The dense cold of this winter has crept through every crack in our arthritic old house and seeped into my bones. It is the sort of cold that waits outside the door like an adversary demanding that you steel yourself as you intrepidly make your way to work. The mornings have been sharp with frost or shrouded in icy mist and the hills across the harbour often tinged with snow. We have had rain that has arrived like a stampede - it has swollen rivers and flooded houses. The days have been leaden, the winds bitter and the cold infinite.
This winter has reminded me of a winter spent in Paris many years ago. The cold is familiar - cold that is as incisive as a surgeon’s knife, raw and pervasive. I remember days spent walking Paris streets like an arctic flâneur. Every coat I owned was worn at once, my hands were gloved and as many layers of socks that would fit inside my boots were protecting my feet, my long scarf wound snugly around my neck like a thermal boa constrictor and still it was cold.
The beauty of Paris beckoned beyond the dusky chill and we would set off undeterred on our museum encrusted excursions. Like any explorer we had a survival strategy. When the cold became unbearable, usually when we could no longer feel our noses and the only sensation reaching our brains from our feet was pain, we would deviate towards a café. A radiant heater located discreetly above the door would brush us with warmth as we entered. It would take a moment for our eyes to adjust to the caramel light and the rich and roasted smell of coffee would rehabilitate us immediately. We would find a leathery corner exuding warmth and wait for our coffees or chocolat chauds to arrive. The brass rimmed tables would be filled with like minded others sheltering from the cold, bulky coats stuffed under chairs like sleeping pets and hands clasped eagerly around steaming cups and bowls. The interior was timeless and the atmosphere was hospitable and history tinged - I would imagine writers and poets of years gone by escaping their frozen garrets to find refuge in a local café. A place of warmth to write and sketch, to eat, drink and philosophise - a haven in the harsh world of winter.
The latest addition to the showroom at Haunt is this lovely late 19th century counter. The original painted finish is the colour of coffee and crackled like a crocodile. It feels as if it could have been plucked from a small corner café in Paris or from the pages of a Hemingway memoir. This charming counter would be a distinctive and characterful addition to any kitchen, cafe or store.