I will soon get back to the requisite business of writing about perfume, but just thought I would share some photographs with you today of a place I had never been to before (even though it is only fifteen minutes from my parents’ house), and which I fell in love with a week or so ago when my father insisted suddenly that we all go and see some daffodils that were in the environs of Baddesley Clinton, an early sixteenth century English house that sheltered persecuted Catholics in secret cellars and which has the most compelling atmosphere. It is in places like this that I feel haunted by a deep, atavistic Englishness that perturbs me, particularly wen you drive off, afterwards, in the direction of Packwood House, with its famous topiaries, and come across banks and banks of swaying, inviting, happily alive spring daffodils.
Me in daffodils taking a photo of my father in daffodils taking a picture of me in daffodils.
Where I hope to retire to if it all gets too much.
Next stop: Tokyo.
The Black Narcissus 