A rare sun baked Christchurch afternoon and I am sitting watching the crowd of seed heads in our prairie like back yard toss and turn in the warm wind that feels disconcertingly artificial as if it has emanated from a meteorological heat pump rather than the icy blue Pacific sky. The potted white pansies are wilting trying to escape the heat and an assertive cactus has stretched its prickled tendrils wide and is sun bathing with impunity and delight.

The uncustomary warmth has kindled memories of past summers and days spent under a similarly scorching sun. A trip to Pompeii springs to mind - we walked for hours in the unrelenting heat, the dry dust clinging to our perspiring yet desiccated bodies and my feet rubbed raw by the new sandals that I had foolishly worn for the expedition. Pompeii is vast and demands commitment particularly in the midst of an Italian summer. It was hot, ridiculously uncomfortable and overwhelmingly moving. We wandered through streets where once vendors sold fast food and the deep ruts worn by chariot wheels were still visible in the ancient flag stones. We ducked into stone houses to find shade and found exquisite frescoes remarkably intact on walls, we stood in living rooms where families had gathered for lunch as Vesuvius erupted and shrouded the city and its people in ash. This rare and intimate communion with lives lived and lost so long ago abruptly dissolved the veil of centuries and this once distant tragedy was suddenly eerily present - the fear and grief quite palpable on that 21st century afternoon.

Sadly this week in New Zealand, we have marked the anniversary of the tragic loss of life on Whakaari. This volcanic disaster was painfully close to home and its memory will be carried tenderly forward in time - a sadness woven into our collective history.

Pompeii was rediscovered in the 18th century by an unsuspecting surveyor and the Western world was suddenly abuzz with a renewed interest in the art and culture of classical antiquity. A generation of art students were similarly moved by visiting Pompeii on their Grand Tours and returned home filled with Greco - Roman ideals. The furore surrounding Pompeii helped to spawn the Neo Classical movement which swept through Europe coinciding with the Age of Enlightenment. The enduring classical qualities of simplicity and symmetry were a timely antidote to the excesses of the Rococo style.
Robert Adam the inimitable Scottish architect, interior designer and furniture designer left to study the art and architecture of classical antiquity on the continent soon after the discovery of Pompeii, he was heavily influenced by the discoveries there and his work superbly exemplifies the Neoclassical style.

The exquisite hand painted sideboard that we have featured this month is very much in the style of Robert Adam and although the sideboard was crafted more than a century later it superbly exhibits the elegance and timelessness of Neoclassicism. A decorative and eternally stylish piece of furniture that I am sure Robert Adam would happily have placed in one of his interiors and would equally grace a modern home.

I am sitting watching the greyness of the clouds billow and melt above the the neighbouring building as I eat a very late lunch after a shamefully inefficient morning - diversions and daydreams, my familiar nemesis.  I have cobbled together a salad of sorts and have solemnly sworn to be more productive this afternoon. I have found my favourite pottery plate and as the glossy green leaves settle onto the deep earthen brown of the glaze I am conscious of how fulfilled this simple plate makes me feel. The plate used to belong to Simon’s parents - it is steeped in the warmth of years spent in a family home and resonates with a very specific domestic history. It is round, flat rimmed and gently speckled like the iris of an eye. It makes a velvety sound as you place it on the table - it doesn’t clatter and the cutlery doesn’t scrape. It is crafted and honest. It is a simple thing and yet so much more.

I find I am increasingly drawn to simplicity and the Arts and Crafts dresser that we have featured this month resonates with a charming modest aesthetic. The Arts and Crafts movement emerged as a reaction to the industrial revolution and harked back to traditional craftsmanship and folk style in an attempt to counteract the mass produced uniformity that was emerging at the time. In our modern world factories continue to churn out throw away fodder and the Arts and Crafts sentiment feels equally relevant today. Resistance to consumerism has become even more imperative as we face the ominous threat of global warming and find the need to foster an interior aesthetic that is pleasing yet sustainable.

This hand crafted dresser is humble, tactile, warm and beautiful - it is sublime in its simplicity

Sitting alone at my desk, with the morning mist creeping across the harbour obscuring the familiar view which normally inspires daydreams and encourages procrastination, I am urged to turn to the blank page in front of me and begin to gather some words to accompany this newsletter. I am, like so many others now, working a lot from home. Whilst our home has always been our sanctuary it has become more than ever a cherished refuge. With the enduring threat of Covid in our world the current focus on the home workspace feels appropriate and understandable.
Working from home has long been my favoured modus operandi - to be alone with my thoughts in a space that is personal and makes me feel whole. When my surroundings reflect the peculiarities of my aesthetic self I find I can relax, create, write and draw - there is flow and things get done. I can even log in to the dreaded Xero and do stuff with numbers (only if I have to) but in beautiful surroundings even the most arduous of chores are softened.
The quirks and ornamental details of peoples workspaces are fascinating - Proust would write recumbent in his bed surrounded by cork lined walls to muffle sound and mitigate the allergic effect of dust. Ernest Hemingway preferred to keep a notebook in his pocket and write in cafes surrounded by the hiss of a coffee machine and the bustle of life. Virginia Wolf however, declared in her celebrated essay that "in order to write a woman must have a room of her own". I have spent a lifetime imagining Virginia Wolf’s “room of her own”, this enchanting idea of a private space in which to work or create has motivated much desk arranging and picture hanging - I have always endeavoured to create such a space for myself.
It occurs to me that this exquisitely painted, undeniably feminine Venetian desk would beautify any home office or grace a discerning and uncommon room of one’s own.

A tranquil Autumn day and time glides past unfettered, gently like a stream meandering towards a non specific destination. I stand at the kitchen window and watch a pair of fantails flit about in the plum tree like a pair of choreographed avian geisha, their fans darting here and there amongst the leaves. I watch them for a long while, transfixed and grateful to have this day opening up before me with no agenda and no pressing tasks. The coffee machine is warming on the bench behind me and the novel I am reading is waiting perched on the arm of the daybed as the late morning sunshine tracks between the lofty poplars, through the French doors and falls serendipitously where I am intending to sit. Yet another lockdown morning continues to pass in slow motion. It is unusual this luxury of time, it is indeed an unusual time.

It took a while to acclimatise to the rhythm of lockdown and to learn to not dwell too deeply on the global threat of this heinous virus that has driven us all into isolation. Some days have seemed clouded with horrific reports from tragically overwhelmed hospitals in cities that are offshore but close, places we know well - the grief is palpable. Too often an avalanche of statistics would befuddle my already anxious mind and I would try to firmly lead my thoughts away from this viral nightmare that is Covid 19. Eventually I quelled the anxiety and disbelief a little and allowed myself to enjoy this hugely unexpected hiatus from the fray of our usual life. As time slowed I began to notice the beauty in my home and local environment - beauty which is abundant and an uplifting antidote to the current climate of fear and uncertainty.

