Has video killed blogging’s star?

Two years ago, I hired my then eighteen-year-old nephew to help me archive Bencard’s Bites. He enjoyed the task but, as is true of many in his generation, he is not much of a reader.

“You’re such a great storyteller,” he said. “Why don’t you do short videos instead of these long articles that no one reads?”

Ouch.

That might be true for his generation, I told myself, but I wasn’t about to lower my standards. I am a writer. I love the process of crafting words into stories. I would leave the frivolous stuff to the youngsters.

And yet…

The more time passed, the more his comment haunted me. After all, I was consuming far more video than text each day — and I was at the other end of the age brackets. I had plenty of experience with video from my corporate life, but I had always assumed that doing it properly required a significant investment of time, equipment, and technical expertise. Writing articles felt easier. Safer. Faster.

I was wrong.

On a trip to Germany last Easter, I began experimenting with Instagram’s built-in video editor. It turned out to be feature-rich and easy to use. I could create short videos and stitch them together in minutes — often on the same day. That kind of turnaround almost never happens with my writing when I’m travelling. Blog posts usually have to wait until I get home.

Around the same time, I read about the changing demographics of TikTok. Its fastest-growing audience was people over forty-five. This follows a time-honoured pattern: older generations follow where teenagers lead, often in such numbers that the young abandon the platform altogether. (I’m looking at you, Facebook.) Mature users were enjoying TikTok’s algorithm and format, but there was a noticeable lack of thoughtful, grown-up cultural content for them to consume.

I saw a market niche calling for my skills.

So, in June last year, I got serious about TikTok. (Everything is cross-posted to Instagram and Facebook, but TikTok delivers by far the strongest engagement.) I committed to posting several times a week, tracked my metrics, set targets, and treated the whole thing as an experiment. Could an older woman, talking thoughtfully about history, travel, and culture, make headway in a space I had long dismissed as the home of silly dances and make-up tutorials?

The answer, dear reader, is a resounding yes.

In less than a year, I am approaching 25,000 followers, with an engagement rate of 8.3% — roughly double the TikTok average, and a stat that would once have earned me a very healthy bonus in the corporate world. My average views sit at around 33,000. That figure is skewed by a handful of viral hits, but even my median — just over 2,000 views — is respectable. And the bigger the account grows, the faster that growth accelerates.

Sadly, my blog’s performance can’t compare.

After seventeen years, and a substantial body of work that includes some of the best stuff I think I’ve ever written, I have 34 followers. Even a high-performing article rarely reaches 1,000 readers. Engagement is minimal. (That may partly be the fault of an ageing blogging platform.) I am telling the same stories, in the same voice, with the same care — but the writing largely disappears into the ether, while the videos reach the world.

It seems my nephew was right. 

What’s interesting is that none of this contradicts what I learned at journalism school, or the advice I’ve given executives for decades. Good storytelling still cuts through. An engaging, authentic presenter still matters. You still need to hook people early, keep the pace brisk, and check your facts. If you make a mistake on TikTok, someone will point it out — though I’ve found the community far kinder than I expected.

Classic news judgement still applies: go for what is new, distinctive, and relevant. When you’re covering well-trodden tourist paths, that means offering a fresh perspective or drawing attention to details others may have missed.

And — perhaps most importantly — I am having fun.

If I’m honest, writing blog posts has sometimes begun to feel more like a chore than a joy, made worse by the disappointment of knowing that only a handful of people will ever read something I’ve crafted with care. I will continue to write here — if only because this blog is a remarkably useful record of my life, and I value having that archive. I will also experiment with using AI to turn video stories into text more efficiently.

But the reality is clear.

My future is visual.

I hope you’ll follow me there.

Storehouse East offers intriguing peek behind the V&A's scenes

London’s cultural landscape has a bold new addition — the Victoria and Albert Storehouse East. Calling it a “museum” is a misnomer. This is something different: part working warehouse, part offices, part restoration laboratories, yet open for the public to wander through.

