I believe in the power of small stories. In this ever-connected social media world, we peek into people’s lives from the outside, with the focus on their red-letter days: the life-changing events, the adventurous trips, the thrilling announcements. It’s oh so easy to compare our stories and find ourselves wanting, to feel that our lives
“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” – Virginia Woolf (from A Room of One’s Own) As a teenager, I was given a copy of A Room of One’s Own by a beloved, bookish aunt, but I properly discovered Woolf, as I suppose so many do, in
There is something very soothing about tiny traditions. In the winter time, they’re the little landmarks that help us navigate our way through the grey days, reassuring us that we will once again make it out into the springtime beyond. For our family, one such tradition is Snowdrop Sunday. On a bright Sunday, in mid February, we
Fields were the landscape of my childhood: flat Suffolk fields with endless sweeping skies. Running through long grass, swishing along secret paths through golden corn, scrambling over stacked hay bales and loitering along hedgerows whilst the dog nosed out rabbit trails. These are the small adventures that I return to when I close my eyes.