Reconnecting with home has been the unexpected silver lining to the discipline of self isolation. Now that the daily commotion of normal life is stilled I find myself with the time to appreciate the minutiae of our home. I have had time to pull out the hoard of cookbooks that have sat for decades in the bookcase waiting for the proverbial rainy day, I have read childhood diaries and laughed and cried and contacted sisters to compare memories, I finally cleaned the crowd of antique glass bottles and jars that have sat gathering a velveteen coating of dust on the bathroom table for innumerable months. I have cleaned many treasured objects and each item I touch invokes a recollection of where it was acquired - I have spent hours revisiting my past gently chronicled by possessions. I have rearranged, reexamined and reassessed and feel thoroughly connected to this jumbled, idiosyncratic, non minimalist haven that is our home.

All this interior focused energy is perhaps a peculiar kind of home mindfulness, a rare chance to pause, to truly be in the home environment and to find and feel the poignant meaning behind a lifetime of collecting and culling. The objects that we choose to surround ourselves with paint the unique story of our lives and candidly reflect our soul.

If you are anything like me all this scrutiny will have illuminated a little room for improvement or at least seeded the mood for a few changes. I have bookmarked the page in an issue of The World Of Interiors with a photograph of THE perfect shade of Georgian brown velvet to reupholster our wretched and ragged settee knowing full well that finding something similar will be like finding the Rosetta Stone and that our settee will likely remain threadbare for years to come. I have added the odd lamp and a painted chinoiserie corner cupboard to my wish list and contemplated relegating another chair or two to the hallway to enhance a potential chair vacancy in the living room. However, what is not up for debate, is the permanency of my beloved daybed. The last couple of weeks have galvanised my love for this inanimate four legged friend having spent an extravagant amount of time, reading, sketching, day dreaming and watching Netflix reclined in stylish and outrageous comfort. I am envisaging that this exquisite daybed will carry me off incrementally into old age like some allegorical yet cosy vessel disappearing into the mists of time.

Just before we went into lockdown we added an exceptional 19th century, Italian Empire daybed to the Haunt showroom. This lovely daybed has arrived from the early 19th century in uncommon original condition - it is authentic, graceful and truly a thing of beauty. The daybed is stripped back to a calico covering awaiting a fabric of your choice.

We look forward to welcoming you all back to Haunt again when the time comes but in the meantime stay safe and well and enjoy the sanctuary of your home.

The ubiquitous Canterbury norwester is blowing with fury this afternoon, I have closed the large wooden doors upstairs here at work as they were banging and thrashing with an ominous intensity that was more than a little unsettling. It is stifling hot and the air inside is now still and close, claustrophobic like a tomb. I glance out the window and see the swallows who have been nesting in the porch below clinging defiantly to the power lines as the wind whips around them. Their wings are pointed like the tips of a star and flashes of blue and red are visible as their feathers ruffle and they take flight. Their beauty interrupts the grim concrete backdrop of the buildings that surround us and it occurs to me that the swallows are like early Christmas decorations - a flutter of festivity in a mundane world.
A memory of a glacial Christmas spent in Paris crosses my mind, perhaps to counteract this unbearable heat or simply a welcome visit from the ghost of a Christmas past. When I think of that Christmas I remember the cold - the stark, bone cracking chill of the exhaust laden air as we walked around Paris. On Christmas morning we walked from our apartment in the 18th arrondissement through the quiet streets to Montmartre, ducking into the odd cafe that remained open along the way for a coffee and some much needed warmth. We arrived at Montmartre and found the carousel at the bottom of the steps still operating, the brightly coloured horses spinning around and the fairground music percolating out into the abandoned streetscape, somewhat muffled by the cold. It seemed like the perfect Christmas activity to ride this normally crowded carousel alone. We chose our horses and climbed aboard, our hands stinging as we clasped the cold metal rods and we whirled around with the tears streaming from our eyes forming icy trails down our cheeks. The windows of the old apartment building across the street would reveal a glimpse of a Christmas scene with each rotation like a living nativity calendar. Christmas tree lights were glowing in the depths of shady interiors and people were preparing or eating lunch, their window panes obscured by the condensation of heat and activity. We kept walking to stay warm and continued on past the spectacular Christmas windows at Galeries Lafayette, the delicate layer of ice on the pavement crunching delicately under our feet like caramelised sugar.
The day ended with an impeccable dinner at Boffinger. The comforting clatter of cutlery on plates and hum of conversation greeted us as we entered, brass gleamed and the elaborate Belle Epoque sky light sparkled. A gaggle of white shirted waiters surrounded us like a snow flurry, we were seated and proceeded to enjoy our Christmas dinner par excellence with the precious memories of our perfect Christmas Day continuing to embed in our psyches as the day unfolded.
Most Christmases since have been much less of a fairytale, often unremarkable or cobbled together in haste but always joyful nonetheless. I think some of the charm of Christmas is allowing yourself to revisit that unfettered childhood wonder - it wasn’t really necessary to understand the nuts and bolts of Christmas when were children it was only relevant that it was a day unlike any other for whatever reason and it was simply magic. We didn’t need everything to be perfect, the decorations didn’t need to be exceptional, there was no need for excess - Christmas Day was just not like yesterday, it was a shift in perspective - the magic was in the air. As an adult the magic of Christmas is at times elusive depending on circumstance but I have found that if you allow yourself to tap into the Christmas mood, Christmas is a day when even the most ordinary can seem festive.
This rustic 19th century Scandinavian table and set of Ercol dining chairs celebrate the beauty of a simple Christmas - the perfect setting for a day of fun, frivolity and festivity.

