They found her in drawers, buried in garden beds, floating in old tubs. Hard as bone, cold to the touch. She didn’t blink. Didn’t bend. Still, she stayed, passed down, picked up, rarely spoken about. They called her Frozen Charlotte.
They found her in drawers, buried in garden beds, floating in old tubs. Hard as bone, cold to the touch. She didn’t blink. Didn’t bend. Still, she stayed, passed down, picked up, rarely spoken about. They called her Frozen Charlotte.
When summer drapes the land in heat and everything slows beneath it, the Vitex tree begins to bloom. Its violet spires rise slowly, reaching into the shimmer with quiet intent. Called chaste tree, agnus-castus, or monk’s pepper, it has moved through centuries like a rumor, part prayer and part plant. In its petals live old stories: goddesses and gardens, acts of devotion, desire that once knew how to wait.
In the sun-warmed medieval village of Montréal, deep in the heart of southern France, Camellas‑Lloret rests a short distance from Carcassonne’s ancient ramparts — a quiet love letter to the past. Behind its 18th-century stone walls, lovingly restored, jasmine scents the air, wood floors whisper underfoot, and the hush of linen curtains stirring at the window carries the weight of memory. This intimate retreat is the work of Annie and Colin, whose chance meeting on a Paris-bound train blossomed into a shared dream: to create a place where time slows, and every guest feels they’ve come home.
In the honeyed glow of southern France’s medieval courts, something stirred beneath the surface of ritual and rank. Not a battle cry, nor a sermon—but a song. It came from the troubadours—or trovadors, as they were known in their own tongue—poets who let desire slip into verse and set longing to music. They sang of bodies and glances, of nights too full to hold. Their words brushed skin like fingertips, soft and dangerous. And in a world ruled by duty, they dared to speak of want.
The abalone shell isn’t just pretty — it’s a battle-scarred artifact of the sea. Shaped by tides and time, it’s been burned in rituals, worn as armor, and carved into sacred art. Its beauty is the aftermath — every gleam a testament, every hue a chapter of endurance. In the shell’s iridescent spirals are traces of the ocean’s violence — and its grace. Here are ten things you probably didn’t know about this strange, beautiful relic of the deep.
From pharaohs’ courts to the storm drains of Stephen King’s nightmares, clowns have worn a lot of faces—some joyful, some menacing. They’ve popped up across cultures and centuries, equal parts entertainer, trickster, and social commentator. So how did we get from sacred jesters to something out of a horror movie?
Forget trends and logos—dandyism has never been about fitting in. It’s the art of becoming a statement, of turning elegance into something sharp enough to cut. A dandy doesn’t just get dressed; he composes himself, one detail at a time, like a playwright building a character. Every gesture, every fold, every glint of polished leather is part of the act.
High above the Mediterranean, nestled in Deià’s olive-strewn hills, Villa Son Ru wears its past like a poem. Once a monastery believed to date back to the late 13th century, today it’s a sanctuary of soft light, stone arches, and soul-stirring stillness. In this feature, we step inside a place where time lingers, artists have long found muse, and every sunset feels like a quiet blessing.
A rose, utterly without thorns yet brimming with charm, carries an unbelievable tale of survival. Discover the Peggy Martin Rose, the blossom that weathered a hurricane’s fury.
What do Adam and Eve, a mischievous devil, and a bewildered donkey have in common? They’re all starring roles on Slovenian beehives. Yes, beehives. For over two centuries, these tiny canvases, known as “panjske končnice,” have been buzzing with stories, turning honey-making into a folk-art spectacle.