reading: i capture the castle

Book recommendations are a lot like birthday gifts; unless the person doing the giving - be it information or a vintage fair isle knit - knows you even just a little bit, there is a real chance that you'll find yourself resenting them for getting you so wrong. For not realising that you couldn't possibly respond to a tome recording the history of an obscure beetle from the southern most tip of South America or a sequinned bandeau top.

And then sometimes you stumble across a book recommendation from someone you don't know at all. And that doesn't know you. Someone that simply distilled their love and appreciation into words that made you want to discover the characters they spoke so fondly of. That made you want to crawl into the mind of the author they revered and play dress ups; that made you want to spend all day curled up in an armchair, turning pages as quickly as you could soak up the words.

That's how I found I Capture the Castle.



I read about it on Hannah-Rose Yee's blog, which is named for the book she so eloquently exposed the thrill of.

And now I've discovered another character that I may sit beside Mary Lennox, Hermione Granger, Ebenezer Scrooge, Huck Finn, Matilda and Jo March as a favourite - Cassandra. The irrepressible, intelligent, charming narrator of her family's story. 

A story littered with the kind of genteel poverty that seems more romantic than depressing. A world of crumbling castles rampant with ghosts and of early twentieth century manners and social graces. A story of luck and first love and laughter and of finding your way as you go. 

I devoured the book, written by Dodie Smith, in three days - it would have been earlier if not for the scoundrel of work. But I do warn you, there is a very good chance that you will develop an affection for Cassandra and her family and their life in a castle that will leave you finding your own comfortable existence revealing itself as pedestrian in comparison.

kb xx 

are the classics shrinking our personal style?

Classic wardrobe staples have always battled with iconic statement pieces. And more often than not, they’ve won. Whether that’s down to the sheer strength found in a beige trench or just because those statement pieces appear easily exhausted and are often to be found curled up at the back of your closet after only a handful of wears. Either way, classic always seems to come out on top. 

And no wonder when we are inundated with repetitive wardrobe advice that proclaims white t-shirts, black denim, a trench and the all important little black dress are among the necessary items one must possess. The advice comes with the underlying message that classic is always best and those statements you might be fond of making are best made with shoes, bags or accessories. In other words, leave the loud to Anna della Russo. 

But what happens when those classics suddenly become statements in their own right. Take the now ubiquitous camel coats, white kicks a la Stan Smith and skinny black denim with perfectly placed rips at the knees. You know the ones I’m talking about. 

These pieces have infiltrated out wardrobes and sartorial desires (I’ll admit to a hankering for a camel coat that makes my desire for an EU passport look like a flight of fancy) to such a degree that their ever present nature now makes a statement in its own right. 

But it’s the kind of statement that freewheeling fashion folk might not be too enthused to hear. 

Because I have to wonder if adhering to the classics, if stripping your wardrobe of the sublimely ridiculous does, in fact, make a statement about statements. Or more to the point, about not making them. 

Do these pieces, the white button up shirts and black pumps among them, contribute to a shrinking of our personal style?

Do these pieces tell the world that we’re happy to play within a strict sartorial playground, with a uniform of sorts? And that discovering half the people you follow on Instagram are wearing the same shoes as you doesn’t even make your heart flutter, let alone stop. 

It almost seems like an inevitable evolution when people like Emmanuelle Alt, Christine Centenera, Kate Lanphear and Carine Roitfeld are revered, and consistently emulated, for their personal style. 

But I have to wonder, when this sartorial world of ours is dripping in black and white and shades of grey, is there a point where classic loses its appeal?

kb xx