Over time, this archive will become a collection of remote places, living traditions and communities whose knowledge has survived the passing of generations. The San people belong firmly within it. Previous entries in the Private Atlas have taken me to remote landscapes and places shaped by isolation, but this entry explores something different: a way of seeing the world.

My first insight into how the San live came while spending time with them in the Kalahari. I listened to the San men as they shared with me, their beliefs about the land, the hunt and the traditions that continue to shape their communities. As I watched them move through the landscape, I began to understand just how differently they see the world.

This world is real, this world, is the world of the San people, the hunter gatherers. The San communities have been living in the Kalahari region of Southern Africa for hundreds of generations and remain one of the closest living communities of a hunter gatherer culture. For the San, survival depends not on individual achievement, but on the collective knowledge and wellbeing of the group. This deep relationship between people and the natural world is something I have explored before, from the vast interconnected ecosystem of the Amazon rainforest to the communities who continue to live alongside it.

The vast desert landscape of the Kalahari is shaped by rugged burnt orange rocks and miles of dry sandy terrain. An environment defined by relentless, dry heat, it’s clear that survival here requires a true understanding of the surrounding nature: animals, plants and weather.

These are the real nomads. They move, through the Kalahari, not to find themselves or chase the sun, but for true survival. Much like the animals they share the land with, they migrate to hunt game, source water and plants. Much of the landscape remains unchanged. Roads are scarce, buildings are few and vast stretches of the Kalahari still feel incredibly remote. This has allowed them to mirror the knowledge and practices passed down from their ancestors. Something embedded in them for centuries, something modern society cannot imagine. This idea of knowledge carried through generations is something I keep returning to in the Private Atlas, whether through the skills of traditional craftspeople or communities whose ways of living are slowly disappearing.

This, I find fascinating. Imagine knowing the land so intimately that the nature that surrounds you is your map, not the internet, not technology.

Every blade of grass is an insight into the weather or can allow the tracking of a passing animals movements. Every turned stone tells a story.

When the rain does decide to show, it releases a strong scent of damp dust, a warning that the floods may follow. It takes immense patience, time spent listening closely to the winds. The winds determine the direction, throwing a handful of sand in the air acts much like a compass. Each movement calculated and only executed when nature provides guidance. They walk not to disturb the land, not to conquer, but to pay it respect, trusting that in return, nature will guide them to where they need to be.

The Ju/’hoansi men are tasked with tracking, hunting and returning to the communities with the meat. A test of endurance, hours spent in the blistering sun, scanning the dusty ground. Almost like an art, they can determine the speed, weight, health and direction an animal has passed by a footprint.

All weapons they use are crafted from the natural resource found directly around them, plant fibres, animal bones, wooden bows, and arrows tipped with a coat of poison made from the potent larva of a diamphidia beetle.

To harmonise their respect for nature, the poison used does not initiate an immediate death, instead slowly shutting down the nervous system. Their deep understanding of the landscape allows them to track large game such as kudu, eland and giraffe. In addition, they also set traps for smaller animals.

When a successful hunt is brought back to the community, they behave differently from what one might expect. Even though they are thrilled, they do not reward or praise the hunter, instead they are mocked and laughed at for the size of the meat.

I was told about a tradition known as “insulting the meat.” A cultural tradition that prevents arrogance and boasting, which is deemed as almost sinister behaviour within the community. The San believe downplaying the success, prevents arrogance and keeps them humble which safeguards the communities wellbeing. Allowing them to protect themselves and the community from internal hierarchy.

The relationship between the San and their prey is not one of dominance but through a deep respect towards nature. They don’t see the animals as enemies, they see them as partners of survival in the world. The San protect their communities and well being by rejecting hierarchy, yet we live in a world where we are rewarded for status and success. This is the thought I keep coming back to after leaving the Kalahari: how would our society be if there was no hierarchy? In a world obsessed with recognition, perhaps there is something worth learning from a culture that teaches its most successful members to remain humble.

I would love to hear your thoughts. What is one lesson from a traditional culture that has changed the way you see the modern world?

The hunt is only a small part of the San culture. Subscribe to find out more about their daily life, the plants they use, how they heal themselves through dance, how they draw spiritual maps and how modern society is impacting them.

This entry is another pin on the map.

The Private Atlas is slowly becoming a catalogue of places, traditions and communities that offer a different way of seeing the world.