It’s a place that invites you not just to look at objects from the V&A’s vast collection, but to see how a major museum actually works.

Most museums have far more in their collections than they can ever display. The V&A is no exception. To house its overflow, it built this new warehouse — but with an imaginative twist. Rather than hiding everything from view, the V&A chose to let visitors wander through, to glimpse treasures alongside everyday artefacts, and to think about object histories in a new way.

WHERE FUNCTION MEETS WONDER
At first glance, the Storehouse feels like a curious hybrid of a museum and a logistics hub. Placement of objects seems random, until you learn that they're stored by size, weight, material, and fragility — each on its own pallet, secured so that forklifts can retrieve them when needed. In places it resembles a very posh furniture showroom. Italian Renaissance cassoni (wedding chests) share space with Victorian and mid-century pieces. Across the aisle might be old radio sets, or ethnic costumes, or kitchen wares.

One unexpected delight for me was seeing my elementary school furniture in a museum. I knew our nuns were unusually connected to the modern world, but didn't realise that the stuff we loved to play on in our assembly hall was contemporary high design: pastil chairs by Finnish designer Eero Aarnio. The ovoid, fibreglass seats wobbled, rocked, and slid quickly across the room's carpet. Unaware they were anything worthy, we played games of giant croquet with the lucky students getting to ride in the chairs as we slid them at each other. After that treatment, I doubt any of the set from Oak Hill School ended up in good enough condition for a museum. Clearly, no gang of energetic 10-year-olds ever came near the pristine example in the Storehouse.

Far more visitors are likely to be excited about the David Bowie Collection. The boundary-defining artist donated his professional archives to the V&A when he died. You can take an intellectual approach and dig into his creative processes, or just revel in the fun of glam rock. But if you want to see it, book your place. Like the rest of the V&A, admission is free, but capacity is limited and usually fills up in advance, so booking is essential.

RESCUED TREASURES
Some items are genuinely astonishing. The Torrijos Ceiling is one of my favourites: a magnificent carved wooden dome in Moorish style from the time of Ferdinand and Isabella. Like so much in the V&A it's architectural salvage: rescued from a palace near Toledo that was demolished in the early 20th century. 

Another example of rescue and renovation is the Agra Colonnade, four arches held up by five columns, all lavishly decorated with inlaid stone flowers and foliage. This, like the Taj Mahal, was built for Shah Jahan and is in much the same style, but had been part of his bath house. That building was destroyed and pillaged for materials over centuries of conflict on the sub-continent, with no recognisable colonnade left by the time the English were in charge. In the late 19th century the British governor of the province suggested the fragments should be collected and sent to England for display on the condition that the V&A restored the pieces to their former glory. It must have been quite a puzzle. If you don't plan to go to India, this may be as close to the magic of the Taj Mahal as you can get. 

What makes Storehouse East truly special is the way it peels back the curtain on museum life. You can see curators at work, repairing historic costumes or cleaning paintings, and look at a display of how curators make bespoke mounts to display fragile objects. 

GETTING THERE & WHAT TO EXPECT

Storehouse East sits on the edge of the old Olympic Park in east London, about a mile’s walk from Stratford station. Buses serve the area but were remarkably slow when we visited. It took us a full hour to get to the Storehouse from Waterloo.

Remember this is a working building to which you have guest access rather than a place designed for a visitor experience. Visitors who have issues with heights should be aware that all the walkways on upper levels are metal mesh and you can see through them; typical for a warehouse but challenging for some. Unlike the main V&A in South Kensington, you won’t find a gift shop, interactive exhibits, copious benches or a variety of restaurants. There’s a café at entrance level, but it’s very basic; you’re better served going across the street to Clarnico Coffee, which has a cozy, greenhouse vibe and a decent variety of food.

You'll probably spend no more than an hour wandering here, a bit more if you get tickets to the Bowie collection or arrange access to view particular items. 