Sitting down to write and contemplating the striking pair of portraits we have recently hung in the showroom at Haunt I am reminded of a visit to Knole house long ago during a year spent in Sussex. I was very keen to visit Knole given that it was the family home of Vita Sackville West - I had been reading voraciously about the Bloomsbury group at the time and was enamoured with the writing of Virginia Woolf and fascinated by her entanglement with Vita. Another long standing fascination of mine is the Knole settee and Knole house is of course, the home of this definitive settee - the original, circa 1660, is on display there housed in a glass box with its original faded red silk velvet upholstery and passementerie miraculously still intact.
I remember crunching over fallen acorns as we made our way from the carpark to the imposing stone structure that is Knole. Knole sits heavily upon the earth - bearing the weight of six centuries of history it endures as a valuable touchstone to the past. The interior is a treasure trove and I was unexpectedly spellbound by the Brown gallery with its astonishing collection of 16th and 17th century portraits. Through the creak and musky scent of English oak a long row of muted Renaissance chairs emerged from the almost crepuscular light, arranged along the wall like an improbable waiting room. A crowd of exquisite portraits lined the panelled walls - an immutable audience from the past quietly observing the present. I moved slowly and self consciously through the gallery and imagined these lives lived so long ago, the intricacies and circumstance long forgotten but the very fact of their existence archived eternally.
Over the following years I have visited countless historic and civic buildings populated by a host of portraits. Painterly eyes follow you as you ascend staircases and wander shadowy hallways - like gilt framed ghosts these individuals from the past continue to inhabit the buildings where they once lived, worked or visited. You get the sense that if you could string them together like a supernatural stop motion animation you could perhaps bring history to life.
The desire to have our existence witnessed and recorded is, I imagine, a touching attempt to preserve our identity and sense of self beyond the confines of mortality. Whilst portraiture was traditionally the domain of the privileged, today “ the selfie“ fulfils a similar yearning in a less refined but more egalitarian spirit I suppose - expressing the hope that our existence might have some small impact that is more far reaching than the frustrating brevity of our allocated life span.
A sense of self can be a confusing and fragile thing and it is helpful if it is reinforced by others. Jean Paul Sartre described the existential gaze - the gaze of others being a device that defines and proves our existence albeit making us feel uncomfortable. A portrait is this significant gaze transferred to canvas and an antique portrait is effectively a decorative and skilfully executed “ kilroy was here ” from the past.
This charming pair of portraits date from 1902 and dignify the existence of an anonymous husband and wife. Graphically pleasing and supremely atmospheric these portraits would grace the walls of any modern interior.
While I am exploring a philosophical theme yet not having previously thought about furniture as being remotely phenomenological, I can’t help but notice the amusing similarity between this elegant pair of 1940’s lucite consoles and Schrodinger’s cat. The consoles are translucent, visually they scarcely occupy any space yet the lucite reflects light and shadow defines their shape. They are sophisticated and beautiful and like the aforementioned and celebrated cat they are both there and not there at all.

For as long as I can remember I have been mysteriously drawn to all things green. I remember purchasing my first bicycle and the overwhelming flush of excitement being more about the fact that it happened to be the perfect shade of green rather than having the bicycle itself - the serendipitous colour somehow made my happiness complete. I have spent my professional life either buying or trying to restrain myself from buying antique pieces that are painted or upholstered in an irresistible green. Like a moth to a flame I will be drawn to anything green at an antique fair which proves to be somewhat of a distraction from the job at hand - a peculiar addiction perhaps, but as the French say, c’est plus fort que moi.
 Long ago during a year spent in Paris, we would often spend an afternoon browsing the antique dealers on the left bank - mostly admiring shop windows filled with idiosyncratically curated displays. Quirky 18th century pieces would be paired with taxidermy, Venetian chandeliers, a hint of gilt and perhaps some tribal art. We would marvel at the fact that in Paris there were actually customers who would purchase such extraordinary eccentricities and imagine one day being the proprietors of a similar retail wunderkammer, defiantly ignoring the challenges of our home market in order to entertain the dream.
At the corner of Rue Jacob and Rue Bonaparte was a boutique with its facade painted a deep and funereal black. The shop was never open and the windows were partially obscured but through the brittle curtains we could make out an ethereal wonderland of antiques arranged as if it were somebody’s home. Neoclassical pieces were mixed with ebonised Napoleon III furniture and tasseled ottomans. Intricate wicker Victorian chairs and tables were scattered throughout as if plucked from a jardin d’hiver. In the depths of the rooms small corridors led to mysterious destinations and long extinguished lamps sat patiently in shadowy corners. The palette of the interior was predominantly black, powder blue and garden green and I was entirely captivated.
This was of course the gallery owned by the legendary Parisian interior designer / antique dealer Madeleine Castaing. We stumbled across the boutique at what must have been the end of her life and it remained in a peculiar kind of suspended animation for a long while giving the privileged passerby a last glimpse of her world - her unique and exquisite style precariously frozen in time.
That initial discovery of her charming boutique led to an unerring admiration and fascination for the work of Madeleine Castaing. She was a diva of design and an inimitable antique dealer.
Her style was classically based with a current of irreverence and whimsy. She would pair museum quality antiques with amusing flea market finds and even plastic flowers - “ sometimes you need a bit of bad taste “ she would declare. She was inspired by French 19th century novelists such as Proust and Balzac and endeavoured to create rooms that felt lived in and authentic. She understood the perfection in imperfection and was known to turn the vacuum cleaner on reverse and spray freshly painted walls with a fine coating of dust. Ignoring conventional taste at the time she relied on her own eye to combine unexpected antique pieces and create a singular and modern style.
This latest setting at Haunt indulges my own love for the colour green and is in a small way an homage to Madeleine Castaing. A nod to classical antiquity, the pairing of black and green and a hint of jardin d’hiver - I am sure that she would approve.

Napoleon Bonaparte reportedly stated that he simply found the crown of France in the gutter and picked it up … I wonder whether he also found his honed aesthetic sensibilities and appreciation for classical beauty in the same gutter. Possibly to recognise the crown of France abandoned in a gutter you need to possess an exceptionally good eye. Napoleon, despite his megalomania and war mongering did in fact display an admirable liberal spirit and inimitable good taste.
The French Empire style referenced the ancient Roman republic and was intended to idealise Napoleon’s leadership and the French state. It is formal, assertive and sumptuous. It adheres to classical ideals of form, beauty and harmony and is just as resonant in our modern world as it was in early 19th century France.
One of the loveliest functioning period Empire interiors that I have visited is the Brasserie Deux Garçons on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix en Provence.
This unassuming brasserie is nestled amongst the usual pharmacies, shoe shops and gaudy modern takeaway joints. Miraculously the period Empire boiseries and mirrored glass walls of this divine interior remain intact. You sit in the bustling cafe surrounded by crisp white table cloths and the delicate green gold sheen of the painted and gilt walls. Corinthian capitals and caryatids populate your peripheral vision and your steaming demitasse of black coffee feels like a dark and esoteric potion that has mysteriously transported you back in time - two hundred years disappear with every sip. The waiters are suitably surly according the respect this establishment deserves and you feel privileged to be dining amid such uncommon beauty. The dream is cruelly interrupted however, by a visit to the bathrooms which are disappointingly but inevitably modern and once I attempted an exploration of the bar upstairs which looked like it had been renovated by a couple of cyber decorators suggesting all things futuristic with sparkly finishes and plastic wood. Their modern vision felt more like a tawdry 1980’s late night dive masquerading as avant-garde and should not exist in the same hemisphere as Les Deux Garçons, let alone right above and attached to it. To this day it is one of the things I wish I had never seen. Hopefully Les Deux Garçons downstairs has an iron clad restraining order on any well intentioned, modernising decorators and it will remain blissfully intact for decades to come.
I suspect that much of Napoleon’s success came from introducing some formality and order to a bewildered and chaotic post revolutionary France. His Napoleonic code still influences the French legal system and those further afield even today. The flux and demands of modern life often leave us feeling overwhelmed and there is something very reassuring about walking into a formal interior where the decor feels beautiful, confident yet tranquil and the abiding classical elegance of centuries surrounds you. You draw a breath, the mind settles and you are able to navigate your day.