→ Why I Can’t Stop Thinking About The Amazon Rainforest
→ Fair Isle: The Living Craft Tradition of the Shetland Islands
→ The Art of Day Dreaming

So far, these entries have been an exploration of the curiosities that keep pulling me back. Over time, this archive will become a collection of remote places, traditions that haven’t disappeared, heritage crafts and the stories of people surrounding them.

This entry begins with a jumper. Or, a ‘gansey’, to some.

Fair Isle is one of around a hundred islands that make up the Shetland archipelago, a remote group of islands at the northern edge of the United Kingdom. Life here revolves around the land, sea and weather. The weather is rarely gentle. The wind does not blow - it howls. Or as the locals say, it’s ‘gowlin’. The rain does not drizzle, it arrives side ways from the North Sea. Even in summer, when the skies are bright and clear, there remains a crisp freshness to the air that reminds you just how far north you really are.

In a place shaped by isolation and harsh weather, everything has to earn its place and clothing has a job to do. It’s a necessity. This is why the Fair Isle jumper was born.

Before it appeared on runways and fashion magazines, the ‘gansey’ was a survival tool. Designed by the people living in one of the harshest environments in Britain. It was created to protect against the cold winds, rain and long days spent outdoors.

The story starts with the sheep. The Shetland sheep have adapted to the elements on the islands, the wool they produce feels like part of the land, it is difficult to imagine it coming from anywhere else. It has spent centuries adapting to the same winds and rain that shaped life so far north. Once it has been sheared and spun, it becomes literally like a shield from the harsh conditions. The fibers trap tiny pockets of air, helping to regulate temperature and protect against the elements. One of its most amazing qualities is the way raindrops gather on the surface like tiny glass beads before eventually, just rolling away. I personally think there is something truly magical about this.

Turn a Fair Isle jumper inside out and you’ll see the loose strands running across the back of the knitting. Known as floats, they form a hidden layer beneath the pattern. I’ve always liked that. The most important part of the garment is the part nobody sees.

But the wool isn’t really the point and neither is the pattern. Like the floats hidden beneath the knitting, that’s when it becomes more than a jumper.

Fair Isle is known for patterns inspired by waves, ram’s horns and the colours of the landscape. They were not designed soley for beauty, they came from what people saw around them. It was a way for the islanders to knit their surroundings into their clothing. The sea, the weather and the land all found their way into the knitting.

The thing I find most interesting, is how closely Fair Isle remains tied to the islands that created it. Although it found its way into fashion, Fair Isle has never fully detached itself from the landscape. The weather continues to shape life here. The wool still comes from sheep adapted to the islands. You can still see traces of the sea and the landscape in the patterns. It never lost the conditions that created it.

That is why it belongs in the Private Atlas. To remember traditions like this. Objects that couldnt have been made anywhere else. It’s not just a jumper. It is a garment shaped by a place where the wind howls, rain arrives sideways and life is shaped by the sea.

The pattern isnt really the point. The island is.

I am documenting these places and crafts in my Private Atlas. Not as a travel guide or a checklist, but as a record of the things I don’t want to forget. The places, traditions and objects that reveal something about the people who made it.

If this resonates with you, consider subscribing. Each week, I’ll share another pin from the atlas: the heritage crafts, remote landscapes, and quiet traditions that remain rooted in their origins, waiting for those who take the time to notice.

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However, the places that stick with me aren’t the convenient ones. They’re the ones that demand something in return. I’m talking about the unpaved dirt roads, the river crossings, the moments when your phone signal vanishes and you’re left with that sinking feeling that you might have made a massive mistake. But perhaps the most radical luxury left isn’t efficiency but the journey itself.

I didn’t find this place on Instagram or some ‘50 Places You Must Visit’ list. To be completely honest, I didn’t go for the hotel. I found it because I was hunting for a specific art installation.

Deep in the Andes sits a private collection, designed and built for one of the most influential contemporary artists in the world. I’ve admired his works for years and the thought of seeing one of the installations in such a remote, rugged landscape was not something I was going to miss. What I didn’t realise was that the art itself was only half the experience.

Getting to the hotel was an adventure within itself. The road twisted through mountains for hours. When maps finally told us we had arrived, what lay in front was not a lobby or someone ready with a welcome drink, but a river crossing and a stark, ‘Do Not Enter Unless You Have a Reservation’ Sign - totally uninviting. It was a reminder that this isn’t a place you just stumble across. The estate only welcomes guests with a confirmed appointment and sits in one of the most geographically isolated pockets of the region.

