. The original landscaping was done by Gravetye’s once-owner William Robinson, hailed by many of one of England’s greatest gardeners. He pioneered the English natural garden style, working with rather than attempting to control the land’s natural splendour. Today the grounds are a wonderland. A wildflower meadow tumbles towards the manor’s Hammer Lake (a by-product of historic iron-smelting). Beyond this lies an inviting network of walking trails, many of which, after passing through woodlands and picturesque towns, lead you to local pubs, live the charming 16th century Cat Inn.

There is an orchard whose trees were laden with late-summer apples and pears (while peaches flourished in the nearby Peach House), a croquet lawn and an expansive kitchen garden, which grows fruit, herbs, vegetables and flowers used to supply the kitchen.

And on the subject of kitchens … when it comes to The Dining Room - oh my! Recently renovated, the space is a modern, light-bathed, gallery-esque space - all glass, stone, pastel flourishes and painted florals. It is glass fronted - an ingenious was of inviting the natural world in, a feature that is most captivating come breakfast (or lunch). When the sun descends and dinner is served - after some Sussex bubbles in the wood-panelled lounge, this is English wine country after all - it is the artwork adorning the walls and tableware, created by French artist Claire Basler, that will provide all the conversation fodder required - splendid and soothing in equal measure.

There is no better backdrop for the fare of Head Chef George Blogg - my seasonal feast a delectable medley of rich native lobster served with sunflower seeds, fennel and kumquat (my companion’s cured Isle of Gigha Halibut an equally piquant joy), followed by beautifully balanced local roe venison, made exquisite by leek, black garlic and hen of the wood - the combination so heavenly we both felt the need to order the same main! Out feast concluded with a glorious assortment of British cheeses and coffee beside one of the manor’s many fires - the experience timeless, refined and scrumptious.

Retiring to our converted attic bedroom - a homely, contemporary, flower-inspired space that managed to fuse country-chic with modern-luxury (each room in uniquely shaped and decorated, yet all have soothing palettes and plush fabrics that are inspired by the grounds) - I mused on my meal while soaking in the roll top tub before tumbling into a cloud-soft bed, so at ease I can’t quire remember if I dreamed.

What I do know is that Gravetye Manor is one of the most remarkable places to wake up. Beyond the window (and in our rather spacious room, there were many) the sky was the blue, the fields green and the gardens blissful. A final morning stroll through the last of summer’s blooms - thriving and resplendent - had me breathing deeper, moving slower, and just about ready to return to the modern world. For those seeking to daydream, dine and repose somewhere historic and wondrous, Gravetye really does tick all of the boxes.

To learn more about the property and book a meal or room, click here.

Into the wilderness

A journey into the raw beauty of the Arctic circle in Lofoten  - by Simon Revingon 

The plane crests gently left and I look out at a cragged, scarred black and white landscape. Beneath me, huge boulders of dark stone, draped in thick blankets of snow with jagged patterns cut deep by ancient glaciers. My eyes trace the enormous sloping lines which tear their way through the snow covered earth. Towering peaks shelter frozen lakes from the sun and candyfloss white clouds hang in a crisp Arctic sky. This is quite a welcome and unlike any landscape I’ve ever seen before, an electric thrill of anticipation jolts through me. 

I am visiting Norway’s Lofoten Islands, located in the Arctic Circle and known as one of the world’s most naturally beautiful, unspoiled places. The country recently voted to block explorative oil drilling in this vast, pristine wilderness and having followed the story with interest, I can’t wait to experience the area’s rugged beauty. 

For this trip I am travelling with my wife, master navigator and fellow travel addict. Our plane lands spectacularly, skidding to an unsteady stop on the runway, a cold blast of ice screaming into the early morning air. We head south from Tromsø, first collecting the campervan that will be our home for the next two weeks then setting out for Bardufoss. I struggle to keep my eyes on the road as it curls and dips around corners and fjords, each bend bringing picture perfect postcard views. We find our first camping spot for the night and before darkness falls I push out up into the hills to start exploring the stunning scenery. 

Donning snow boots, jacket and beanie, I tackle the peak on the far side of the valley, my feet crunching over a thick carpet of snow. Deer tracks zig-zag through the wintery landscape and the peaceful quiet is only interrupted by the occasional snow pile falling lazily from the spruce trees lining my path. The scenery is breath-taking and for all its reputation for hardship, not to mention the biting cold wind cutting relentlessly through my jacket, I can’t help but be stunned by the sheer wonder of this Arctic wilderness. 