This 19th century French Empire buffet is an exquisite example of the Empire style, mahogany with a deep emerald marble top, columns and ormolu mounts. Swans were the favoured motif of the Empress Josephine and here they are crafted into elegant handles. The interior of the buffet is fully lined in a green taffeta.
The gorgeous pair of armchairs are Italian Empire, late 19th century with original paint, ormolu mounts and are unexpectedly comfortable.
The Empire sconces date from the mid 20th century, carved wood and gilded metal - they are more Hollywood glamour than period Empire, a decorative and stylish accent.
The portrait of a gentleman dates from the early 19th century and is Empire period.

Hidden at the end of an extraordinarily long avenue of plane trees on the outskirts of St Rémy, there is an 18th century château that has functioned as a hotel since the 1950’s. We were lucky enough to stumble across this sublime establishment many years ago and have repeatedly stayed there whenever possible.
The long approach to the château provides ample opportunity to contemplate the beauty of the gracious 18th century facade. We usually arrive at the end of the day and the shuttered windows are bathed in the late afternoon Provençale light as if the entire building has been lit for a private and mysterious theatre production. The stone balustrades throw serpentine shadows across the terrace and glacial white swans float nonchalantly on the canal that leads out across the park. The setting is verdant and history abounds. The crunch of gravel announces our arrival as we park in front of the stables and hurriedly unpack our luggage, eager to settle in to our favourite room once again.
The absolute charm of this hotel lies in the haphazard way in which it is run. The service is casual to say the least and maintenance has merely been a vague idea deferred to some time in the unknowable future. The result of this very fortuitous laissez faire is a château which has remained in absolutely original condition save a few rudimentary 1950’s plumbing additions to provide basic ensuites for the bedrooms. The terracotta tiles move under our feet as we ascend the curving staircase to reach the bedrooms.The painted shutters are faded and open with a familiar creak as we let light into the room. The soft yellows and greens of the wall colours were applied in the 19th century I suspect but are entirely correct and beautifully weathered. The gloomy hallway outside our door leads to a spacious and once opulent sitting room where a large 19th century billiard table lurks in a corner like a four legged beast. The furniture is sparse and worn but a delightful mix of different styles and periods -  flotsam and jetsam discarded by time.
An early evening ritual upon arriving is a walk through the rambling and similarly unkempt gardens to the centuries old stone pool where enormous and prehistoric looking carp break the surface of the black water and disappear again into the mossy and murky depths. An uninhabited dove cote leans into the undergrowth beyond the bamboo and a wild and thorny rose has nearly engulfed the park bench where we always sit.
Several years ago we arrived at this treasured haven to find that it had been sold, redecorated and ruined. The knowledge that the indefinable beauty of this remarkable place had been disfigured by modernisation and an over enthusiastic decorator with chintz cushions, fresh paint and brightly coloured plant pots was heart breaking. Although we no longer physically visit this adored château I am very grateful to be able to visit the memories of it as it once was, dishevelled but unequivocally beautiful - an eternal beauty somehow captured by the perfect imperfection.
This beautiful 19th century Louis 15 style console struck me in a similar way when I stumbled across it in an antique shop full of glittering gilt and polished chandeliers. It stood alone against a white wall with spellbinding restrained elegance. The graceful lines of the Louis 15 legs are poised and beautiful yet it is unassuming at the same time with its humble painted finish and wooden top. The paint is peeling in places exposing the wonderful carving beneath and the few marks on the wooden marquetry surface tell its story. Nobody has tried to refresh the paint or replace its top - its integrity is intact. It is simple, authentic and utterly beautiful.

I have been stealthily guarding this astonishing armoire for several years now and have imagined it nonchalantly lurking at the back of our future kitchen in all it’s Baroque splendour - solving our kitchen storage issues with incomparable beauty and grace. It has taken me a long while to even consider parting with “the pantry” but the time has come and as we assembled this beautiful piece in the Haunt showroom I found myself contemplating the extraordinary good luck that led to it’s discovery.
It was late autumn in France the day we bought the pantry. I remember waiting before the gates of the antique fair in the early morning, the frosted air was thick with cigarette smoke, diesel fumes and anticipation. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other trying to maintain some feeling in my toes. Finally the gates opened and the global throng of dealers entered like a tsunami - streams of antique dealers heading towards the various hangar sized buildings where the antiques are displayed. This is the moment of chance - that split second choice of direction which leads to a lucky find or not and the ability to purchase it before another dealer gets there first.
That particular day Simon and I had agreed to initially go in separate directions to cover more ground with a rendezvous arranged at the central café in an hour’s time in the hope that there would still be some pain aux raisins left at 8.30am to accompany a much needed coffee. It was nearly time to head back to our meeting after my first lap of the fair and I could see the crowds building around the café. Like a formula one pit stop, the dealers shift gear, pull in and lean on the bar to drink their coffee and swallow a pastry before heading back out into the fray - always moving quickly, eyes darting back and forth scouring for treasure. I ignored my gnawing stomach and the beckoning aroma of coffee and decided to check the most distant building before I returned to meet Simon.   
In the shadows at the very back of this last building I glimpsed some heavenly serpentine paintwork. I assumed that whatever this beautiful object was it had already been sold but I wandered over to satisfy my curiosity and addiction to beauty. The alluring painted doors belonged to a majestic late 17th century, Venetian garde manger and I stood in wonderment as the ghosts of a Baroque Italian kitchen populated my imagination. Hazy figures scurrying back and forth, climbing ladders to reach the serving vessels from the highest shelves - I could hear the clatter of porcelain plates, the tinkle of ethereal Venetian glass and detect the savoury scent of roasted pheasant accented, perhaps, with peaches.
 I was transfixed, transported and very quickly transacted - to my surprise, this astonishing cupboard was not yet sold. I wallowed in the pleasant sensation of having been blessed by such outrageous good fortune and simultaneously felt a little overwhelmed by the responsibility of such a purchase … shouldn’t this be in a museum ?
The success of each and every buying trip we make ultimately relies on chance and every antique fair we visit is another roll of the dice. The purchase of this sublime cupboard was an unexpected stroke of good luck that I could happily accommodate for a lifetime.