If you're a visitor to London, I'd still prioritise the main V&A in South Kensington. The Storehouse is a footnote, not a main event. If you have limited time and you're concentrating your visit on central London, don't underestimate travel time.  If you know the V&A well already, this is an exciting enhancement of the experience ... though you might only visit once. And if you happen to live in the booming modern developments around the site of the 2012 Olympics, then you're lucky to have a quirky cultural attraction on your doorstep.

After too long a wait, another Maldivian holiday returns us to paradise

Not a week has passed in the 11 years since we returned from our first trip to The Maldives that I haven’t dreamed of going back.

Those memories became my imagination‘s safe space. When I was stressed, or just needed to ease myself to sleep, I would dream myself back to walking down the stairs from our deck into the warm sea, slipping on my fins and mask, and swimming over the riotous colours of a reef packed with life. 

We’d hoped to return for our 10th wedding anniversary in 2021, but Covid killed that plan. It was a possibility for my 60th … 10 years after that first visit … but we decided to mark my husband’s milestone in the next year instead. And so, after 578 weeks of hungry fantasy, my toes were back in Maldivian sand, anticipating the warm embrace of the Indian Ocean. 

Except that rain was lashing, a red hazard flag was flying, and the slamming of waves was setting our over-water villa a-tremble. It was still warm … but we arrived in a monsoon. So the full perfection of paradise had to wait. 

Simply being back in that world of thatched huts, long boardwalks and white beaches had instantly put me in my happy place, however. Fortunately, we were there for 12 nights. So while it took two days to get proper sun and nine for the seas to calm, we got perfect perfection in the end. It is worth noting that the locals say the weather is no longer dependable in any season given changing patterns. A longer visit spreads the risk.

We slid down the star scale this time. Now that I’ve stepped off the corporate ladder, the five-star Constance Mufushi was simply not in the budget. The four-star Mercure Kooddoo was still a stretch, but one made more affordable by Club Accor loyalty programme points. Given that the Mercure was less than half the price of the Constance, what sacrifices would I be making?

Far less than I thought. The biggest tangible difference was food and drink. While both places built their main restaurant around a buffet, the Mercure focused more on Asian/Oriental food while the Constance had leaned more European. On the wine front, the Mercure offered a few options for each colour, served by the glass. The Constance had a thoughtful, expansive wine list and served you the whole bottle. The Mercure’s upscale restaurant offering was Italian; at the Constance it wasn’t any particular cuisine but featured candlelit dining on the beach with servers emerging from the palms with your food. Far more romantic.

Next, location. The Constance is on its own tiny island; nothing there but the resort and so small you can actually swim around it. You get proper desert island vibes here, and have to get there on a sea plane. The Maldives’ “one island, one resort” policy means the Mercure is also on its own, but this is a bigger island with an airstrip and a fish processing plant. They don’t intrude much into your holiday experience, but you do lose that Robinson Crusoe vibe so prevalent at Moofushi.

Finally, there’s the design of the place. Constance goes for a laid-back, barefoot chic with lots of open-sided thatched buildings, dotted with tasteful pieces of modern sculpture. There are still plenty of thatched buildings at Kooddoo but the restaurants have a more modern, industrial look that, without the stunning view beyond the windows, could be in any city in the world.

Otherwise, and on all the really important stuff … rooms, coral reef, service, amenities … there was no significant difference.

We were in an over-water villa. Thanks to my husband’s diamond status, we had been upgraded when we arrived and were upgraded yet again for our second week. All the rooms are similar, with comfortable king-sized beds, desks, mini bars, storage units, and a little seating area, with about a third of the total wall surface being floor-to-ceiling glass that makes the most of the water outside. There’s also a glass panel in the floor of the seating area so you can watch fish swim by. There’s a deck through a sliding glass door with loungers, chairs, and access to the sea. The higher you upgrade, the bigger that deck. In our second week we had our own plunge pool.

