For the love of marmalade... #fortnumandmason



If you love a luscious tasting marmalade...
we say, look no further than Fortnum and Mason.We have tried them all...from America, to Australia, to New Zealand and back again. Mr. and Mr. H have declared that no one does it as well as Fortnum and Mason. With each visit to London, Mr. H has a simple assignment, buy as much Forthum and Mason marmalade as you can fit into your luggage. The man never ceases to amaze me with what he can get into his luggage. If their is a will..there is a way. 

If you love a luscious tasting marmalade...
and orange is your flavour of choice...here are a few to tempt you. Even better...pick up a few as a Christmas gift with a few tins of Fortnum and Mason tea...you will be the best gift give ever..promise!



Sir Nigel's Vintage Orange Marmalade
 This classic vintage marmalade was made by Fortnum’s in the 1920s 
for actor-manager Sir Nigel Playfair, who asked for a bitter, thick-cut preserve for his toast. 
We met his request with this – a strong, substantial marmalade with a deep flavour 
and lots of chewy peel. The colour of dark marmalade is often achieved by cooking the sugar for longer; 
but we make it with two sorts of brown sugar instead, to give colour without overcooking. 
The result is a rich, citrussy, not-too-sweet flavour. A cheering sight on one’s breakfast table. 

An expats world..from Surrey to Saigon






 One thing I have learned in my 18 years as an expat is that you open a lot of doors. Throw in a few windows and you keep yourself pretty busy trying to keep your expat world in order. This thought came to me today as I assembled all my 'expat england' photos into one file. I admit there were quite a few heart strings that were pulled as I went along. Photos of family gatherings, expeditions into the English countryside and quiet sojourns into London are now collected into one file. I had to pinch myself, it's surreal to think of a time when I walked to the local train station to catch a 20 minute ride into London.

When we boarded the plane for Vietnam, leaving England behind, I found the easiest way to make the transition was to shut the door until I was ready to open it again. If I had made the transition from a Southeast Asian city to Saigon I would probably have left the door ajar. The differences would not have been so extreme. To move from Surrey to Saigon was a jolt to the senses, I knew I would need time to decompress, if I hadn't closed that door for a time I would have sat on the fence with one foot in each country unable to embrace what was in front of me.

I see it often in Vietnam, that dazed look in a new expats eyes, wondering where they are going, how they will cope and steady themselves for the new experiences ahead of them. I want to tell them it's a matter of doors and windows. You have to know when to shut and open them until you set yourself right.

As for me, the doors are open, the windows are up and I am once again moving through my expat world with greater ease. I know, because it brought me here, to the house below. I would pass it nearly every day on my bike ride into the local village. Every once in a while, just before I turned the corner from our street, I would slow down...stop..and snap a photo. I captured it in all seasons, my favorite being summer and winter.

My view today is very different as I ramble along the streets of Saigon but I feel so very fortunate to have had those days where I imagined the life beyond the garden, the windows and doors that graced this beautiful home. I still wonder...but from further afar...and am so very thankful for the time we had in England.


A passing view in Surrey, England...










From snowy Surrey to our mango coloured home in Saigon, 
Chateau Mango..




 where my English Pashley awaits.



Sending you 'beep, beeps' from Saigon.





until I return with another English memory.



A Bloomsbury pause....




I read a passage in a book and smiled....

I was born at 46 Gordon Square, Bloomsbury. 
The doors of No. 45, No. 47, 
and indeed of all the other houses in the square, 
were black, or if not black, dark grey or a funereal blue. 
The door of No. 46 was a startling bright vermilion. 
The colour had been chosen by my mother, Vanessa; 
she also decorated the interior of the house, 
making use of equally startling colours. 
My father, Clive Bell, was in those days a left-wing radical. 
From an early age I knew that we were odd.  

Written by Quentin Bell 
author of  'Elders and Betters'


His words reminded me
of a bright vermillion door I captured in London...
and I smiled again.

Seeing vermillion in Pimlico.

Vanessa was the mother to Quentin Bell
and the woman behind 
the 'startling bright vermillion' door in Bloomsbury.


Vanessa Bell was the elder sister to Virginal Woolf
and part of the avant-garde Bloomsbury Group. 
A Britsish painter and interior designer, she is best known for
her work at Charleston in Sussex where
she lived with the artist Duncan Grant. Vanessa was married
to Clive Bell with whom she had two children, Julian and Quentin.
As in all the relationships with the Bloomsbury Group...it was complicted.
You can read more about Vanessa Bell here

Self Portrait
By Vanessa Bell
1879-1961

Do not miss this wonderful collection
of paintings by Vanessa Bell,
with a touch of vermillion
and a fantastic jazz beat.
A must see...




Dahlias and Canterbury Bells
By Vanessa Bell

The paragraph above took me in the most interesting direction.
I am loving the journey with still a ways to go...

More on Charleston here

Poets Corner: William and Dorothy Wordsworth



One of my favourite spots in the English Lakes District 
is  Grasmere in Cumbria.
The photos here were taken around Dove Cottage
home for several years to William Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy. 
They both wrote about life in and around
 this quintessential English village.
I highly recommend a visit..if only to step back in time.














William Wordsworth...

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze


Dorothy Wordsworth...

When we were in the woods beyond
Gowbarrow Park we saw a few daffodils 
close to the water-side...as we went along 
there were more and yet more.
I never saw daffodils so beautiful
.they looked so gay, ever glancing,
ever changing. The wind blew
directly over the lake to them.



images~ J. Henriques


Royal Style..on a rainy day


The Queen has it...


via


William and Kate have it...

via


Everyone has it...

via

                                        
Style..they know it when they see it.
They carry a Fulton Umbrella.
An umbrella befitting a Royal Warrant 
to Her Majesty The Queen of England.
It is also the official umbrella supplier


The Birdcage umbrella designed by Lulu Guinness below
is on my must purchase for my next trip to London.
I think it will be perfect for the rainy season in Saigon.
I plan to be ready for it.


via


PS..if you thought you have seen everything,
you haven't....

Ray Stitch Haberdashery ...London



England on my mind...
Have you heard of Ray Stitch
It is a one-stop sewing shop and looks
like a fun place to visit.  You can shop online,
or visit..
Ray Stitch Haberdashery Shop and Cafe
99 Essex Road
London N12SJ


If you are of a mind to stitch...
this looks like the place to go!






photos via Ray-Stitch



Ray Stitch Haberdashery Shop and Cafe
99 Essex Road
London N12SJ


Where peace comes dropping slow...





The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and to to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wing.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W.B. Yeats 1865-1939


Photograph...a small English cottage.
by Jeanne Henriques
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