I don't know if it's the sunshine, the "I'm-on-holiday" state of mind, the stimulating company, the free-flowing vino or the sugar rush from all the pastries and gelato, but it seems I can always find inspiration in Italy. Or perhaps it is just the excellent haberdashery.....
On my first visit to Italy, my hostess recalled a haberdashery warehouse of mythical proportions she had once visited. We set out on a quest to find it, and eventually we did - on a distinctly unpromising-looking industrial estate tucked away behind the main street in a particularly dull part of town. Stepping inside, we were greeted with racks of seemingly random and not-at-all noteworthy clothing, and my hopes subsided. But round the corner guess what we found?
Shelves and shelves filled with massive cones of yarn to be purchased by weight. Cubbyholes stuffed with skeins of high-quality wool-blend yarns. Round another corner and there are floor to ceiling shelves crammed with fabric bolts. And towards the front of the shop, drawers and boxes literally full to overflowing with every kind of braid, trim, lace, motif, and notion you could dream of. I had found my spiritual home.
This warehouse skyrocketed to the top of my Italian bucket list, and we plan our shopping trip carefully each time I visit to allow me all the hours I need to rummage through the boxes of braid and reels of ribbon. I am now recognised and much celebrated in said shop - apparently most customers do not buy in the quantities that I do! I could, of course, spend infinite amounts of both time and money if my schedule, bank balance, Italian vocabulary allowed, and airline and customs restrictions allowed, but I do my best to rein myself in. Luckily my friend is a great sport and rarely makes this particular pilgrimage on her own, so she is pleased for an excuse to have a look herself, and wonderfully patient.
Shopping here is a vastly different experience to anything similar in the UK. There are no shopping baskets - when we ask for a container to corral my rapidly accumulating purchased, a carrier bag is produced. There's very little signage and much of the stock is unpriced - one is safe in assuming the charge will be reasonable, and the proprietors have flexibility at the till. On this visit one assistant had recently had a baby, and a squawling infant was being passed round the staff. The fabrics and trims are crammed into their spaces in no apparent order, bursting off shelves and over the tops of boxes. At the till, the clerk and I are equally laissez-faire. I call out random metrage as we pull my treasures from the bag, the clerk shows me an inkstain on a broad silver-grey lace and shrugs as she unrolls another metre onto my length. I pause, considering how much of one braid I want, and in that moment the clerk chucks the reel in my bag, saying I must take it without
charge. I imagine the customers behind cursing me, but the shopkeepers are very happy and I am thrilled to be restocked - there really is nothing like Italian lace.
If you are the kind of person who knows what you want and expects to walk straight towards it, hand over your cash, and leave, this would be your idea of hell. For me, it's an experience to be savoured every bit as much as the wine we will sip over lunch: a friendly, creative chaos with pretty things everywhere you look and laidback assistance to just about keep the confusion under control. No wonder I am so at home here!
On my first visit to Italy, my hostess recalled a haberdashery warehouse of mythical proportions she had once visited. We set out on a quest to find it, and eventually we did - on a distinctly unpromising-looking industrial estate tucked away behind the main street in a particularly dull part of town. Stepping inside, we were greeted with racks of seemingly random and not-at-all noteworthy clothing, and my hopes subsided. But round the corner guess what we found?
Shopping here is a vastly different experience to anything similar in the UK. There are no shopping baskets - when we ask for a container to corral my rapidly accumulating purchased, a carrier bag is produced. There's very little signage and much of the stock is unpriced - one is safe in assuming the charge will be reasonable, and the proprietors have flexibility at the till. On this visit one assistant had recently had a baby, and a squawling infant was being passed round the staff. The fabrics and trims are crammed into their spaces in no apparent order, bursting off shelves and over the tops of boxes. At the till, the clerk and I are equally laissez-faire. I call out random metrage as we pull my treasures from the bag, the clerk shows me an inkstain on a broad silver-grey lace and shrugs as she unrolls another metre onto my length. I pause, considering how much of one braid I want, and in that moment the clerk chucks the reel in my bag, saying I must take it without 
It's been a long time since I dreamed of seeing the ocean, and I've walked on a lot of beaches since that first one some 30 years ago. This year, this summer, on the beach I now consider "my" beach - that has been different. This is the first beach I have really come to know. But I have spent less than a year with my beach now, so there's still a long way to go to familiarise myself with her many moods and seasons.
I'm sure I cut a strange figure on the strand, in my linen smock, the capacious pockets weight down by shells and damp from being carelessly trailed through tide pools. Short, squat, and tipping into middle age, I approach the beach with the tireless fascination of a child or a dog (though my enthusiasm is a good deal quieter!). Oftentimes with my back to the sea, I crouch over tide pools or kneel on damp sand to scrutinise the tiniest of shells. Time ceases and I can find hours have passed while the salt spray has dried on the cuffs of my rolled up trousers and the tide which has crept in unnoticed threatens to carry my treasures away. Most times it is only the fatigue in my muscles or the darkening sky which drives me, somewhat resentfully, away.
I've come to know my beach pretty well this summer. Under the cliffs there are limpets by the score. The estuary yields small cockles and broken fragments. High up on the shingle is the place to scavenge driftwood, mermaid's purses and whelks. As the weather turns colder and the beach empties of holiday makers, there will be tiny shells as fine and transparent as a baby's fingernail. Sea potatoes tangle in the seaweed at the strandline, I know they won't survive the journey home intact but I can't resist collecting them anyway. When the Gulf Stream arrives, shoals of By-the-Wind-Sailors litter the beach with their indigo lips and transparent sails. I've come to recognise the clay where my feet will slip, and learned the hard way that it's best not to kneel on the peat slabs where the ancient forest emerges from the waves at low tide.
folk, and I'm trying hard to act like a responsible grown up type of person. But when my dear Italian friend commented how much she missed having me visit, and wished she could just send me a ticket, I decided to look into flights. Just out of curiosity, you understand.
I ran a crowdfunding campaign to help ensure I came back with the most beautiful bounty and whilst it was a necessarily short duration and didn't meet my target, I was fortunate enough to receive donations from three wonderful friends. One of them donated anonymously, but I'll pause a moment here to thank KD Shull and Mark Gowdy, both past-life chums who have managed to stay in touch over many years. I felt a bit cheeky, as though I was just asking people for spending money, but I knew it would be a fruitful trip and indeed that has proven to be the case! After a long period of creative doldrums, I am back in the studio and churning out brand new loveliness at record speed.
This post will serve an an aperitivo, as it were, to whet your appetite for more photos and details in the fullness of time. The photos showcase some of my favourite finds, a hint of future designs!
Now my favourite beach is just a few miles down the road. At one end there is a marshy estuary, at the other slate cliffs, and in between lie sand dunes, shingle, and a petrified forest uncovered during low tides. It's an unimaginable blessing, and I never tire of beachcombing, with every zone offering its own distinct rewards. This summer I threw responsibility to the wind and did my best to spend every possible sunny day collecting sand between my toes. The upshot of this is that the carpet in my car will never be the same, and I have acquired many boxes of shells.
I had a vague idea that the shells would eventually be used in artwork, but I faced a quandary. Vagabond Romantics is hardly synonymous with minimalism, but how to incorporate shells without risking a full-on seaside souvenir vibe? Inspiration hit me, as it reliably does, on a visit to a friend in Italy. I'd started the year working on reliquary-inspired work. Religious monuments. Mosaics. Grottos..... at some point it all came together and I realised that the answer was - as is so often the case - right in front of me.