Service was impeccable, from the start. Everyone on staff knew our names, quickly learned our preferences, and was quickly present whenever we needed anything. We often felt like staff members were working exclusively for us, which is a pretty good definition of luxury.

Ultimately, with a coral reef this good, beautiful beaches and a bit of snorkelling equipment, you don’t need luxury. But it certainly adds to the overall experience. I started hungering for a return the moment we left Maldivian airspace. Hopefully, I won’t have to wait another 578 weeks.

In Poland’s cultural heart, a castle, a lady and national pride impress

After our brisk tour of Kraków by golf cart, we got down to the serious business of exploring its culture. There’s an astonishing amount to see, but with only two sightseeing days in town we had to choose carefully. We went for the obvious choices. The two great jewels of the city’s heritage are Wawel Castle and the Czartoryski Museum. We rushed the latter on the same day as our intro tour; we were smart enough to realise the castle needed at least half a day. 

If all of Poland’s museums are like these two, the old standards of Western Europe have some catching up to do. Both attractions are beautifully curated, immaculately maintained, with flawlessly translated guides. (Poor, awkward and overly-formal translations are, too often, a memorable take-away of Italy’s top attractions.) Here, Polish and English sit side by side on crisp, well-crafted labels, and every display looks freshly installed. The attention to detail, sensitive lighting, and respect for visitors are remarkable.

Wawel Castle: Layers of Power and Pride
Perched on its limestone hill above the Vistula River, Wawel Castle has been the heart of Polish power since at least the 13th century. Its layers of architecture — Gothic foundations, Renaissance grandeur, Baroque embellishments — mirror the shifting fortunes of a country that has often vanished and reappeared on Europe’s map. The Poles are proud of this place, and rightly so. Visiting on a Saturday, we found it heaving with locals. To my ear at least half the crowd were Polish … without any school trips … a local-to-foreigner ratio that certainly hasn’t been my experience at major British attractions like the Tower of London or Windsor Castle. Exploring Wawel isn’t just tourism; it’s an act of national celebration for the natives.

Practical advice: book ahead. Entry isn’t a simple ticket but a patchwork of timed admissions — to the castle’s two main floors, the cathedral, treasury, armoury, and even a kid-friendly attraction called the dragon’s cave. Each requires its own ticket. (It’s notable that, in addition to their curatorial expertise, the Poles seem to be leading the way in getting the most income possible out of their attractions.) There are still queues, even when you have your timed-slot ticket in hand, so allow generous gaps between scheduled entries.

We bought tickets for Castle I, Castle II, and the Royal Treasury. Despite the titles and the enormous range of buildings on the promontory there are not two separate castles, but two separately ticketed floors inside one impressively-sized Renaissance palace. The first floor is steeped in Renaissance elegance, with painted ceilings, frescoed friezes, and art collections hanging in rooms that feel like private salons. Here you’ll find one of the castle’s star pieces: a Bosch Last Judgment triptych, filled with nightmarish creatures that seem centuries ahead of their time. There’s also a superb display of silverware and Meissen porcelain, a reminder that Augustus the Strong of Saxony once ruled Poland too — a cultural exchange that links Kraków directly to Dresden and Meissen.

Upstairs, things grow grander still. The State Rooms and Royal Apartments gleam with gilded ceilings, embossed leather walls, and marble fireplaces. A private chapel nods to the devoutness of Poland’s monarchs. The Hall of the Senators (the throne room) is a Renaissance masterpiece where the ceilings hold a curious sea of carved heads floating inside wooden coffers and busts of Roman emperors stand on plinths around the room to witness the dealings of the state.

And then comes a surprise: Wawel houses Europe’s largest collection of Ottoman tents, captured by Polish troops after the 1683 Battle of Vienna. King Jan III Sobieski led a Christian coalition to halt the Ottoman advance into Europe; one of Poland’s greatest triumphs. The trophies, embroidered and magnificent, still proclaim that victory more than three centuries later.

