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In the aftermath of Christmas the harbour town is hushed with only the whisper of the sea echoing through its winding streets.

As the tide creeps in and the seagulls squawk, fishermen of the Cornish coastal town Looe, load their boats for the catch ahead. Lining the harbour side, their small fishing boats gently sway in the waters as the blushed morning sky fades to grey.

The stillness of the town begins to stir as the locals and tourists alike emerge from their brief hibernation. After all the festivities, huddling by the fire and lazy mornings the bitter cold winds reinvigorate lethargic bodies.

The crowds begin to draw in. The cobbled streets nestled between the house-lined cliffs start to bustle. Fisheries and bakeries open for business; their smells competing with the salty sea air.

Its shops and eateries are tightly compact with some hidden down curious alleyways. Sheltering from the winds, post Christmas dinner walkers and vacationing families navigate its narrow pathways.

Murmurs of crashing waves hints a way out from the meandering maze of dry-stoned buildings and out onto the sea front. For a mild December, the coastal winds are surprisingly crisp and pierce through to the skin. The seas are fierce too with waves striking the pier from all directions.

Ascending up the cliffs to the east of Looe, the sounds of the sea begin to silence to the roaring wind. Moody winter skies dull the aqua of the sea and tints the greenery grey.

A muddy climb to the summit promises uninterrupted panoramic views of the coast and St George’s Island. The pastel-hued houses on the other side of the harbour brighten the sombre winter’s day.

And as a slither of gold peeks from behind the island we say our farewells to the year gone by and embrace the months ahead.

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Nestled in the Cotswold countryside lies the 600-acre arboretum of Westonbirt. The vast collection of Victorian trees offers a kaleidoscope of autumnal colour, from the vibrant reds of the Japanese maple to the burnt umbers of the walnut trees.

The forest has two seasonal trials– The Old Arboretum leads you through expansive vistas and canopied hide-aways amongst trees from all over the world. And the other, Silk Wood, offers a longer, dog-friendly walk where the stunning Japanese maple trail can be found.

Winding paths through the vast, dense forest captivate you into hours of exploration. Towering trees shelter the Eden-like woodland, where shafts of light dapple through the branches and its leaves flutter down, carpeting the ground in a scattering of colour. The soft autumn sun warms the hues of the forest tinting the foliages gold, whilst misted dewy grass lingers in its shadows.

Once you tire from all the walking, head to the nearby market town of Tetbury. With over 1,300 years of history, the historic town boasts a rich heritage. Meander through the cluster of antique shops or warm up with some tea at Cafe Edge. Be sure to check out the 16-century Market House in the centre which holds markets twice a month.

    

After months of being cooped up in London’s grey skies and polluted air, I scoured the internet in the hope of finding the idyllic countrified stay I had been daydreaming about, whilst buried on the Piccadilly line to work.

Lured by its name, The Little Wild Campsite, I booked three nights in its glamping accommodation, The Shepherds Hut.

Located deep in the Cornish countryside near to Penzance, where 3G is yet to be discovered, the rural campsite is a peaceful get-away from everyday distractions.

The cosy two-sleeper Hut encloses you into its warm timber walls, whilst its wendy-house like windows look out onto stunning sea views of Mount’s Bay. At night, after gazing upon the unspoiled starry skies, candlelit lanterns illuminate the hut as the log burner crackles, warming the cool summer nights.

The rest of the campsite has a rustic feel to it with its shower in a shed, (spiders included), compost loo and no electricity. Yes, a compost loo… It’s not that bad honestly!

Although we had no electricity, there was a gas hob in the hut– sorry Bear Grylls. All pots, pans and utensils were provided; my personal favourite being the tea whistling kettle. Mornings in the hut were greeted with its whimsical whistling, as well as the occasional cock-a-doodle-dooing and (if unlike us you wake up early enough) a beautiful sunrise upon the horizon.

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Sunday; a wonderful weekend, we even managed to escape the City for a few hours. Refreshing our lungs with West countryside air, we stopped at Barrow Wake viewpoint on the way to Worcester. It overlooks Gloucestershire and it’s name derives from the Iron Age burial that was discovered here in 1879.

Clearly very attached to my vintage duster, I wear it with my new Nike Flash Pagasus running shoes, which are so comfortable for everyday wear, I am reluctant to exhaust them with punishing running miles.

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Weekends are back and from now onwards, they are true to their definition. With no more awkward and unsociable shifts, the working week ends and two days of lazy mornings, self-indulgence and impromptu eventualities begin.

With a late start, we leisurely strolled around Alexandra Park, slightly bemused by the juxtaposing crunching leaves and 20 degree heat.
Cliché, I know, but the temperamental British weather brings great difficulty to our transitional wardrobes. For those well past summer trends, the mild autumnal sunshine leaves us sweating in our woollen coats but reluctantly avoiding the lurking winter shade when removed.
A conundrum one may think, but I have a solution, in the form of a lightweight duster coat.
Even better, a vintage Ralph Lauren, lightweight duster coat.
Frittering in the mirror of the vintage shop, toying over whether the coat would see much day light in the up coming winter months, I decided to purchase this classic piece anyway.

And a good decision it was. Nearly the hottest first weekend of November since records began, the coat and I (oh and the boyfriend) enjoyed the mild temperatures.

Our parkland walk led us to the Broadway, where we spent the rest of the day, mostly mooching and munching…
We stopped at the Crocodile Cafe to indulge in their hearty cakes and archaic Victorian books they had stacked upon the book shelves.
I am also very pleased to have discovered two vintage shops in Avenue Mews- Can’t Buy Me Love and Cha Cha Cha, in which I will be returning to, on the hunt for a winter coat!