An early start the next morning as we set out for the Lofoten Islands, driving through a brilliant white wonderland, the wind whipping relentlessly across the bare land. Screaming, it skims the hard packed snow that covers the roads. As we cross our first bridge, leaving the frozen mainland behind, a surreal view unfolds before us, so unique I’m stunned. Turquoise waters, clean and bright, dazzle below us under the soft sunshine like some Mediterranean paradise mistakenly wrapped in the icy depths of winter. Through the cracked snow, vivid colours scream out, the pristine water so clear you can see the bottom.

We round another bend and suddenly grand, ragged peaks crowd my view. They reach up into a bright blue sky basking in the gentle afternoon sunlight, the entire landscape bathed in its warm orange glow. I feel like we’ve arrived in Valhalla and begin to understand the inspiration behind the Nordic legends I’ve read.

We make camp in Hammerstad and our host is generous with her time. She tells us about the long winter the country is just now emerging from, blinking into the sunshine after months lived in near constant darkness. We camp right up against the fjord, its banks offering a front row seat to the two ice capped summits standing guard over our van, immovable and protective.

In the morning, brilliant sunshine as two Arctic swans swim elegantly downstream. Revived by cups of scalding hot coffee we continue through this magnificent landscape towards Svolvær, an historic fishing town that clings to the coastline. The town is the jumping off point for visiting the iconic Trollfjord area and we head out onto the open water of the fjords by boat, the glacial wind cutting into hands and slapping our faces. I have never experienced such unrelenting cold and am immediately happy that we are wearing jumpsuits and goggles.  Far from land, looking out across the water as steep-sided mountains disappear into the tumultuous dark blue waves below, it is easy to lose yourself to the brilliant wilderness of this landscape. A place removed from time, it is as peaceful as any I have known. 

Still enthralled by the beauty of our trip through the fjord we set off to the even more remote town of Hov Gård on the island of Gimsøy. We follow long, straight roads in the pale light of early evening, the sun-washed sky a glowing palette of pink and pastel orange.

We’ve been told by many of the people we’ve met along the way that Hov is one of the best spots to see the northern lights. Looking skywards from the beach I’m not overly optimistic as clouds roll in and the sun sets, swamping the sky in a thick, swirling grey blanket. 

But the wind changes direction. Suddenly patches of sky become visible and the patches soon become swathes until, like some unseen hand removing a blanket, the sky abruptly reveals its hidden treasures. Stars sparkle brightly against a inky dark sky. And then it begins, the world’s oldest, most dazzling lightshow.

The first, faint glimmers of green flicker across the sky. A figment of our overeager imagination or Aurora’s whispers? Growing bolder, the lights dance and tease above us, shimmering across the sky’s carefully laid stage. On cue, a crescendo, the unheard music peaking, light bursting and racing breathlessly through the sky. Brilliant green flashes through the night sky in perfect waves of light that ripple across the darkness. Reflected nakedly in the water below, the light is graceful and ethereal, breathtaking in its reckless beauty.

The next morning sees an early start as we embark on horseback from Hov, climbing the steep, slippery mountain paths. Our Nordic horses expertly navigate their way over the icy rocks, slick with melting snow. The occasional snort the only signs of mild annoyance at having to listen to the awkward commands of such an inexpert rider. Some wannabe Arctic cowboy. On horseback the countryside seems wilder, as though you’re connected with a past long gone but which still echoes across its untamed landscapes.

Everywhere there are signs of the past, from fishing towns that grasp limpet-like to the jagged shoreline to the racks called ‘Hjell’ that dot the hills. Their precious white gold haul still the lifeblood of these towns and for so long  the engine room of the country’s economy. So many still depend on the powerful cod that spawn in the waters here each year. As we ride, tiny fishing boats bob up and down on the dark blue waves as they head out to open sea, retracing a journey taken thousands of times before.

We leave Hov on icy roads and in bright sunshine as we head towards Unstad, a remote town that has become renowned for its surfing beaches. The chance to surf in the Arctic is not one I’m going to miss and I’m thrilled when Oscar, the surf guide, says that the weather is perfect for a session. He is all enthusiasm as we strap boards to the top of the van and head out in search of waves. 