We ended in the Treasury, a smaller but fascinating collection of ceremonial silver, armour, and regalia. There are no crown jewels — those were melted down by the Prussians in the 18th century — but there’s plenty of craftsmanship to admire. A model of a 17th-century “cabinet of curiosities” hints at the collecting mania of Renaissance rulers. 

If you’ve been to other European Royal treasuries you could probably give this a miss and go into the cathedral instead. It offers Poland’s most sacred royal tombs, and in retrospect I wish we’d booked it instead. As a general rule: I wouldn’t advise more than three attractions in one day. Beyond that, your brain simply goes into overload.

One final note: while the quality of the cultural experience was high, food and drink was surprisingly poor. We found no credible options for lunch up here between our various admissions; plan your entries accordingly.

The Czartoryski Museum: A Private Passion, Public Glory
If you can only visit one museum in Kraków, make it the Czartoryski Museum — home to Leonardo da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine. It’s smaller, calmer, and every bit as beautifully presented as Wawel. This is a museum born of private passion: Princess Izabela Czartoryska founded it in 1796, inspired by a desire to preserve Poland’s cultural treasures during the partitions. Her descendants built one of Europe’s most refined private collections. It is now housed in a pristine 19th-century palace in the northeast corner of the old town, by the Florian Gate and the theatre.

The museum operates a strict one-way system, and Leonardo’s lady waits at the very end — but you’ll want to linger before you get there. The galleries are a feast of Renaissance paintings, medieval sculptures, Islamic arms and armour, and intricate decorative art. There’s even a full-size Ottoman tent, echoing Wawel’s martial trophies, and a miniature amber altar crowned with a radiant crucifix. It’s a typical private collection, all curated with the same personality and thoughtfulness you’d find at the Wallace Collection in London or Milan’s Poldi Pezzoli.

We arrived with only an hour before closing, which was a mistake. But it was all the time we had. You need at least two and a half hours here to do it justice. The staff, however, were saints. Though they’d already begun “sweeping” visitors from the early rooms, they allowed me to double back against the one-way flow when I begged for a quick look at the earlier galleries. One kind attendant even walked with me as I filmed, offering quiet encouragement. It turned a rushed visit into a private, magical encounter.

It was rushed, of course, because I flew through everything to see the Lady with an Ermine first. Painted around 1489, she is Cecilia Gallerani, the teenage mistress of Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan. Leonardo captures her with the same psychological intensity he later brought to the Mona Lisa, but with more freshness and vitality. The ermine she cradles symbolises purity — a delicious irony, since the painting marked Cecilia’s arranged marriage to another man after her affair with Ludovico ended. And though the Duke’s dalliances were notorious, his heart, by most accounts, belonged to his formidable wife, Beatrice d’Este. Love, as ever, is never simple.

Two museums, two halves of Poland’s soul: the royal power of Wawel and the private refinement of the Czartoryskis. Both testify to a country that has rebuilt itself, time and again, with culture as the cornerstone of identity.

If the rest of Poland’s museums maintain this level of care, beauty, and pride, I’m keen to explore more on a return trip.

Krakow surprises with soul, style and substance

Elegant, affordable, and unexpectedly vibrant, Poland’s former royal capital is the perfect long weekend for culture lovers.

If your mental image of Poland is still shaped by grey post-communist cities and economic struggle, prepare to have your expectations upended. Today’s Krakow feels affluent, confident, and sophisticated — a city that’s rediscovered its grandeur and knows it. Elegant architecture, a thriving café scene, notable museums, hip bars and restaurants and an easy blend of history and hedonism make it one of Europe’s most rewarding weekend destinations.

