About Us

I was very glad I ignored the hotel advice and booked my car forty minutes earlier. I boarded on time, but with none to spare. But small problem. At Charles de Gaulle check-in, my boarding pass showed a 15-hour layover in Guangzhou instead of 4. Which is why I have time to write this letter. I spoke to the main man on the China Southern Airlines counter—but he had a big Boeing to get off the ground and no time for my crisis. ‘Go to the transfer desk in Guangzhou,’ he said— ea

Château de Chantilly On the last day of a holiday, don’t you find your mind has already packed its bags and gone home ahead of you? Mine was back in Australia this morning—fielding emails about certificates for a writers' festival showing our public liability policy (a phrase guaranteed to send John into a total meltdown, so I’ll do that at home), appointments, several talks to write, one in less than two weeks. I’ve loved not having to think about it. So I made a decision. P

mist on the water on my morning walk There is a moment, when you decide to book a class on whipping Chantilly cream and you wonder if it’s wise. Whether you’ll have the strength and stamina of your probably much younger classmates. Whether you’ll be able to whip the cream to standing point—or whether you’ll have to go doggo and ask the chef to do it for you. The class was at L’atelier de la Chantilly on the main street. And here I must introduce Bertram, who is both charming

obligatory introduction to the French cream bun substitute: a gaufre, warm from the iron, with Chantilly crème. I once heard it said that if you‘re woken before you're ready, your spirit is still out roaming the world. Free of its body, untethered from mattress or obligation. To be woken unnaturally, by noise, or another person, is to wake without a soul. And to remain so until later in the day, when the two finally find each other again. In my version, both are annoyed abou

I knew I was in heaven from the moment our van crunched up the gravel drive. the view from my bedroom window The manoir is a patchwork of centuries, the oldest dating back to the fifteenth. Lives are layered into it—horses, harnesses jingling, boots clacking on stone, hands held out to the warmth of a vast fireplace big enough to roast a deer. Harvests. Wars. Love affairs. Children underfoot. and from my other window The garden wanders through undulating lawns freckled with d

Coucou mes amis, Yesterday I visited the Richelieu Bibliothèque. Actually the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Richelieu site—in Rue Vivienne. We sailed through free entry and security chatting away, and I hardly noticed the pretty ordinary building. Then we stepped into the foyer, turned a corner into the Salle Ovale, and wham, mind officially blown. It was once the library of the kings of France until the Revolution gave access to all. Tthe scale of this room. What a maste

Coucou mes amis, I made a perfume yesterday. Cally and I did a perfume class in Paris ten years ago where the parfumeur started off looking very attractive and by the end, well, not so attractive. But we laughed our way through it. I discarded the perfume afterwards. Glorious walk to the class. I can‘t tell you how much I love waking here, throwing open those high heavy windows and feeling the cold air rush in, with the little birdie in Renoir‘s garden trilling me a song. I'

I love cemeteries. They remind me of speeches at weddings—everyone is suddenly the most adored person who ever lived. Father of the bride, beloved mother, cherished beyond reason. Cemeteries are exactly the same. It’s oddly warm and comforting. Yesterday I went looking for the entrance to St Vincents in Montmartre—right next door to the apartment—and reputedly the teeniest little sweetheart on the face of the earth. I was confidently told—incorrectly—by ChatGPT that the entra

Cher compagnon de voyage, You know that sad little tub of vanilla ice cream I thought I was doomed to eat as soup? Well, this morning I took it out of the frig, expecting a slightly sad, watery disappointment. Instead—pure delight. This stuff is thick, luxurious, and almost exactly like uncooked vanilla sponge cake batter: light, airy, creamy, eggy, and absolutely bursting with real vanilla bean specks and flavour. I had a sudden brainwave. I made my big mug of strong black c

image source: Hôtel Particulier Montmartre website Monday’s heroic walking did absolutely nothing to deliver the full night’s sleep I so richly deserve. So when I woke at 3am on Tuesday, I did the only sensible thing: I wrote you the letter about Monday! Quelle fun! By the time I’d finished fiddling with my website—don’t ask—had a brief and fruitless chat with support, then solved it myself the second we hung up — it was already late morning when I finally burst out of our li

My darling darlings, strap yourselves in for Monday in Paris! I was up and down during the night taking photos as you do. That‘s the view from my bathroom window—also part of the original La Maison Rose. No murderers lurking—that I could see. Do you see the wisteria? I woke at 4am—my body clock still firmly stuck in where’s the rosé gone? mode. As the sun rose somewhere behind the thick overcast, I pulled on pretty much the same clothes I wore on the plane except not the jack

Coucou mes amis! Nous voici en la belle France! We landed at Charles de Gaulle at the ungodly hour of 7am-ish, which remains, just between us, my least favourite airport. You know how much I love Paris, and France, and the French, but the CDG terminal reminds me of those round pigeon tower-houses in Iran—circular, with floor after floor around a giant hollow centre. In Iran the pigeons flew in from above and did what they were meant to do—turned it into a fertiliser factory.

亲爱的旅行伙伴 Haha, fooled you! You thought I’d had too much champagne already, didn’t you? That means Dear travelling buddy —and you’ll be pleased to know I’m still sober enough to type in English. It’s only been about twelve hours since I left home, and here I am sitting in the China Southern lounge at Guangzhou Baiyun Airport, comfortably parked for my epic seven-and-a-half-hour layover, feeling a little hot (30 degrees outside) but definitely not legless. Darling daughter Ange

My dear travelling buddy, In a few days, you and I will be hurtling through the sky toward France. If you’ve never travelled with me before—welcome. I’ll try not to get us lost. At the moment, however, I’m still in Australia. Sitting at the dining table with a notebook. A pen. And an empty suitcase. I know. I've left it late. I've been extremely busy not packing. I used to haul a suitcase the size of a small refrigerator across cobblestones, up steps, into trains, out of car

Dear A-lister, There are, objectively, eleventy billion beautiful places to write. Florence in spring. Sydney harbour. Hydra’s blue-white dazzle. My own desk, with white bifold shutters overlooking a travertine terrace, clipped green hedges, blue, blue sky. Some washing. All heaven. So why France? Shhhh my inner sparkle fairy has already packed. Saying no could cause a full diva meltdown. But why now? Because when I told her I must stay at home and keep grinding out book prom