Hey there, Curious!

Welcome to this week’s new pin. This one’s a meditative type of eye trickery. Featuring extraordinary work from the master of light.

Love - OSI

“My work is about your seeing.” - Turrell

What I find most fascinating about Turrell’s works, is that he’s far from a conventional artist, his installations invite you to question your mind. Offering you a space to slow down and see.

It’s not about the art, it’s about you!

Skyspace & Me

As I lay flat on the cold concrete floor, I allowed myself to sink into the experience of another dimension, a dystopian world. Almost like being in the heart of a spaceship. It was calming, yet somehow, I felt strangely unsettled.

An eery creaking sound came from above, and slowly, there was light.

As the circular opening on the ceiling allowed in the sky, the colours around me began to change from the stark concrete grey I had walked into, to every colour imaginable, fluorescent pinks, deep blues, musky greens. At least I think they did, as after a while, I was no longer entirely sure what I was looking at.

The colours projected seemed to merge into the sky, and the more I looked, the more the dimensions of the circular opening appeared to change and the sky above seemed to no longer exist.

I wonderer whether the shape and colours were morphing, or whether I was going through some eye trickery before I was to be greeted by little green men.

As I became one with the light, the creaks of the shutter brought me back down to the stark reality of the concrete I was surrounded by.

l lay there thinking about how easily perceptions can be manipulated. Skyspaces aren’t really about looking at the sky or colour. They’re about noticing how you see it.

Turrell takes things we experience every day, like Light and space, and somehow makes them feel completely unfamiliar.

 Tips & Tricks:

• There’s just one rule, no noise! So, if there’s space, lie directly underneath the opening. You might feel ridiculous at first, but give it a few seconds and everyone else will end up doing exactly the same.

• Grab a Turrell brochure. Genuinely worth taking home, and they’re almost as good as the posters in the gallery shop. Possibly better 🤫. Best of all, they’re free!

OSI Archive: Turrell

Beyond works in art galleries around the world. His most impressive Skyspaces are located in the most unexpected places.

Below are a few of the installations I’ve experienced.

📍 Bodega Colomé, Argentina - Hidden in the middle of the Andes. Wine, spa and private collection. This one’s a real reTREAT. Read about it → here.

📍 Teshima, Japan - The art island packed with installations that make you question everything. → (coming to the OSI Archive soon)

📍 House of Light, Japan - Sleeping beneath a sky designed by Turrell. → (coming to the OSI Archive soon)

📍 Aarhus, Denmark - ‘As Seen Below’ Home to the largest Skyspace.

Tatler have also put together a guide of his works around the world. → Turrell Installation’s

Q. Do you have a favourite artist or art site? Message me, I would love to know.

Curiosity Archive by OSI. Join me in mapping out people, places and crafts that make you stop and think ‘wait…tell me more.’ Subscribe to not miss a pin!

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OSI’s Worldly Finds:

A few things I’ve picked up along the way and the stories behind them.

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“You’re allowed to outgrow a life you once begged for.”

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What should be Pinned 📍 in the OSI Next?

A trusted curation of fascinating things from around the world. If there’s a person, place, or thing you think belongs, let me know.

Venice is meant to be a fairytale of gondolas and historic canals, but nothing prepared me for the moment a portal to another world opened up right in the middle of a tourist crowd.

The breathtaking architecture and centuries of heritage easily merit its reputation as one of the most romantic cities in the world. I cannot disagree, and I urge everyone to experience it. However, what has stayed with me is an encounter so unexpected that Venice suddenly became the least interesting part of the trip.

There are certain experiences you might expect from Venice, but being face to face with an ancient culture in the narrow streets of Italy is not one of them.

As I glanced around, the crowds had not even registered the strikingly out of place sight right in front of them. I was mesmerised, unsure if this was real or my own Venice fairytale. Fortunately, I snapped out of it quickly. My husband and I, who are as curious as each other, could not help ourselves. We had to chat. We had to know more.

His traditional garments were what caught my eye. Stripped of any western clothing, he was wearing the most incredible hornbill feather headdress, and a long thin cassowary quill was pierced through his nasal septum. His short frame was overshadowed by my petite 5ft 3 self. Yet, while his quiet demeanour felt tranquil, his aura felt as grand as the historic buildings surrounding us.

Standing right next to me in the middle of Venice’s tourist crowd was a Huli chief. A prominent traditional leader from the remote highlands of Papua New Guinea. His name was Mundiya Kepanga.

Chief Mundiya wasn’t wandering the canals alone. But accompanied by his long time friend, French filmmaker and photographer Marc Dozier, who has dedicated his career to the cause. The fascinating documentary Brothers of the Forest, gives an insight into the forest conservation work they are advocating for.