For our annual girls’ trip — twenty-six years and counting — Krakow ticked all the boxes. Culture, shopping, food, wine, spa time, and a stylish flat in the old town to call our own. It offered the elegance of Vienna with a touch of bohemian edge, and prices 20percent  to 40 percent below Western Europe’s big capitals. What’s not to love?

First Impressions: Old-World Beauty, Young Energy
The magic of Krakow is how seamlessly it blends past and present. The medieval heart of the city, centred on the vast Rynek Glowny — Europe’s largest market square — gleams after meticulous restoration. Horse-drawn carriages circle the Cloth Hall (good shopping, I had to fight hard to resist the red amber jewellery), while sleek golf carts whisk visitors between Gothic churches and Renaissance façades. From the round, fairy-tale Barbican to the twin towers of St. Mary’s Basilica, every corner seems made for postcards.

But this isn’t a city stuck in the past. Cafés hum with conversation, students fill the parks and bars, and the local fashion crowd has embraced vintage, not fast fashion. New money here isn’t erasing the old; it’s polishing it. Krakow’s prosperity is measured in restoration projects, hand-crafted signage, carved wood, and lovingly repointed brickwork. You can feel the pride — and a distinct sense that the Poles are investing in their heritage rather than replacing it.

Getting Your Bearings
We started with one of the city’s ubiquitous electric golf cart tours — the easiest way to understand Krakow’s scale. While the old town is compact and easily walkable, the stories you’ll want to hear stretch well beyond it. The Jewish district of Kazimierz, across the Planty park from the centre, is now both a site of memory and a hub of hipster creativity. Its cobbled lanes are lined with synagogues restored after decades of neglect, atmospheric cafés, and concept boutiques. Cross the river and you reach the remains of the wartime ghetto and Schindler’s factory — sombre, powerful places that need no elaboration. The Holocaust lessons are close to the surface here, but handled with quiet respect and striking design.

That’s what impresses most about Krakow: its ability to carry centuries of pain and glory lightly. Unlike Warsaw, which was razed and rebuilt, Krakow survived much of the 20th century intact. You can trace its Habsburg-era grandeur in the pastel façades and theatre marquees, a smaller cousin to Vienna’s ringstrasse elegance. The city’s devotion to Pope John Paul II adds a distinctly Polish note to the mix — you’ll spot his statues and plaques everywhere, a local boy made good.

Living Like a Local

Forget anonymous hotels. The apartment we rented in the old town proved that “Polish builder” is a phrase that should bring joy to any homeowner’s heart. Warm, beautifully finished, and within easy walking distance of everything, it offered both luxury and practicality. (Look for White Magnolia on AirBnB) Each of us had our own bedroom ringing a shared space to unwind, perfect for lazy mornings when one of the gang volunteered to fetch pastries from a nearby bakery. (Pro tip: try anything with poppy seed.)

Evenings meant experimenting with Krakow’s surprisingly sophisticated dining scene. Traditional pierogi and beer halls are a must, but you’ll also find elegant modern restaurants serving artful plates worthy of Paris or Milan. Vodka shots in a stylish bar are practically obligatory — na zdrowie! — and so is sampling the city’s love affair with coffee and cake. (The tongue-twisting Café Noworolski, in the arcades of the Cloth Hall, is a fine place to start. We were puzzled by the Aztec decor until we realised the Art Deco interiors started out as a fancy confectionary and chocolatier.)

A Weekend Well Spent
Krakow is ideal for a long weekend — three or four days will give you time to explore, shop, and relax without rushing. Just be prepared for a dramatic shift in pace between Friday morning and Saturday night. The city fills with visitors, but the atmosphere remains good-natured. Despite its reputation for stag and hen parties, we saw no bad behaviour. Perhaps it was the season, or our quieter corner of town, but everyone — locals and tourists alike — seemed content simply to enjoy themselves.