I have often imagined what it might be like to lead a cloistered life and find myself quietly attracted to the idea. Secluded and tranquil days spent amongst beautiful buildings and abundant gardens with time for contemplation and a comforting sense of purpose - it seems like the perfect existence. I am however, devoid of any such vocation and have over the years satisfied my yearning for an ascetic life by visiting numerous cathedrals, churches, abbeys and monasteries in order to soak up the atmosphere, admire the architecture and to reassure myself that somewhere in the world there are indeed spaces that feel eternally calm.  

Gothic architecture illustrates the wonder of human endeavour and aspiration. The style arose from the reverent desire of the faithful to have their churches and cathedrals reach further and further towards the heavens and it relied on it’s ribbed vaults, flying buttresses and pointed arches to provide the required engineering to defy the inconvenience of gravity and steer these soaring edifices close to Paradise. The pointed arches, bent with such load bearing grace remain one of the most practical and beautiful architectural motifs in existence.

One of my earliest memories of the beauty of Gothic architecture is a visit to the seminal cathedral of St Denis on a winter’s day sometime in my now distant youth. St Denis was built in 1144 and is the first cathedral to display all the elements of the Gothic style. A metallic ride on the Paris metro delivered us to the suburb of St Denis beyond the périphérique, tenement blocks towered in the background and graffitied walls led us in the direction of the famed cathedral. Inside there was silence and the air was aqueous, cold and redolent with the scent of history. The celebrated rose windows transformed the grey, urban light of modern day St Denis into an eerie radiance  - an alchemic refraction of light that obscured the screeching of the world beyond and encouraged peacefulness. Time stood still and so did I with the kings and queens of France buried beneath my feet.

At a similar time my partner and I discovered the Romanesque abbey of Fontevraud during a meandering trip through the Loire. It was late in the afternoon but the kindly and solitary elderly woman selling tickets let us enter. We heaved open a weighty wooden door and wandered alone amongst cloisters draped with ivy and flagstones carpeted with moss. The gardens were overgrown, a tangle of vegetation guarding secrets. The thick stone walls bore the patina of centuries and the shadows whispered psalms - the devotion of the monks who inhabited this enchanting place was palpable. I had naively assumed the serenity of Fontevraud would remain inviolable but sadly a more recent visit revealed the abbey to be an over restored, heavily touristed and wholly antiseptic shell of it’s former self. The hallowed charm of Fontevraud had proven no match for the modern plague of progress.

There is a crusade of zealous restoration happening in France at the moment and numerous historic buildings and monuments are unfortunately being relieved of their soul - the gentle traces of history that provided the magic have been irreversibly scrubbed clean. The intent is noble and the preservation of the buildings is paramount, but it is heart wrenching to witness the loss of character which will undoubtedly allow the architecture to endure. It is now a rare thing to encounter an interior that is unspoilt, where you feel transported and enfolded by the past - when they are found they must be cherished and committed to memory before they are gone.

My latest obsession at Haunt is a pair of elegant Gothic mirrors that are crafted from early 19th century window frames salvaged from an abbey in Moissac. Undoubtedly victims of insensitive restoration these exquisite architectural elements have thankfully found another application. The mirrors may be purchased singly - the perfect Gothic feature to add timeless monastic beauty to your home.

 I can remember no examples of resplendent gilt-wood consoles from my New Zealand childhood - the decorative console is not a fundamental ingredient of the kiwi furnishing vernacular it seems. I imagine it was considered superfluous and ostentatious somehow and simply didn’t gel with the egalitarian grit that commonly pervaded the colonial home. It wasn’t until I traveled to Europe in my youth that I was introduced to the elegance of the console table.
Trying eagerly to absorb European culture by osmosis my partner and I visited numerous stately homes and noble residences where I was enthralled by the glamour and beauty of the ubiquitous console table. The shadowy recesses of an English manor unveiled an exquisite Robert Adam console, abandoned by history as throngs of tourists filed past failing to notice it’s magnificence. I was transfixed. The royal apartments of French chateaux revealed an astonishing procession of consoles, waiting patiently against the walls as the centuries seeped by, the corners sometimes scuffed and the gilt slightly chipped as the everyday movements of generations left their mark and the swags of rose-red satin ropes that forbade proximity to these precious tables prevented us from doing the same. The late 17th century and 18th century were the glory days of the console and every notable interior was furnished abundantly with these fabulous tables - their role was decorative and they were the hallmark of affluence, good taste and social standing.
The console exists in many different styles ranging from the lavish scrolls and foliate carving of the baroque to the minimal aesthetic of modernism and it is not exclusively the domain of affluent households. The purity of a simple wooden console or side table is as dignified as the furniture of kings. The rustic console is functional - it exists as a place to store or display things and was often created to address spacial limitations. A 19th century wooden side table would hold serving platters when space was tight and the dining table too small. A rugged oak console might be the receptacle for game birds after a hunt or hold prayer books in the vestibule of a monastery. The console is not purely decorative but is in fact very useful.
Today the console table is just as much at home in a modern interior as it was in the parquet floored enfilade of an 18th century palace and modern life has a knack of making every console functional which is a pleasing adaptation. One of my best loved consoles is a grand, 19th century console in the baroque style, possibly of Italian provenance, with an enchanting original painted finish - faded storm blue and dusty like the wings of a moth. The fluid lines of the marble follow the shape of the base like the foam tinged edges of a wave arriving on the beach and the exuberant flourishes of the carving echo the sweeping gestures of a conductor in front of a symphony orchestra. The console should be on a stage but it is in the busy and breezy living room of our favourite chambre d’hôte in the Luberon. It is the room you walk through to access the stone terrace shaded by plane trees where breakfast is waiting. It is on this table that you leave the key to your room. A laptop casually balances on a pile of magazines at one end and it is crammed with books, office ephemera and family photographs. It sits modestly there in all it’s unassuming glory, it is well used and it feels just right.