After trusting a local farmer to navigate us across the river, which was indeed roadworthy enough for our little hire car and pursuing yet another winding, unpredictable dirt track which seemed to go on for hours. When we did arrive, it was immediately obvious that this was beyond what we expected, far more than just a hotel. It bridges the gap between harsh, high-altitude wilderness and the highest form of contemporary art - truly spectacular.

Perched high in the Andes, the property feels like it belongs to another world. Honestly, the photos online do it no favours. They make it look pleasant, but hardly remarkable. I expected a basic place to sleep. Instead, I found an unexpected oasis of tranquillity, which has become deeply ingrained in my memory.

It’s impossible to categorise exactly what it is. A winery? An art museum? A private estate? The labels don’t fit. It’s as if someone has taken the best parts of each and woven them together. I guess that’s precisely the point. The vineyards gave it purpose, the art gave it depth, the landscape gave it scale, and the sheer remoteness gave it soul.

With exposed beams and terraces overlooking the highest altitude vineyards in the world, the place has a quiet, grounded confidence. The rooms are better described as small suites, each with four poster beds, open fireplaces and large private balconies overlooking the dramatic backdrop of the Andes.

The grounds are sprawled with vines. Side by side lie different grape types, each bursting with flavours, allowing a selection of different bodies hidden inside the firm skins. The vines here struggle in such high-altitude air and that stress creates a concentration of flavour that is as intense as the landscape itself.

The luxury you find here is quiet.

It isn’t about being known by everyone, it isn’t about thread count and it isn’t trying to be the next Four Seasons. It’s about a deep, quiet connection to the land, the scent of lavender fluttering past you as you walk the grounds and the architecture built to frame the night sky. It’s the authenticity of the staff, all from the local village, who carry a deep passion and speak of their home and work with a pride that is rare to find, making the entire experience feel extremely humbling.

But the heart of this place lies beyond the wine, beyond the rooms, beyond the grounds. This place is a destination explicitly chosen for what it provides, an intersection between the earth and the sky.

It houses a private collection. A purpose built gallery of the world’s most spectacular contemporary artists and masters of light and space. The installation consists of a series of spaces dedicated to the manipulation of light. Walking through the gallery felt like moving through impossible architecture. The walls seemed to dissolve and I felt a slight dizziness, overwhelmed by the way the brain perceives reality.

As the sun set, we entered the final room, a quiet space with an architectural aperture open to the sky.

As the light shifted, the colors filled the room and the space between the building and the atmosphere vanished. It was hypnotic and I found myself smiling for no reason at all. It reminded me that wonder doesn’t require complexity. Sometimes, you just have to pay closer attention. It’s deeply powerful, forcing you to ask if it is the light that is tricking you, or if it’s how we are programmed to see, which blinds us from what is right in front of us?

Upon our departure, I felt a strange sense of gratitude. Not just for the art of a great artist or the wine that has been around for centuries, but because places like this still exist. Places that resist being discovered, require effort to experience and haven’t yet been found by the algorithms.

This is one of many locations you can find in my Private Atlas.

But the real value isn’t in finding it on a map. It’s the realisation that you’ve finally arrived somewhere that refuses to be known by the outside world. Some experiences can’t be understood through photos or reviews. They have to be experienced to truly understand what they hold.

Maybe this is the realest kind of luxury, a quiet luxury. The feeling of being completely elsewhere. To disappear into a space that feels entirely different and find a place that doesn’t need validation to justify its beauty.

I am documenting these places in my Private Atlas. Not as a guidebook or a checklist of must see destinations, but as a collection of reminders that there are still corners of the world that reward curiosity, patience and a willingness to venture beyond the obvious.

If this resonates with you, consider subscribing. Each week, I’ll share another pin from the atlas: remote landscapes, hidden hotels, heritage crafts, cultural traditions and the remarkable places that continue to exist quietly beyond the spotlight.

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I consider myself well travelled, yet the Amazon always feels like a journey for a different time. Part of me worries that I’ve built it up so much in my imagination that no real place could possibly live up to it.

It has been my lifelong dream to visit, and as I sit daydreaming, I feel a rush of excitement.

The strange thing is that, despite having never been, I feel as though I already know it. How can a place I’ve never visited feel so familiar? It’s a slight obsession of mine. My YouTube recommendations are filled with Amazon expeditions, jungle survival stories and documentaries about indigenous communities.