Ice and snow cover the beach and as I step out of the van to collect my board, I’m immediately aware that my wetsuit is probably not much of a match for temperatures well below zero. No matter, excitement and anticipation will have to make up for it. I start the slippery walk across clear ice, my surf boots offering no grip on the frozen path. Oscar is already far ahead of me, bounding excitedly down the beach, seemingly oblivious to the biting wind and snow-capped peaks that surround us. 

A moment of surreal clarity; I’m about to surf in the Arctic. I cross a small inlet, my feet cracking ice underfoot, and finally I’m on the beach. After a brief introduction on what to expect, we’re off into the water. 

I try to get it over with quickly, plunging determinedly ahead, expecting a bracing, roaring cold to wash over my body. Instead the water feels refreshing, crisp and exquisitely clean. The feeling is a visceral jolt, like an electric current pulsing through my body. I am alive. Vividly alive. The waves roll in endlessly, and I rise and fall, waiting. Biding my time and watching the half dozen other surfers drift and work.

I turn my board, a half glance behind me confirming my hunch that the next wave offers everything I’m looking for. Furious paddling. I fight the water for momentum, the swell rising underneath me. I feel the board lift, the Arctic waters carrying me like a piece of aimless driftwood. I pop up off the board, pivoting my feet and turning to take control of my momentum. For a second, complete freedom. I’m suspended in time, the world on a string as my board crests the wave. And then it is over as I plunge back to Earth into the pristine winter water below, wiping into rumbling white chaos as control deserts me. Thrilled, excited and stunned, I paddle immediately back out to deeper waters seeking the high of adrenaline fuelled thrill. 

Having driven back to Tromsø we drop the van off and spend our last night in a hotel overlooking the harbour. The feeling of a solid bed and room service are a million miles from where we’ve come. As we pack and I look back over the time we’ve spent in Lofoten I’m struck by how untouched and exciting the world has seemed. I desperately hope that the islands will remain as they are, protected, wild and untameable. They will stay with me always. 

La vie en Rose

Words by Sarah Jappy & Photography by Isabelle Hopewell

Having conducted a thorough investigation of The Rose, we can confirm it has no thorns. This eight-bedroom hideaway in the heart of dinky Deal – a town as suited to city-fleeing weekenders as it is to long-term seaside residencies – is styled with tongue-in-cheek vintage flair, covetable mid-century furniture and enough candy colours to fill a sweetshop. 

Refreshingly, The Rose doesn’t take life too seriously: indeed, there are multiple proofs of the hotel’s witty side, from the burlesque-worthy, red-velvet curtain screening the staircase (and what’s up it) to the cheery blue-and-white striped mugs used for builder-worthy cups of tea at breakfast.

Guests are given multiple reasons to stay in. When you first enter the hotel, you land in the snug little restaurant via a teal-tiled reception area. The restaurant and bar’s liquorice-dark walls are hung with robbed-from-granny artworks, including textured tapestries of horses and bearded, pipe-toting nautical types, plus a giant, lustrous-blue whale engraving swimming high above the tables. Toffee-coloured wood furniture and lashings of chartreuse velvet inject warmth into the inky palette; a giant, flung-open central window lets in a generous stream of sunlight, keeping things easy-breezy.

Throw in a pretty, kitsch-cushioned rose garden with mismatched chairs (perfect for sunny evening libations and lazy dinners), vintage record players in acid pastels, a hipster-pleasing art collection, cool coffee-table tomes adorning bookshelves, rattan galore and glittering crystal whisky decanters in the corridors, and you could feasibly think you’ve swapped Deal for Dalston. No surprise, then, that the hotel’s talented stylist-turned-interior designer Michelle Kelly hails from Hackney. (And very lovely she is, too; we had the pleasure of bumping into her over breakfast.)

Speaking of breakfast, the Rose’s food is a memorable highlight, starring snacky, on-trend, small-plate-style fare that betrays head chef Rachel O’Sullivan’s stint at Soho’s smash-hit holy trinity: Polpo, Polpetto and Spuntino. It’s relaxed, playful food that seems suited to sunny days (O'Sullivan is from Australia, which probably helps) and complements the hotel’s laid-back feel.

