The Tumbrel Diaries

On my perambulation through the Carlton Gardens last week, I came across a little monument that captures perfectly the puffiness and pride o...

When, I wonder, was the old Museum of Victoria turned into the rather different, definitely expedient, and colossally self-important “Melbo...

After she died nearly sixteen months ago, Mum left behind very few loose ends. Helen made a lifetime’s habit of throwing things away, and a...

Inspecting the contents of the library in the old presidential palace in Saigon, this morning Nicko writes: “The palace was designed by a Fr...

In the 1950s and 1960s, indeed throughout the rest of his life, our father indulged an immoderate enthusiasm for French automobiles, many of...

I am a sucker for Edwardian sentiment, and apparently so too was Margaret Wood, author of The English Mediaeval House (1964), which I have...

For as long as I can remember Mum used this kidney-shaped Georgian brass snuff-box to store pins inside her sewing basket. I am not quite su...

Some time ago in these columns I remarked that Thomas Cornelius Trumble, the brother of our pioneering Irish great-great-grandfather Willia...

Among the detritus floating at the bottom of an old deed box inscribed “Rutherford Trust,” that Dad kept for years in his study at home in M...

One of the only documented public performances by Desda, our great-great-grandmother, Jane Davies, took place on Friday evening, December 9,...