It turned out, Chief Mundiya was on his way to meet the Pope. He has been invited to speak about ecological preservation, and was traveling the world to give a voice to the trees. Unfortunately, my invite got lost in the post. But between us, I would pick a meeting with Chief Mundiya, Ambassador of the Forest, any day. Is there a cooler title?

I later watched his meeting with the Pope online. You could genuinely feel the warmth and the pure joy of him advocating for such a critical cause.

Long before this encounter, I remember being told of the dangers of Papua New Guinea. I was captivated by stories of visitors travelling with police escorts just to reach earths last true paradise. Now, when I think of it, I think of Chief Mundiya, and the peace he wants to bring to the world. Perhaps one day, I will have the honour of meeting him in his homeland, where I can experience first hand the forest he devotes himself to.

When I reflect on rare encounters like this, my mind goes back to other parts of the world. I remember sitting with the nomadic San community in the vast Kalahari desert, learning how they read the earth to survive. I think about trekking the hills of Sapa, Vietnam, listening to the Flower H’mong hill tribe share ancient tales of the land.

I notice these communities all share similar values. They maintain a connection and respect for the world around them and see nature as a crucial partner in life.

It is moments like this that inspire this archive. I often wonder if there are others out there who feel drawn by this same invisible magnetic field, a pull toward areas of the world that hold such a deep connection to people and nature.

Thank you for reading!

Each week, this archive grows with stories of people, places and crafts that remain fiercely rooted in their origins. If you too are curious about these things, consider subscribing to get the next story delivered straight to your inbox.

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Each month, I share a publication I genuinely admire.

If you’ve ever wanted to sit around a campfire listening to stories about wildlife, adventure check out Tracks & Sutures by Suravi .

Her publication shows a deep connection to the wildlife, particularly big cats. She shares stories from the wild with a level of honesty that feels incredibly refreshing. Bringing you closer to a world most of us rarely get to see.

Tracks & Sutures

Stories from the wilderness, Medicine, & building our best lives.

By Suravi Chatterjee-Woolman

What should be pinned in the OSI next?

If there’s somewhere, something or someone you think belongs on it. A restaurant, a strange little place, a cool tradition, anything - Tell me about it.

In the OSI archive

Wondering what ‘In the OSI’ actually means? Well, I’m going to tell you.

I’ve always been curious about life, people and the world. I’m especially drawn towards all the things that make you stop and think. So, I’m building an archive of it all.

I don’t just want to show you interesting things. I want to understand why they matter, what they can tell us and why they might make us question things around us.

That’s what’s In the OSI. An archive of all those discoveries. A map of the things I find interesting whether that’s beautiful or strange.

If it’s OSI curious, it’s pinned!

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The Island Inside the Jumper

What if the pattern isn’t really the point. The island is.

What if the most important part of something is the part nobody sees? I follow the story of the Fair Isle jumper and how it’s more than a pattern made with wool. Why it was created and how it remains deeply rooted in the Shetland culture.

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Why Japan’s Non-Bookable Restaurants Are the New Chic

What if there is no menu because the sea has already decided what you’re having.

This is not another squeaky clean instagram restaurant you can find anywhere in the world. This one’s special! A tiny restaurant in Okinawa where the chef heads out to sea each morning to catch the meal for the day. There’s no need for signs and menus here, just a willingness to try what’s on your plate.

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Damn, I Smashed Another Pot!

What if broken things aren’t meant to be replaced?

I’ve always liked the idea that something can become more interesting once it’s broken. Kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramics with gold, doesn’t try to hide the damage. It makes it part of the story. It got me thinking about why we’re so quick to replace things when they break and what might happen if we started seeing the cracks differently.

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Be part of it …

Each week, I’ll be sharing a Substacker whose work I genuinely admire.

First up is Ash.

At the Edge of the Map was one of the first publications I came across on Substack and thought, wow, this is so cool. He shares stories on extreme adventures. The kind of adventures that make you wonder how on earth has someone decided that was a good idea and then gone ahead with it? Something I truly admire! I’m not an adventure traveller on anything close to Ash’s scale, but that’s why I enjoy his work.

His stories are gripping, wild and definitely not for the faint hearted.

Go and explore for yourself.

At the Edge of the Map

Independent reporting and analysis on global adventure, expeditions, and exploration.

By Ash Routen

All of these discoveries are being plotted onto the OSI map. And i want you to be part of building it with me.

If there’s somewhere, something or someone you think belongs on it. A restaurant, a strange little place, a cool tradition, anything - Tell me about it.

What should be pinned in the OSI map next?

In the OSI archive

A few things already pinned on the map.

I Found the Place That Refuses to Be Known

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A Society Without Status

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Becoming part of the OSI
I’m only just getting started. Subscribe and follow along as the OSI map grows.