During our trip, on an alternately rainy-sunny June weekend, we feasted on giant-gobstopper-sized chicken kiev balls swimming in a golden pool of tarragon butter, green beans topped with a red flurry of romesco, moreish white-bean mash with breadcrumbs, heritage tomatoes, samphire and crème fraîche, delicate cured sea trout with sweet mustard and dill, and a commendably chewy-cheesed mac ‘n’ fromage. Given that the above list comprises one meal and one meal only, it’s perhaps unsurprising that we failed to tackle peanut parfait with raspberries, or sweet pickled strawberries with buttermilk ice-cream and shortbread. (We’ll be back.)

The cocktails were rather a little too easy to drink (fittingly, for a former pub), so the irreproachably good Climpson & Sons coffee was much appreciated the following morning – as was a buttery brioche bacon roll with zingy rhubarb ketchup, and roast mushrooms on toast with a generous dollop of goat’s curd.

Follow our example and spend some time relaxing in the colour-pop lounge and its boiled-sweet-hue sofas and chairs before heading out for a day’s worth of Deal adventures. While plotting our day, we rubbed shoulders with friendly fellow guests, including a magnificent, liquid-copper-coloured hound by the name of Baxter, who seemed to thoroughly approve of his setting. No wonder.

As Baxter knows, dogs are welcome at The Rose, and can stay overnight for a small additional charge. Our own canine companion (alas, languishing back home in London) would have gone potty with pleasure while pootling along Deal Pier, enjoying snaffled fish and chips from Middle Street Fish Bar and rambling along the beachfront, where colourful beach huts bloom like wildflowers. Less dog-friendly lures come in the form of Hoxton Store (where we purchased matching silk kimonos; an age-old British seaside essential), a pleasingly old-fashioned ice-cream parlour and a Barbie-pink beauty salon that seemed to have been transplanted straight from 1950s America and plonked in coastal Kent.

Time things right and Deal could feasibly deliver sun, sea and sand (correction: make that pebbles), but whenever you come to The Rose, you’re guaranteed: biscuits, bed and bacon. Aka bliss.

Should you wish to read more about our English escapades, you can nab a copy of the England magazine here.

And of course, you can book with The Rose by clicking here.

Ochre & Rose

Words & Photographs by Angela Terrell

I struggled working out the exact point land and water met, and as I focussed my camera on the hulking columns of ochre and rose hued sandstone that simultaneously rose into the cloudless sky and plunged into the watery abyss, I held my breath, hoping the fragile image wouldn’t shatter before its amazing symmetry was captured. Through the viewfinder I spied the roots of Kimberley roses and buttercup-yellow Kapok bushes anchored to the sentinel-like monoliths, and a kite soaring above their resilient foliage - but as time and movement were fast becoming my photographic foes, I continued scouring the glassy surface for a horizon line, increasingly breathless, until I finally took the shot.

Not surprisingly, there were a multitude of wonderful photo opportunities while we explored Australia’s largely uninhabited Kimberley coast with Aurora Expeditions, a cruise company that dolls out comfort and adventure in equal measure and specialises in travelling to pristine wilderness areas; and the Kimberley is as breathtakingly untouched as it gets. Described by Attenborough as one of the world’s wonders, this vast and isolated landscape was slowly revealed as the nautical miles passed, filling all of us on board with an overwhelming sense of its importance and our own fleeting insignificance.

It’s difficult reproducing the contradictions and nuances of the landscape though. The profound beauty hides an unforgiving wildness, and despite containing some of the world’s most ancient geology, the area can be extreme in its transience. Sandstone, some of it over 1.8 billion years old, has been contorted by pressures over the millennia that are hard to imagine, or smoothed by the Wet’s torrential waters which are again impossible to fathom in the Dry. Tidal fluctuations are massive and sometimes ferocious, resulting in waterfalls that run horizontally, rivers that run backwards and even an island that emerges from the ocean to become the ideal alfresco drinks bar. Low tide unveils a forest of mangrove roots growing from mudflats where mudskippers and red-headed honeyeaters flit, until rising water turns their tubular roots into lairs for crocodiles and barramundi. At Montgomery Reef, the tide retreats so rapidly it appears that an underwater world of sponges, clams and corals rises Atlantis-like from the sea, with the resulting marine-rich cascades perfect fodder for loitering birds, turtles and sharks.