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Moving out, especially to a big city such as London, can feel like a daunting prospect. But in this cosy suburb of North London, Muswell Hill is kind to the amateur Londoner, with its orderly middle class atmosphere and village feel Broadway.
Notoriously one of the most sought after areas in London, my budget and I fought over a cosy room (and by cosy I mean small) in a large house share.
After a week of finding my feet, I am beginning to settle in by marking my territory, that is the kitchen cupboard, and by adding personal touches to my room, regardless of whether it’s starting to resemble a jumble sale.
I am gradually learning to master the art of multi-purposing furniture and obscuring ‘stuff’; my current masterpiece being the wardrobe. Under it, on top of it, behind it, on the doors- each piece has been suitably placed. I have even contemplated making use of the walls, their bareness could most definitely be utilised.
Getting up at winters dawn results in loud bangs and bruises and my morning yoga could pass as a form of robotic dance, but I suppose the cooped up chicken feeling will surpass and minimalism will feel too cold and empty.
And if it doesn’t, then the mass of greenery in Alexandra Park will do the trick. It is a runners paradise, with bouncy joggers sprouting from beyond the leafy trees and effortlessly gallivanting their way up the menacing hills, as I huff and puff my way to the top. But the reward does not disappoint. Panoramic views of London stare back and the air is surprisingly cleaner than the thick smog that projects over the rest of the London’s skyline.
The grand Alexandra Palace and I overlook the parkland and cityscape beyond, as I play tourist in my new local area. In the last of autumnal sunshine, I subtly bask in its rays as I make my way downhill towards the Sunday famers market. A long stretch of food stalls and a gathering of Muswell Hillians casually lunching on handmade pies and cold pressed juices, makes for quite the social event. With so many choices for all food palates, my sweet tooth caved in and I purchased a slice of the dark chocolate banana loaf from Nyborg’s Kitchen. This moistly dense, sweetly spiced slice of gluten-free heaven went down perfectly with my vanilla chai tea!

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A symbolism to feminism, the culottes have rebelled against social convention throughout history. That revolutionary split in the skirt meant the straddle could be achieved, whether on horseback or a bicycle, the practicality gave women freedom and empowerment in times of male dominance.
The styles we wear today reinforce the feminist values of our ancestral women- we are dynamic, practical and unbound by fitted styles that benefit the male gaze. Free from straight jacket dresses, mummy wrapped midis and don’t bend over mini skirts. You can breathe out now, skip the fake tan and revel in the fact that you didn’t shave your legs because, the culottes are functional and free-spirited, yet so elegantly feminine.

Making these culottes was such a pleasure. By pattern manipulation, I invigoratingly flared out the leg, lowered the crotch and loosened the hips. Using a polyester suiting fabric meant the trouser leg draped well, yet kept their flared silhouette. A days work, with neatly finished seams, a concealed zip and an ethereal fit that flatters my shape; these culottes have become an enshrinement in my wardrobe. With the changing of seasons, shirts and crops can be replaced with slouchy knits to pair.
So with the last few days of autumnal sunshine I present my culottes… In daytime casual, I pair them with a striped knit and pointed flats, whilst emulating Parisian chic after mon petite déjeuner on the Champs-Elysees (or the Streets of Manchester, close enough right?). And for twilight cocktails, the pointed heels are strapped on and the checked shirt buttoned up, I feel sophisticated and grown up.. after all I am 22 years old now, its about time.

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The long bittersweet weekend I spent up North has come to an end, and although we say are farewells, our memories shared are sweet.
My birthday celebrations took us to Manchester, a metropolis brimming with favourable delights of culture, arts and history. The Northern hub is stimulating to the eye and promises a photogenic walk around its streets. Comparable to London with its mix of urban hipster and historic surroundings, Manchester is not so overcrowded and has a friendly northern vibe.

The approaching hum and rattle of the tram followed us around as we rambled the city, discovering endless shops, galleries and street food markets. The Manchester Art Gallery held the Cotton Couture exhibition, which featured a short film explaining the history of cotton manufacture in Manchester. On display were rows of elegant 1950’s gowns made by British and French designers in unconventional cotton fabrics. The gallery also hosts an exquisite permanent collection, featuring some of my favourite artists- Turner, Alma-Tadema and John William Godward.

Upon trailing back to the hotel after a long day touristing, we were captured by the stunning grandeur of Manchester Central Library in St Peters Square. We nestled ourselves into a cosy corner of the neoclassic rotunda, quiescently absorbed into the library’s publications.

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Harmonious with macaroon coloured walls of Portmierion, this pastel co-ord I made was the perfect outfit for a mannerly meander through the romantic village.

Simple, soft and clean cut- I tailored a fit and flare skirt with a box flared crop using a light scuba fabric.

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Our mission was to climb Mount Snowdon; to increase our pulse, to tire our muscles and then revel in the satisfaction of conquering the highest peak in Wales. But our first mission was finding mighty mountain.
An area of narrow, tall hedged winding roads is a hazardous feature for the urban tourist. Accustomed to concrete forests, the abundance of greenery becomes indistinguishable, as do the unpronounceable signposts to the English monolinguist.
The mountainous backdrop soon began to arise from the exhausting labyrinth and compass us towards its direction.
Like sitting front row in the cinema, the mountainous scenery was on full screen, we were at Snowdon’s base. And as it turned out, so was everyone else…
With the car parks full, we decided to do the driving tour of Snowdon. Hilly roads provided an exhilarating roller coaster ride, with stunning views of the surrounding landscape.
So I guess this is a lazy guide to Snowdon, but it gives me all the more reason to return!

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