This morning I could hear the wind making the house creak before I opened my eyes and large droplets of rain were tapping against the windowpane like morse code for stay in bed. I retrieved my laptop from the kitchen, made a cup of tea and quickly scurried back under the covers for an extra half hour of warmth. With my feline secretary by my side I checked my emails, glanced at the world news and inevitably yet tentatively opened Instagram.
Internet platforms such as Instagram provide us with a visual avalanche of covetable interiors. An inexorable parade of the homes of others which appear so much more appealing and inspired than our own. Every day a new image catches your eye and prompts you to spend the next 24 hours reimagining your own house decorated in a similar style. You spend the day ruminating on the perfect shade of emerald green for the tiles that will transform your small south facing bathroom into that plant and light filled Rajasthani bathhouse that you saw on Instagram at breakfast and the following morning the next great decorating idea arrives on your screen.
Whilst this digital river of images is exciting and inspiring I find it equally unsettling and discouraging - I often feel that I am drowning in a raging current of aesthetic flux. Increasingly I am finding myself drawn to the classical and enduring styles of the past - tried and true interiors that do not fall in and out of vogue but remain relevant because they address and satisfy the essential human needs of everyday life without losing sight of beauty.
The English country home is a great example of an interior style that is just as relevant today as it was in the past. It is a style crafted by the passage of centuries and influenced by man’s relationship to the farmland and forests surrounding him. Large Chinese export porcelain lamps brighten the gloom of the living room, the fringed yellow silk cushions strewn across the feather filled settee scream Colefax and Fowler, the oak of the time worn Chippendale dresser glows in the soft light and the collection of family photographs is displayed higgledy piggledy on the Georgian loo table in the corner. Muddied wellingtons sit in a line by the front door and damp dogs are warming themselves beside the fire.
The style of the English country home blends grandeur with rusticity and speaks of a continuum of lives lived over generations, it taps into a domesticity that feels eternal and creates a home that is familiar, nurturing and meaningful. It suggests a permanence that is dependable which the capricious and fleeting nature of contemporary fashion does not.
This beautiful, turn of the century Chippendale style dresser epitomises the timeless chic of the English Country home.

An arrangement of summer greens. This pretty table was once used in a florist shop in the Loire valley and must have looked gorgeous crowded with a colourful array of flowers and foliage. There are remnants of it's original grass green, painted finish on the front giving it a playful, decorative appeal. Fun and functional - it would make a characterful dining table and it looks equally stunning placed against a wall to display treasures and complement artwork.
The large and glorious opaque green glass bottles are a ubiquitous accessory at Haunt. They are wine or vinegar bottles dating from the 19th century. Their hand blown charm and idiosyncratic appeal make them an alluring accent for any interior. The painting is "stylist's own " I'm afraid.

Haunt will resume normal opening hours this Saturday February 10th, 11am - 4pm.
We were unable to open last week due to storm damage at our bach and we apologise for any inconvenience caused. 
Haunt will now be open every Saturday as usual from 11am - 4pm and by appointment during the week at a time to suit you. We look forward to seeing you soon.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas, a relaxing and restorative summer break and a Happy New Year.

This coming Saturday is our last opening day before Christmas - Haunt will not be open Saturday 23 December and will be closed throughout January.

Thank you very much for your interest and support over the past year and we look forward to seeing you again at Haunt in 2018.

Lisa and Simon

My favourite pastime has always been to draw and dream - to record beauty and capture thoughts with a pencil as I meander through life. I have recently been encouraged to make prints of my drawings.
The Brevity Series is a contemplation of the fleeting nature of beauty and is the beginning of what I hope to be an ever expanding selection of illustrative works.
Sublime beauty is exclusively found in a moment - it is not constant, it cannot be captured and held. Beauty is precious because of its finitude and there is a sense of perfection hidden somewhere in the simple fact that it ends.
A moment of beauty is a Vanitas of sorts - it reminds us that all is transient including our own lives and it prompts us to pause and appreciate the beauty in our world before it is gone.

Spring appears to have winter firmly grafted to it this year - like a frosty hitchhiker who is refusing to end it’s journey. Occasionally we glimpse a brief taste of spring with a warm breeze and sunshine lifting our spirits for a day or two and then we are thrown back into the chill of a winter we would dearly love to see the back of.
I am sitting at home on a wind whipped day with shrouds of grey drizzle crawling up the harbour and a fire glowing and creaking in the wood burner next to me. I am watching the greyness engulf the grass green hills of Banks Peninsula and the wind sculpt the water into the jagged and leathery texture of parched clay - as if water was something solid rather than an hydrous and uncooperative liquid. The mirror opposite the table where I am working has a similarly ragged appearance as blackened veins of cracked silvering track their way from the edges of the glass towards the centre. A delicate process that has taken a century to achieve unlike a brazen southerly wind that can churn a harbour in moments.
Despite the cold, I know that it is spring because the window reflected in the mirror frames a cascade of fluttering blossom - as if a swarm of albino moths has alighted on the bowed branches of our plum tree. The absinthe green of new spring growth pushes it's way through the petals and the whole seasonal array graciously obscures the jaunty angles, aluminium joinery and the more orange than cream wall of the neighbouring house. What a beautiful backdrop is nature.
With the wintry weather inhibiting the full appreciation of spring’s beauty, I find myself on gloved and coat clad walks furtively snapping little twigs of blossom and other specimens of spring’s abundance to bring home and balance in the delicate vase on the bathroom windowsill or gather bouquet like in the glass jug on the dining table. This year I am needing to bring spring indoors.
 At Haunt we are continuing the theme of bringing nature indoors with armfuls of leaves and blossom being dragged through the showroom and crowded into containers - petals strewn across the floor like floral feathers. Last week we hung this glorious French tapestry on the back wall. It is an early 20th century copy of an 18th century “ verdure “ tapestry in the celebrated “ rustique “ style of Aubusson - once again nature provides a decorative and exquisite backdrop.
Let the weather do what it may - we now have flowers on the tables and an entire forest on the wall.
Spring has arrived.

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.

The bathroom is a nurturing space and every detail is reassuringly familiar. The bathroom is where we arrange our hair, our face our clothes and our thoughts - it is the green room to the theatre of each day.
There is an element of ritual to our daily toilette and the washstand is a domestic altar of sorts. It bears witness to our intimate moments. As we pause for reflection in front of the mirror it frames our reveries, hopes and dreams.
The washstand should be beautiful - we should feel uplifted each morning as the gentle sunlight washes across the timeless marble and we reach for the comforting shroud of a fresh white towel. It is adorned with treasured objects - a favourite perfume nestles on the shelf and when the crystal stopper is removed the heady scent permeates the bathroom like an olfactory genie. The washstand is not only functional but it is also capable of soothing and reviving with it’s tranquil charm.
The latest addition to the Haunt showroom is this alluring French, Belle Epoque washstand. It dates from the late 19th century and hails from the South of France.
The raw glamour of this washstand has a distinctly Ralph Lauren quality to it. It makes me think of rustic yet luxurious weekends of perfection tucked away somewhere amongst rustling Monterey pines with a cherished partner, an exceptional Zinfandel and a view of a lake. It equally brings to mind those exquisite, intimate and velvety pastels by Degas capturing women bathing, alone with their thoughts and depicted in subtle hues - this washstand would not be out of place in such a setting.
Images of beauty and contentment inevitably spring to mind - this would be the perfect washstand to begin the perfect day.

