Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

The view is entirely different now, though the gray, as it happens, is exactly the same. The apartment on Ile Saint Louis - and the elusive agents immobiliers we argued with for months - have receded into the blurry mental space reserved for unfinished things.  We were so close this time finding our Parisian pied-a-terre. It was a small glass-roofed studio in an inner courtyard of a 17th century mansion, just steps from the Seine, where the noon light fell straight down through the panes and made you feel as if you would be living inside a lantern in the very heart of Paris.  We had practically measured the walls for books. But the dream of that apartment did not end just because of a failed negotiation. It dissolved the moment the phone rang on a Tuesday morning, pulling us twelve hundred kilometers north to this corner of Jutland. Now we are in Strandby - in the house belonging to Rita's mother. She is ninety-five, and she lives here alone - or she did, until a few d...

There is something almost embarrassingly predictable about loving Paris. Everyone does. Tourists swarm it, Instagram has colonized every corner, and here we are again - Rita and I - walking the Paris streets in early April with the giddiness of people who really ought to know better. We have long since lost count of our visits. At some point the city stopped being a destination and turned into something more like a habit. A good one. Not a growth journey, not an opportunity to discover who we really are at depth - just a place where we reliably feel more like ourselves than we do most other places.   This spring we have rented an apartment in the 14th and early today we went by one of our local boulangeries, Fournil Didot, where a baker named Sithamparappillai Jegatheepan - who came to France from Sri Lanka, spent years making macarons, and somehow ended up making the best french bread. In 2026 he has demonstrated his abilities by winning the Grand Prix de la Baguette, which  ...

  Can an entire cathedral be a secret? The Cathedrale de Jean Linard sits hidden in the rolling Berry countryside, near a village so small - Neuvy-Deux-Clochers - that most people drive straight past it without knowing either exists. Jean Linard was a potter. Then he became a sculptor, an engraver, a painter.  When he bought an old flint quarry in 1961, he did what any reasonable person would do: he started building a cathedral in his back garden, ad he kept building it for nearly fifty years, until he died in 2010 He'd been inspired by the Facteur Cheval, a postman in the Drôme who spent thirty-three years constructing a fantastical palace because he tripped over a stone one day and liked its shape. And by Gaudí, who started the Sagrada Família in 1882 and whose church - as you may have noticed - still isn't quite finished. What connected these three men - Linard, Cheval, Gaudi - was simple: they had an idea, and they didn't stop. The stubbornness became the point. Af...

   We live, we are frequently told, in an age of unprecedented connectivity. Platforms connect us. Networks connect us. A man in Copenhagen can, in a matter of a splitsecond, reach a man in Sao Paulo even though he might not have anything particular urgent to say. This is considered progress and a part of modernity. But Rita and I had yesterday the occasion in the Burgundian village Rogny-les-Sept-Ecluses to stand next to a staircase of stone and water which showed that we moderns have of course not invented the idea of connecting stuff. Someone back in the 17th century dreamt of connecting the Mediterranean Sea to the English Channel by making a passageway from the Loire river to the Seine. And here on this hill in Burgundy, at the watershed between the two mighty rivers, is the result of that thought.   By building seven locks pressed together in a staircase up a hillside in Rogny, the boats could ascend the twenty-four metres up from the Loire valley.   Twelv...

  The plan was to escape. This is important context! Nordic winters are long and grey and self-serious, and by the end of February Rita and I had reached the point where the darkness stops feeling atmospheric and starts feeling personal. France, we reasoned, would be different. France in early March would be spring. There would be light. There would be warmth. There would be outdoor tables and wine and the specific looseness that comes from sitting in the sun in a country that takes lunch seriously. And then we rented a small house in the town of Sancerre Sancerre sits on a hill in the Loire Valley and is known, globally, for one thing: its white wine. Sauvignon blanc of considerable reputation. Writers have praised it. Sommeliers have wept over it. Restaurants in Copenhagen, London and New York charge serious money for a glass of it. We looked forward to be living at the source.  Now we are, and all is grey. It is cold. It rains every day. Not the dramatic Nordic cold that...