Fauna is abundant, and we revelled in spotting manta rays, dolphins, crocodiles and turtles whose nests we later spotted alongside Aboriginal Wandjina rock art, thousands of years old and depicting creator beings who I’m certain protect hatchlings as they stoically make their way to the water. Remarkable sunrises and sunsets, where the sky was streaked with every shade or red, orange, crimson and pink imaginable were backdrops for flocks of terns, frigate birds and brown boobies, and we were mesmerised by the fantastically-shaped eroded pillars on Edeline Island where ospreys had built nests using copious amounts of Kimberley flotsam and jetsam.

Wilderness is remarkably restorative, and Aurora took us to an exhilarating world that despite today’s technology, was mysterious, remarkably unexplored and incredibly uplifting. We can never have enough of nature, and it’s increasingly important we protect it, especially areas where rock-forms, waterfalls, islands, reefs and billabongs hold such otherworldly beauty and deep indigenous spirituality. And as for the photos, well, they only reveal a fraction of the Kimberley’s true magnificence.

A Quiet Moment, With A View

Words by Blake Shorter & Photographs by Lindsey Harris Shorter

In the Alps of southern Switzerland - just east of the French border and a couple of hours driving north from the ski resorts of the Aosta Valley in northern Italy - there’s a small village perched on a steep, grassy mountainside, on the side of the mountain that faces the sun. It’s a village in the sense that it’s a group of mostly-residential, sturdy wooden chalets, but there’s also a restaurant and a store with very limited hours that carries dry goods and toiletries . The small sign on the paved road that winds up the mountain and through the village reads ‘La Forclaz’. In the warmer months, the locals tend to their sunny gardens overflowing with alpine wildflowers and alive with chirping, bouncing crickets and the busy hum of bees. Well-marked trails at the edge of town lead up the mountain towards cooler, thinner air (and an elevated heart rate), curving and twisting through forests of giant evergreens that open to steeply rolling grass-covered plains and even more remote cabins and barns inhabited by alpine cattle and the farmers who live alongside them.  When the heavy snows of winter blanket the gravel footpaths and narrow roads leading in and out of the village below, I imagine the townspeople collectively nestling in front of their fireplaces with hot chocolate and a book, bedding down and hoping the firewood lasts until the sun comes out again. 

In La Forclaz there is a cluster of structures that, glancing up from the long hillside path, look exceptionally rustic - but walking closer reveals precisely-centred glass windows, set seamlessly into the rough wood of the exterior walls and reflecting the view of the mountains they mirror. The path diverges near a chest-high pile of cut wooden logs, and a stump for cutting down the larger logs into kindling. Individual footpaths zig-zag up the steep slope and lead to the buildings’ entrances. They are mayens: former agricultural structures not much more sophisticated than a barn, and used for sheltering both animals and farming families alike during the summer months when they would migrate higher up the hillside to graze and escape the heat and humidity of the valley below. 

‘Anakolodge’ is the name for a group of these mayens in the village of La Forclaz that were saved from demolition when they were purchased by a Swiss architect - the renovation of which became a life’s work. The exteriors were preserved, the ancient conifer logs of the frame and the layered slate roofs kept intact or restored. The interiors were treated differently and completely redesigned - the smooth concrete floors are warmed by the heat generated from the wood-fired oven, as is the water in the Italian-style concrete shower. The walls transition gently from concrete to solid blonde wood, and the interior design is a melding of retro and mid-century styles and minimalist simplicity. Sounds really nice, and it is. There’s a table and chairs outside, sitting on the dark green carpet of ankle-high grass and tucked in next to the huge swinging window/door that works as an additional entrance. Another path leads from the outdoor table to a wooden hot tub, that’s also wood-fired. The king sized bed downstairs sits opposite a glass wall that looks out to a concrete (of course) patio that’s covered by the roof of the mayen and half-underground, built into the mountainside.

The elevated cabin hovers out over a deep valley far below, and I have to crane my neck to see the top of the mountain directly across the valley. Looking down, I see the patchwork stone roofs of other cabins, and beyond that are green, red, and grey mountains.