We thought we had our summer hours organised but now due to a change of circumstances Haunt will be closed for the last two Saturdays in January.
Haunt will be open again usual hours from Saturday 4th February.
We apologise for any inconvenience but please be in touch if you have any enquiries in the meantime.
[email protected]    021 328896

Thank you once again for your enthusiastic support and patronage during the past year.
We wish you and your families a fun and festive Christmas and a long and restorative summer break.

Haunt is open this Saturday, Christmas Eve, 11 am - 4pm and will be open every Saturday throughout January excluding New Year's Eve. If you have any out of town visitors who would like to visit Haunt outside of these hours please do not hesitate to call either Lisa 021 328896 or Simon 027 483 9581.

Another year almost concluded and Christmas is lurking just around the corner, as it does every year, surprising us with it’s proximity.
Christmas creates it’s own unique chaos - it is a kind of festive storm that sorts the supremely organised amongst us from the more organisationally challenged. I count myself in the latter category. The storm begins to break on Christmas morning and however windswept and tousled I find myself, I will always have the time and inclination to decorate the table - one of the most enjoyable tasks of the day.
If the Christmas table has become your focus and you have decided that this Christmas you need a new table - one with personality, provenance and patina ... our Christmas Special is just for you.

This information laden, technicolour world of ours can often be an assault on the senses. Navigating the city usually involves visual entanglements with unsightly billboards or commercial signage shouting in jarring and aggressive colours - colours so loud they make your eyes deaf. It takes a good deal of strategy and planning to get from one side of town to the other with your conception of beauty and air of tranquility intact.
At times I find myself driving as if I were following one of those childhood mazes - careful to not make a wrong turn which might spit me out onto a road so heinous that it will likely taint if not ruin my entire afternoon. Certain routes are to be avoided at all cost and if driving along these parades of ugliness is inescapable the task must be undertaken with eyes to the front, looking straight ahead. Like a pupil in class at a strict Victorian boarding school - you obey the rules to avoid being punished. If you lapse, you will be confronted with a lurid street scape of brightly coloured, homogeneous buildings decorated with text speak slogans and bilious banners - and consequently your heart will sink.
The process of visual editing can be rather exhausting and is never entirely successful. Every day there is some unexpected colour collision to contend with -  a pollution so ubiquitous that it must be tolerated. Bright and brash appears to be the universal mantra of the commercial world but it is an anathema to mine.
I find solace in more subtle hues, in the mid tones where nothing is loud and obvious - where the nuance of colour is whispered and complexity resides in the shadows. Where the parameters are not so harshly defined, where there is still room for a maybe, for imagination, for pause. Harmony is interstitial - it exists somewhere on that gently obscured island between absolutes. Grey is not black and it is not white - it is not that simple. It is subjective and subdued, refined and enduring and a most appropriate backdrop for the intimacy of home.

This French 19th century draper’s table beautifully displays all the subtlety of the colour grey  - the paint finish is original, unwaxed to preserve the delicate, velvety surface of the paint. A stunning feature side, display or sofa table or a wonderful addition to a kitchen.

Haunt's new collections page currently featuring vintage brass.

There is a new page on the Haunt website where we will showcase changing collections that reflect our current obsession or enthusiasm du jour.

I have long held a fascination with antique or vintage brass and it is with a sense of delight that I now see brass pieces gleaming from the pages of the latest interiors magazines. Finally it seems, the world has awoken to the glamour of brass. Brass as an accent gives an interior an instant revamp. It mixes beautifully with both rustic and formal pieces and is capable of creating an atmosphere of earthy elegance or Hollywood glam depending on the setting. Gently tarnished by time spent in the modish interiors of the mid 20th century - vintage brass has a warm allure, an abiding and casual glamour that is unequivocally chic.

Butchery is a mysterious art somehow - it is one of life’s processes that elicits truly conflicted emotions. I can think of no other trade that dances so precariously on the edge of horror and beauty.
It is in France that one so often encounters a traditional butcher’s shop operating now as it always has, defiantly resisting the march of time and modernisation. The shop frontage is intricately tiled like the scales of some exotic beast and the word Boucherie crawls across the window in scratched, italic, gold script. The ominous gleam of metal blades and implements is discernible in the shadowy interior against an elegant backdrop of timeworn marble. Meat is displayed neatly ordered in the window and pretty lines of ruffled parsley separate one section from the next. Price tickets impale various cuts of meat and they are decorated with the butchery’s logo - an unnervingly cheerful pig portrayed in a chirpy 1930’s graphic style. You enter the shop, it smells like history and you immediately covet the polished brass scales on the counter and are determined to find a replica of the butcher’s smart indigo blue apron before you leave France. The scene is infused with the romance of a utilitarian yet noble profession and you are
captivated.
The image of such a butchery nestles somewhere in our mind alongside reveries of culinary excellence. The heady scent of a slow cooked and sweetly spiced beef daube, the delicate sizzle of the perfect steak, cooked `a point with a hint of anchovy butter added as it rests, salty and succulent lamb served with a gratin dauphinois - the undeniable pleasure of dining well.  A delicious meal enjoyed in appropriate surroundings with the right company is one of the great pleasures of civilised culture - yet once in a while, if we allow ourselves to think about it, we are visited by a feeling of unease as we remember that on our plate is a piece of dead animal, an animal that not so long ago was enjoying the sunshine and leisurely chewing grass, innocent and unaware of it’s impending fate. In those moments we realise with deep certainty that there is not much that is civilised about being civilised.
I suffer immensely from these conflicted emotions - if I allow my mind to roam into these spaces I find that I can barely touch the meat that was intended for that night’s dinner yet I find it hard to resist ordering the steak frites on the bistro menu. I imagine I am not alone. I have no answers and obviously no conviction,
just a vague sense that this most disturbing arrangement is yet another of life’s odious imperfections - an everyday atrocity that I wish were not so.
The carnivorous activities of our predecessors have however given rise to some attractive furnishings and accoutrements associated with butchery - French butcher’s blocks are not only beautiful to look at but a most useful addition to any kitchen - whether it is a leg of lamb you are deboning or simply chopping the vegetables for a vegetarian cassoulet.
If you are currently redecorating or designing a new kitchen we have two lovely butcher’s blocks in stock at Haunt as well as many culinary connected pieces of furniture and accessories.