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Do you ever get sick of restaurants that feel like you could be anywhere? London, New York, Paris, beautiful interiors, menus you’ve already seen hundreds of times. Great if you want to play it safe. However, when travelling somewhere as far away and as different as Iriomote, I don’t really want to play it safe. I want something local, something that can’t be found anywhere else.

Iriomote is a little island in Okinawa, covered in jungle, waterfalls and pristine beaches. It’s one of those places you don’t really picture when you think about Japan. The quietness of the island makes you feel like words don’t really matter. Surrounded by so much nature, you feel small. Not in an insignificant way, but in a humbling way. It reminds you that you are part of something much larger.

You can’t really plan to dine here weeks in advance. It’s somewhere you stumble upon. I questioned, is this actually a restaurant? Where’s the sign? We took off our shoes and entered his dining room. Scattered along the walls and surfaces, were his personal belongings. The treasures he chose to display. It almost felt intrusive, but in a very inviting way.

The space seems quaint, but once you realise that one man is behind it all, the excitement really kicks in. The owner does everything himself. He trained in the refined kitchens of Kansai, but chose to build a life here instead. To him this isn’t just about owning a restaurant, it’s about the process of the meal. Waking before the day has begun, he heads out into the pacific saltwater, catching whatever the sea decides to give him. “This is what I caught today, so this is what you’re eating.” A nightmare to a fussy eater but a total dream to me.

The fish was so fresh nothing like I eat back home. I felt almost honoured to know exactly where the fish had come from and the hands who caught it. It had been swimming in the water around the island that morning, caught by the same person who was now preparing it. That to me, is the real farm to table, or sea to table in this case. I imagine him out there early in the morning, reeling in the wriggling fish whilst thinking about what dish he is going to create that day. There is no need for a menu when the sea has already decided what you’re having. Okinawa is one of the world’s Blue Zones and I couldn’t help wonder, if I ate like this every day, would I become part of that statistic?

Before we arrive somewhere, we look up restaurants, book months in advance, find the menu, read hundreds of reviews and sometimes even decide what we’re going to order before we’ve walked through the door. Sure, there’s something nice about knowing what to expect, but that’s not what I’m looking for when I travel. Is it Comfortable? Yes. But is it exciting? Not so much.

This experience belongs to the island. That’s what’s special about it, it invites you to step into someone else’s world and for a little while, become part of it too.

Another little pin on the map for my private atlas. Not somewhere to tick off, but somewhere to remember. If you want to discover more of these places with me, subscribe to In the OSI. I’ve got plenty more and I’m excited to share them with you.

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Previous posts:

Thank you for reading. Would love to know what captures your curiosity. Pop me a message and let me know.

So far, my 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 places that make you think and feel.

The Mayan ruins of Tikal are one of those places.

The more I think about what I am building with In the OSI, the more I realise this archive isn’t about hunting for places nobody has heard of. It is about collecting places that stay with you long after you’ve left them. Places that quietly rearrange how you think about the world.

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Hidden deep within the dense, humid rainforests of Guatemala, was unlike anywhere I had ever experienced. Not because it is undiscovered or difficult to find, but because it forces you to think and confront something we spend most of our lives avoiding - time.

This is not a history lesson. There are people far more qualified to explain the rise and fall of the Maya. My interest is vast, but I am still learning. What fascinates me is the feeling of standing in a place that makes modern life, and oneself, feel oddly insignificant.

I was fascinated by the Maya, long before I arrived. The more I learned about them, the more intrigued I became. Here once stood a civilisation capable of building extraordinary cities. They were sophisticated mathematicians and studied the stars with such precision. Yet despite decades of research there is still so much mystery.

That mystery follows you through Tikal. As I wandered between the huge limestone blocks and climbed staircases that are centuries old, I found myself thinking about the same question over and over again. Why did an entire civilisation abandon its cities after working so hard at building them?

To me, it isn’t just that Tikal is an unknown place that fascinates me, it’s that we still don’t really know as much as we would like about the people who used to call this their home.

The Maya are often said not to have used the wheel for transport. Yet archaeologists have discovered tiny wheels attached to children’s clay toys. They understood the concept of the wheel so why did they choose a different path?

Standing in the middle of the jungle, surrounded by roots, mud and dense vegetation, it made me think about how different they saw the world around them.

The way they looked at the stars. Their understanding of astronomy was astonishing. Looking up at the temples rising above the canopy, I couldn’t help wondering why so many ancient cultures, separated by vast oceans and thousands of miles, all built towards the skies. What did they know that we don’t?

The deeper I walked into Tikal, the more I found myself paying attention to the jungle rather than the stones. The lost city doesn’t feel abandoned. It feels occupied by bands of coatis rummaging for fruits, monkeys roaring from high in the treetops, swinging between branches and the bright flashes of colour appearing as toucans glide through the canopies. The animals treat these ruins not as a historical site, but as their home.