I’m not sure if you believe in past lives, but I swear that I once lived there as a “Mowgli-style child” though that’s a story for another day when I don’t mind if you think I’m totally bonkers!

It fascinates me to think there are still places on Earth that feel genuinely mysterious. Places where indigenous communities maintain a relationship with the land that feels profoundly different from the one most of us experience in the modern world. Perhaps the secret is that their existence is entirely separate from our fast-paced lives. There is something humbling about the fact that this way of living exists beyond our own experience. It feels like one of the last true mysteries left in the world.

Don’t get me started on the other types of life hidden in the jungle. The jaguars that are there, yet remain almost impossible to see. The glass frogs, which given how cute they are, I’m not entirely convinced are real. Then there’s the ghost dogs, only confirmed to exist in recent years - how crazy! The Amazon seems to be that rare place where wonder still outweighs certainty and every time I learn something new about it, I’m reminded how much in this world remains undiscovered.

The thought of standing beneath a canopy so dense that only the occasional sliver of light reaches the forest floor fills me with excitement. As evening falls and the jungle disappears into darkness, I imagine a world that feels entirely separate from my own. Getting lost in a place so unknown to me feels like the ultimate adventure.

To prepare for the day I finally set foot there, I have been looking into the work of Paul Rosolie. He speaks about the Amazon, not as a destination, but as a living, breathing entity, sharing the reality of how brutal the wild can be. His encounters with predators remind me that true adventure requires you to surrender to your surroundings. When he mentions his experiences such as the weight of an approaching storm, you realise that by submerging himself so deeply into the land, he isn’t simply observing the ecosystem, he has become part of it.

He didn’t just explore the Amazon; he studied it until he knew its heartbeat.

I cannot mention stories about exploring the Amazon without balancing them with Nemonte Nenquimo’s incredible book, We Will Not Be Saved. It is an incredible account of Nenquimo’s life growing up as a small child within her community. She strips away the romanticised ideas of the jungle and presents a raw perspective on indigenous life.

What stayed with me most was her unwavering connection to her homeland and her determination to protect it, not as an abstract cause, but as something woven into her identity. Her story of resilience is so gripping that I can’t help but feel a connection to her.

These two encounters, one a devotion to the wild, the other a testament to the resilience of a life born within it, provide a fuller, more complex picture of the rapidly changing world of the Amazon.

Perhaps that is why the Amazon continues to occupy so much space in my imagination. It reminds me that there are still corners of the world capable of surprising us. Places that resist complete understanding and invite us to remain curious.

This story is one pin on a much larger map. With every newsletter, the Private Atlas within In the OSI, creating a living collection of places, traditions, ideas and discoveries that have captured my curiosity. Together, these entries are creating a map of the world’s hidden corners. Read more about what’s inside the Private Atlas.

I’ve included some affiliate links to products I love. If you choose to buy something, I might earn a small commission.

When I was a child, I was taught that home is a country, a city, a town, or wherever my family is. But I’ve realised that my home isn’t necessarily any of those things. It is the moments when I feel most connected to the earth, to the people, and to the rhythm of a place. It’s where I feel most at home.

I am not a writer by trade. I am literally writing this from the notes app on my phone, capturing fragments of the world as they come to me. I am interested in exploring what I call ‘slow luxury’ an approach to travel that prioritises access to untouched spaces, quiet observation, and the deep, meaningful connection we feel when we step away from the expected path.

Sharing the beauty I seek for in life and the world has become a deep desire, alongside a growing need to strip away, or at least keep us grounded despite the pull of mass consumerism, which I am often drawn to it myself, yet ultimately find so damaging.

Don’t get me wrong: I love beautiful hotels, restaurants, and nice things, but I want to look at them with more intention.

We are told that happiness is one more purchase away.

I’m calling it out - that’s a lie.

I love luxury as much as the next person, but I’ve started to wonder whether the constant pursuit of more is what slowly disconnects us from what we already have.

This won’t be so much a travel journal as an exploration of how different corners of the world live and how inherently connected we all are. It is my attempt to map out the places, the people, the smells, the textures, and the ancient practices that still feel real to me.

In a world that seems to demand we constantly consume, produce, and move faster, I find myself increasingly drawn to the opposite.

To curiosity.

To observation.

To daydreaming.

Because daydreaming, at least for me, has never been a distraction. It is often how I make sense of the world.