Time is my nemesis. Every day I must do battle with it.
Time appears to be such an ephemeral and fluid thing - it seems such a shame to carve it up with precise mathematical segmentation so that we can quantify it’s passing and plan how we are going to use it before it even arrives. Hours and minutes help us to describe time and allow us I suspect, to pretend to understand it.
A day, I am told, should be enough allocation of time to do a good many things but somehow all the things I intend to do in a day just never get done. Time is a trickster - it certainly doesn’t feel like it dishes itself out in the standard portions that the clock insists it does. What gets done gets done and what doesn’t doesn’t and this is how it has been ever since I can remember.
I have long ago accepted that time and myself are really never going to get along although I have had intermittent attempts at changing this. When I started high school my mother bought me my very first watch. I remember being in love with the unusual shade of maroon on the clock face and the shiny leather strap. I wore the watch more like a piece of jewellery and when I eventually connected the gentle tick and the inexorable rotation of the hands with the finite countdown of my life the watch was removed from my wrist and carried more like a pocket watch to be consulted only when necessary - when one needed to catch the bus for instance.
In the 1980’s I bought a filofax wishing to structure my days and emulate all those time efficient and professional people I observed around me; the filofax quickly became a surreptitious sketch book disguised as organisation with a fabulous fold out world map that prompted many travel themed day dreams. Now many years on, with a wealth of retrospective analysis I have deemed this time management thing to be a frustrating and futile activity - time will win in the end.
If you don’t look at a clock time can surprise you. It possesses an elastic quality, it can bend and stretch to accommodate various moods and activities. This is my theory and every summer I prove my hypothesis. For a treasured few weeks at the cottage by the sea the only clock, the one on the oven, is covered with dense black electrical tape and the days unfold free of schedule and unfettered by time. Time slows down, the days are full and it is bliss.
Owning antiques feels a little like capturing time in a sense - tapping into that continuum that is more enduring than our singular lives. As time continues to creep it’s petty pace from day to day and we sit on our 19th century chairs to eat at our 18th century table we invite the centuries into our home - it seems to defy the brevity of it all somewhat and it is probably the only small victory I will ever have in this relentless struggle with time.

Wishing you and your families a magical Christmas and a relaxing and restorative summer break. Thank you all very much for your enthusiastic and continuing support over the past year.

Haunt will be open every Saturday 11am - 4pm and by appointment anytime during the week until Christmas and then we will be closed throughout the month of January.

Spring always makes me feel like heading for the market and then of course the kitchen.
Bunched baby carrots with feathery green plumage waving enticingly from the market trestle, slender leeks with their fresh and wiry, dirt encrusted roots and sublime colouring - deep forest green fading to milky white like the most perfect watercolour. I find miniature spring onions displayed like flowers in a vintage vase at the neighbouring stand - is it not a crime to pick them when they are so small ? I consider trying to replant them under the kitchen window when I get home but decide that the abundance of spring allows for the odd culinary sacrifice.
I have a plan - it is spring and time to make a lamb navarin. This simple French dish is spring on a plate and an annual ritual - it somehow closes the door on winter and always rekindles memories of France.
An earthy fragrance scents the room as soon as I empty the vegetables onto the counter - the soil scatters across the well worn marble top like veins. I rummage through the chaos of our cutlery drawer and find my favourite 19th century knife - the familiar handle slips into my palm, comfortable, as if it had been made bespoke to fit my hand. I notice again the slight imperfection in the beaten silver collar and know that the century old blade will slice with ease as I prepare the vegetables for the navarin. I spot the gentle pea green speckle of the enamel casserole dish at the very bottom of the wooden crate on castors that stores our pots and pans. I lift the weighty dish and nudge the crate. It slides ghost driven back under the counter - our new self closing system installed by the earthquakes conveniently tilting the kitchen floor.
I smile as I watch the crate slide back into place and I think of all the outstanding meals I have enjoyed over the years that invariably come from small or simple, rustic and functional kitchens. Kitchens that produce food just as heavenly, if not more so, than vast artistically lit, appliance laden galleys boasting myriad modern wonders.
Our setting this month at Haunt is a wistful ode to the rustic kitchen. Kitchens where families gathered, pots aux feux bubbled routinely on stove tops, potatoes were peeled at the kitchen table and drawers creaked and groaned as they were opened and closed.
This gracious 18th century, cherry wood buffet a deux corps hails from Aix En Provence. The interior has been lovingly lined many years ago with a traditional Soleilado style fabric - an authentic and quintessentially Provençale touch. This charming cupboard would be a pretty and practical feature piece for a modern rustic kitchen.

The star of our setting this month is the exquisite ebonised French Empire daybed adorned with elegant black swans. This was an unexpected and exciting find and is truly an object of beauty. The daybed is presented in it’s deconstructed glory ready to re upholster in the fabric of your choice.
One of the greatest certainties in life is that it is sure to be uncertain and black swans are curiously used as a metaphor to describe the improbable happenings that blight our existential security.
Until the seventeenth century historical records described only white swans and it was therefore assumed that only white swans existed. Then in 1697 a Dutch explorer discovered black swans in Western Australia - a discovery which abruptly disproved centuries of assumption and illustrated the possibility of any accepted fact being over turned by an unexpected event or revelation. The Black Swan Theory was coined to describe these rare occasions - events that lie outside of our regular expectations and can change our understanding of prior reality.
The Black Swan Theory is often talked about in relation to financial markets to describe the unforeseen and often random influences that can affect the rise or fall of stock values and make reliable algorithms or predictions an impossibility.
Locally our significant Black Swan would be the Christchurch earthquakes. These surprising and shocking events permanently altered our perception of quotidian reality. They irrevocably changed our world and our expectations of how our lives will unfold.
We experience many mundane Black Swans - a winter of lingering illness that destroys our best laid plans, the deviously hidden rental car drop off point at Rome airport that causes us to miss our flight, the unreliable iPhone alarm clock ( user’s fault I am sure ) that has precipitated many challenging mornings … in fact most days seldom go to plan.
It is quite a skill this human ability to accommodate inconstancy. There is something admirable in our willingness to adapt to change and our acceptance of the unpredictable nature of our lives. Somewhere in the midst of the horror of uncertainty lies a very particular beauty -  it is the vulnerability and fragility of life that seems somehow to make it so precious.
Black swans are such a beguiling metaphor for the capricious nature of existence and a delightful decorative motif for an extraordinary daybed.