Death in Paris

The air was cold and damp. More than damp – the water sat in a dense humidity all around us like a cloying mist. Round me snaked the stacked coils of the dead – radius, ulcer, tibia, skull. So went the procession – the only physical remains of lives once lived, stored in hollowed out mines beneath the streets of Paris. These are the Catacombs.

Slug Cheese and Peeled Almonds

The Dales were, for the first hour, swathes of green velvet, scrubby moorland peaks and granite mountain tops. It wasn’t quite the blistering wilds made famous by the Bronte sisters. Instead, it was tempered by a kind of human tenderness which transmuted the land from desolate to verdant. Before our eyes flashed farmsteads, drystone walls and chocolate box cottages; all lying in wait for the artist’s brush.