Why Go Now?
Because it’s beautiful, affordable, and welcoming. Because it delivers history and indulgence in equal measure. And because it still feels slightly undiscovered — a European classic that hasn’t yet lost its authenticity to mass tourism. Saturday was crowded, but the majority of people around us were speaking Polish. Krakow is a reminder that cities can recover from the worst of human history and emerge not just intact, but radiant.

Over the next few articles, I’ll take you deeper: into Krakow’s cultural highlights, a mountain escape to the Tatras, and a deep dive into the city’s food and drink. And please look for me (Bencard’s Bites) on TikTok and Instagram for an eight-part video series. But for now, consider this your invitation. Pack your walking shoes, your appetite, and your curiosity. Krakow’s waiting.

England triumphs as the Women’s Rugby World Cup delivers a giddy joy

I’ve been privileged to attend multiple sporting championships, and the atmosphere at each has been electric. But I’ve never experienced anything quite like the joyous, almost giddy, celebration that was this year’s Women’s Rugby World Cup.

It may have been the thrill of hosting a tournament at home;  but we had that in the 2012 Olympics. Perhaps it was the camaraderie among rugby fans at a World Cup; yet we experienced that for the men’s game in Japan in 2019. There was certainly the ecstasy of seeing my team win the top prize; I’ve been lucky enough taste that joy with the Cardinals in the World Series. But this experience was better than all of those, and I can only put that down to the fact that it was the women’s game, at a very specific point in its evolution.

Rugby has always drawn a decent balance between male and female fans, but as you’d expect, the women’s game puts even more women in the stands. The lower ticket prices meant more families and far more children, dramatically shifting the feel of the crowd. Fans seemed even chattier than the rugby norm; there are few places in England where it’s easier to strike up a conversation with strangers than in a rugby fan zone. But with the women’s game, fans were routinely exchanging gifts, complementing each others fan-wear and buying each other drinks.

Mostly, though, it was the shared sense that we were all participating in a breakthrough moment. Before this World Cup, women’s rugby felt niche — small audiences in second-tier stadiums, where many spectators had some sort of personal connection to the players. By the end, the women were playing in front of record-breaking crowds of strangers at a sold-out Twickenham Stadium.

England’s Red Roses: Unstoppable Favourites
We had the luxury of our home team, England’s Red Roses, entering the tournament as overwhelming favourites. One of the most successful teams world rugby has ever seen, they arrived with a 27-game winning streak behind them. Their last loss? The final of the previous World Cup. The goal was clear.

If England won every match — which we expected — there would be six games in total. We booked tickets for three: the opener, the quarter-finals, and the final. We were tempted by more, but neither the diary nor the bank account could manage a match every weekend. Our sampling, however, proved well judged.

The Opener: Sunderland – England 69, USA 7

The opening match was in Sunderland on the Friday of the August Bank Holiday weekend, giving us the chance to combine rugby with a short break somewhere new. We stayed in a cottage on Riding Farm — an ideal location, just 15 minutes off the motorway and half an hour from Sunderland city centre, yet deep in the countryside. The lights of the city glimmered on the horizon, but our immediate views were rolling hills, fields, and forests.

The closest tourist attraction is the living history museum at Beamish, but we passed on that to do a circular drive through the North Pennines National Landscape and along part of Hadrian’s wall. Our hosts recommended the Ravensworth Arms as the best option for dining; pleasant though not exceptional.

The hearty dinner was a relief, however, after catering failures the day before at the rugby. The people of Sunderland were kind and enthusiastic hosts; the fan zone and the area around the stadium looked great, and the pre-game parade from fan zone to the Stadium of Light was lively fun. But the planners seemed oblivious to how much rugby fans eat and drink. The stadium ran out of both beer and food by half time, and the fan zone had only three food trucks for a crowd of more than 40,000.

The quality of the game and the crowd more than made up for the shortcomings in hospitality. This was England vs. the USA, and though an American loss was inevitable, the fans were in high spirits simply to be there on such an exciting global stage. I broke out my American colours for this one and, just as in Japan, found that anyone identifying as that oddest of things — an American rugby fan — bonded instantly.