They were here long before tourists arrived. They carry on entirely indifferent to the stories we attach to this place. That was perhaps the most powerful part of visiting Tikal. The jungle doesn’t feel like it destroyed the Mayan city, but that it outlasted it.

The trees massive roots wrap themselves around the huge stones, emerging from structures that once represented the most incredible civilisation. The forest continues to survive, growing steadily, season after season, century after century.

Standing there, it becomes difficult not to think about the modern world. We spend our lives chasing something, trying to grow, trying to progress, behaving as though permanence guarantees us something, perhaps eternal. Yet Tikal sits diligently within the rainforest, a reminder that even the most impressive civilisations are temporary.

A thousand years feels like an unimaginable length of time when viewed through the lens of a human life. Yet, to the jungle, it seems to mean so little. And perhaps that is why I cannot stop thinking about the Mayan ruins of Tikal. Not because they answered my questions, but because they left me with more of them. Not because I left understanding any more about the Maya. Far from it.

What stayed with me was the feeling of standing somewhere that challenged my sense of scale. A place that made life feel irrelevant, time feel different and nature feel far more alive than I could have imagined. I learnt that places don’t need to be fully understood to change you. They remind you that there is still so much of the world that we can not explain. And if you’re curious, like me, surely that is a good enough reason to keep exploring.

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, like me, you’re curious or 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 places that continue to exist quietly.

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The Private Atlas is gradually becoming a collection of remote landscapes, heritage crafts and communities whose knowledge has survived generations. Most of my entries so far begin with a landscape. This one begins with a broken pot.

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I wasn’t sure this one belonged. What does a shattered ceramic pot have in common with hunter gatherers in the Kalahari or knitters on a remote North Atlantic island? The more I thought about it, the more I realised that it made sense. The things I find myself pinning in the Private Atlas are not really about the places themselves, but the different ways of seeing the world. Kintsugi felt like another one of those.

When the pot slipped and shattered across the floor, my reaction was frustration, followed by something else. I didn’t want to throw it away. It was a pot I cherished. I’d picked it up on my travels and every time I looked at it, it reminded me of how lucky I was to have visited that place and to have brought a small piece of it back with me. I scoured the internet for ways to repair it. That is when I came across kintsugi.

Translated as “golden joinery”, kintsugi is a Japanese repair technique that immediately captured my attention. Rather than hiding the damage, it celebrates it. The broken pieces are repaired using urushi lacquer, a natural tree sap and finished with usually a gold but sometimes silver, platinum or red powder. The cracks remain visible, making it almost look like veins running through the object. Instead of hiding the repairs, they become part of it, giving the object a different kind of beauty a kind that holds a story.

The story goes that Kintsugi was born centuries ago, when a Japanese shogun sent his favourite broken tea bowl away for repair. It returned held together with ugly metal staples. Dissatisfied with this look, he asked his craftsmen to find a better solution. What they created was more than a repair technique.

What I find most interesting about kintsugi is not the gold. It’s the decision to hold onto something even if it cannot be repaired to how it was before. The cracks remain visible and you can still see where it is broken, yet somehow that is exactly the point. It makes the object more interesting, more beautiful, more alive. We are encouraged to replace things that ‘no longer work’ things that are ‘broken’. Phones are upgraded, clothes are discarded and furniture, thrown away. When something breaks we automatically want to replace it with something newer, something ‘better’.

Kintsugi provides a different answer.

I’ve started experimenting with it myself, although my attempts are deffinately not as neat. I think that there is something deeply satisfying about repairing an object rather than throwing it away. It feels like an act of care. To me, this is special, this something beautiful. It’s not about the object being ‘perfect’. It’s about caring enough to keep it.

That is why kintsugi belongs in the Private Atlas.

Most of the things I document here have survived something. The traditions of the San have survived thousands of years. Fair Isle knitting has survived despite the isolation. Kintsugi feels no different. It is another example of something old continuing to exist in a world that often seems more interested in replacing things than preserving them.

This is the thought I keep returning to after learning about kintsugi. Why are we so quick to throw things away? Not just objects, but skills, traditions and ways of seeing the world. I find myself drawn towards places, crafts and communities that somehow have not dissapeared. Perhaps that is what drew me to kintsugi in the first place. Not the gold or the repair itself, but the simple idea that something can be broken and still be worth keeping.

What is one lesson from a traditional craft or culture that has changed the way you see the modern world?

This entry is another pin on the map.

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

📍 A Society Without Status: Life With the San People of the Kalahari

📍 Fair Isle: The Living Craft Tradition of the Shetland Islands

📍 I Found the Place That Refuses to Be Known

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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.