It is through daydreaming that I return to the jasmine-scented air of Bordeaux, the way a textile tells a story, and the quiet dignity of traditions that have remained untouched by the relentless pace of the modern world. It is how I connect the places I have been with the places I long to visit.

Think of this as a collection of salvaged moments, an unfolding map of the beautiful, the ancient, and the authentic. A place to explore the crafts, the people, and the environments that remind us what it actually means to be human.

As this journal grows, I’ll be sharing the places, traditions, people, and ideas that capture my attention. Some posts will be inspired by journeys I have taken. Others will be inspired by journeys that exist only in my imagination.

Together they form part of the same search: a desire to better understand the world and our place within it.

This is what this publication is really about.

Paying attention.

Looking more closely.

Allowing curiosity to lead.

And remembering that the world is far bigger, richer, and more connected than our daily lives often allow us to see.

Next week, I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t exist on a map, at least not in the way you might think. My aim is to curate a space where high art meets rugged wilderness, documenting the world’s most secluded, extraordinary destinations that offer a true sense of discovery.

I’ll be exploring a private obsession of mine: the world of the Amazon I have built in my mind.

If any of this resonates with you, I’d love for you to subscribe and come along for the journey.

If you’re tired of the noise and looking for a slower, more intentional way to see the world, even from your own living room. I hope you’ll join me here as we redefine what it means to travel with depth and purpose.

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A remote village where traditions have survived for centuries. The softest cashmere I can get my hands on. The people, crafts and stories that continue to survive.

I’m a collector of places, craft traditions and cultural stories. Wherever I go, I’m looking for the materials, landscapes and people that haven’t been polished by the modern world.

Mapping the remote, ancient and beautiful. I’m building a private atlas. A personal archive of the world’s hidden corners and the stories within them. I’ve always been drawn to places that require a little curiosity to find. This is the map I’m curating.

Welcome to In the OSI.

Each newsletter adds another pin to the map.

This is where I collect what I find.

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I believe that beauty exists beyond the obvious, beyond the places everyone photographs and the hotels everyone recommends. True discovery requires a willingness to look further, it’s not about the destination, but the depth of the encounter. I am here to document the hunt for the parts of the world that still feel like real secrets.

The most meaningful things often require curiosity, a willingness to really look and sometimes, a long journey down a winding, unpaved dirt track.

I’m here to document the hunt for the parts of the world that still feel like secrets.

What you’ll find

The Hunt (Remote Places, Tribes & Cultural Traditions)

Places untouched by trends. I spend much of my time exploring regions, communities, and cultures whose relationship with the land offers a different perspective on how we live today.

The Sensory Archive (Textiles, Craft & Materials)

The raw, hand-spun wool from the high altitudes of the Andes; the deep history woven into hand-knotted Persian rugs; and the delicate elegance of Kintsugi from Japan, where golden seams honor once broken ceramics.

The crafts, materials and techniques that transform materials into everyday objects.

Architecture, Places & Culinary Art (Design Led Travel, Hotels & Restaurants)

I have a weakness for off the beaten track hotels and rare. Sensory culinary experiences.

I seek out places that are not just somewhere to stay, but where the design and landscape take you to another world. From remote luxury hotels, to hidden, world class kitchens that ground us in the history of a culture, I look for the bridging the gap between high art, rigged wilderness and culinary experiences.

The Art of Attention

Modern tools have made the world seem smaller, but they can also help us discover what remains authentic.

Sure, it does involve staring at a screen for hours, but using it as a way of finding our way back to slower and more human ways of living doesn’t seem too bad.

I feel that’s a fair compromise.

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Why Stay?

I don’t want to be another voice shouting into the void.

I’m building an archive.

When I call this a ‘Private Atlas,’ I don’t mean it’s hidden. I mean it’s personal. This is a collection of my own discoveries and research notes, not an algorithm’s recommendation. It’s an archive built for those who want to see the world through a human lens.

Some entries may lead to a remote landscape, others to a piece of architecture, a meal, a material, or a story that refuses to leave me alone.

If that sounds like something you’ve been looking for, come and join me. I’m mapping out the beautiful and the ancient here at In the OSI.

This archive is still in its early days, and I’m excited to share it as it grows. Along the way, I look forward to discovering these rare, extraordinary places with you.

Before you go

What is one garment, building, landscape, or texture that makes you feel most like yourself?

I read every email, and I’d love to know who is here.