There were other visitors staying in the cabin nearest ours. My wife Lindsey and I had seen them the first day wearing cycling kits and shoes, click-clacking down the path towards the parking area, then hopping on mountain bikes and setting off for the biking trails that weave through the alpine terrain. On this day, later in the afternoon as I began to kindle a fire to warm up the hot tub, one of these neighbours swung his hinged glass window wide and stepped out to greet me in the space between our cabin and theirs. He was a middle-aged man with dark hair and a youthful face. He said ‘bonjour’ and waved and I said ‘bonjour’ and waved back. He asked (reasonably) if I was American and I told him yes and that we were on a holiday. It was clear that he was French so I added that we had been in France for the previous two weeks and had been falling in love with his country. His English was exponentially better than my French, but still broken, though it was clear he was attempting to make conversation. 

He made a circle in the air with his index finger and asked where we’d been traveling, and I held up my index finger and drew a crude circle too, while explaining we’d landed in Amsterdam, took a train down to Paris and stayed a week, then took a longer train to the Languedoc region of southern France, and spent time in Provence and the Luberon before making our way to the Swiss Alps. I said the names of these places with my very best French accent, and he nodded along. Then I told him we were traveling to Burgundy next, and we were excited to visit the legendary winemaking region. A confused look came over him, and he said ‘I don’t know this place’. I said it louder and enunciated more: “Bur-gun-dy”, but this did nothing in the way of helping. I shrugged, but then his eyebrows rose and he looked up - “Ah! Borghundie!”. I excitedly confirmed the understanding and tried to explain with more detail that yes, I was an American, but more specifically I’m from the Deep South, and this probably didn’t help my attempts at equivocating the nuances of the French language. 

Our communication was successful enough for me to understand and accept his invitation to dinner that night at their cabin, where he said that he and his companions had brought some of their own wines and had picked up the ingredients to make fondue (my only experience with fondue had been from hearing about others’ experiences at the Melting Pot, a kitschy American chain restaurant). We had planned to find a wine shop before leaving France to stock up for our stay in the Alps, but had neglected it in the rush to hit the road as early as possible to cover the 500-plus kilometres between where we were in Provence, and where we’d ended up. The local co-op had a great selection of ciders and beers and we’d been having our fair share each night, so we were excited for a break from the malt and hops and the prospect of trying some French mystery wines with our neighbours.

That evening after dusk had fallen, we could see the yellow light glowing and the silhouettes of our neighbours moving in the kitchen through the open curtains of their cabin. We were strangely on edge, excited to meet, eat and drink with foreign strangers, but also terrified about how we’d communicate - with an added mostly-comical fear of being the characters in a based-on-real-life-events horror movie in which naive American tourists are invited over for fondue in a cabin in the Swiss Alps and never…seen…again.

Luckily, our fears weren’t realised and we were welcomed convivially with a spread of meats, bread and cheese - appetizers before the main course of more bread and cheese - and a bottle of white Burgundy that tasted like wet rocks and popcorn. Meanwhile, the two women of the group were generously pouring a liberal amount of Burgundy Chardonnay into the pots of melting cheese.

There were two fondues, a Swiss rendition made with Gruyere, a sweet and earthy cheese from the agriculturally famous region just north of where we were staying, and a French fondue made with smoky, funky Tomme. We all agreed that the French fondue was the best, although it may have been made with a little more love. We ate and drank and talked, laughing when we couldn’t find the words to express ourselves. The other man in the group was named Franck, and he became the translator for his companions when our French vocabulary would invariably fall short. We told our hosts that the meal had been deliceau, and one of the women laughed and tried to help us perfect our pronunciation - “no, delicEAU” she said. We repeated deliCEAU to which she responded “no, delicEAU”. This went on for a while, but ended in laughter and a somewhat approving nod in concession to our efforts. 

We made the short walk back to our mayen at the end of the night, drunk on wine and conversation and an overarching feeling of togetherness - with each other, with our new friends, with the dark watchful mountains like inky and jagged rogue waves frozen in time and silhouetted on the horizon. Above us were more stars than we’d ever known could light the night sky. The outdoor hot tub was still steaming and warm when we lifted off the wooden top, and we climbed in and sat silently, looking up as sparks from the waning embers crackled and climbed over our heads, above the dark line of the mountains and towards the moon, flickering and disappearing into the infinite.

To see more of Blake and Lindsey’s work together, click here.