We also got to see Ilona Maher play, confirming she’s much more than a social-media star: she’s a dazzling rugby player. The Americans have potential. But once the opening match was over, my allegiance returned to England.

The Quarter Final: Bristol – England 40, Scotland 8
We decided to drive to and from Bristol on the same day rather than staying overnight. I know people who went to university there love the city, but from our limited exposure we didn’t see anything that encouraged us back for further exploration. Our ambivalence was compounded by logistics: we didn’t move fast enough to get parking near Ashton Gate Stadium, which is on the outskirts, so we left the car in the city centre and relied on public transport. It was slow going out, and even slower returning.

Transport issues aside, Ashton Gate is probably the nicest rugby stadium I’ve ever visited — cheerfully decorated corridors, abundant toilets, good food and drink facilities, a variety of food trucks outside, and even a proper pub built into the venue. It was here I first noticed the multicoloured, flashing goalposts and assumed they were unique to Bristol. Only later at Twickenham did I realise they were special for the tournament. (A shame, I’d love to see them as a permanent addition to rugby.)

With two home nations facing each other in the quarter-final, the crowd was evenly split, Scots shouting just as loudly as the English. They gave us a run for our money in the first half, but the Roses pulled ahead to their usual dominance in the second.

The Final: Twickenham – England 34, Canada 13
Travelling had been fun, but it was wonderful to be back at our home ground — especially for this particular event. At almost 82,000, this was the largest crowd ever to watch a women’s rugby match, and they were in gleeful spirits.

It was a full day of rugby, starting with the bronze-medal final between New Zealand and France. It’s always a pleasure to see the haka, and an added bonus to cheer against the “old enemy” as France were trounced. Between matches, we caught the Red Roses walking into the stadium in a longer, more adoring ceremony than the men usually get.

The Canadians fought hard, and there were moments in the first half when they had us worried. Their achievement is extraordinary, considering they have a tenth of England’s funding and most of their players are amateurs. They were also playing in a stadium where perhaps 85% of the crowd was cheering for their opponents — though, being rugby, there was still polite applause from opposing fans for moments of Canadian brilliance.

England, of course, romped to their expected victory. Almost no one left the stadium. Instead, it became a vast gathering of communal joy as everyone cheered, sang along, and celebrated the remarkable women on the field.

A National Treasure in Full Bloom

I doubt I’ll ever experience anything quite like that again. First, because I’m unlikely to see another World Cup on home turf in my lifetime. Second, because this was a rare and wonderful tipping point — a moment when a minority sport tasted its first flush of mass popularity.

I fully expect, and wholeheartedly support, the women’s game coming on par with the men’s. That will mean much of this becomes the new normal, and some of that giddy excitement will fade. Hopefully not too much. England’s Red Roses are a national treasure, shining some much-needed light in difficult times.

Royal splendour, maximalist style links Edwardian and Marie Antoinette shows in London

On the surface, Edwardian England and the French court of Marie Antoinette might seem worlds apart.

One is the gilded peak of Britain’s industrial boom, the other the glittering excess of pre-revolutionary France. Yet both are united by a devotion to beauty, luxury, and the arts — royal courts that embraced a maximalist ethos, showering wealth on jewels, fine books, decorative objects, and the latest fashions. The key difference? The Edwardians were atop a society whose middle and upper-middle classes were thriving and keen to emulate them, while the French monarchs remained utterly distant from its people, blind to the brewing social unrest that would ultimately topple them. 

There is, perhaps, a cautionary tale in Marie Antoinette’s story about the perils of extreme inequality.I recently had the chance to explore exhibitions celebrating these two very different worlds on the same day — The Edwardians at the King’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace and Marie Antoinette Style at the V&A — and I was struck by how the two courts’ obsessions with style, comfort, and spectacle shaped not just their own lives, but entire eras of taste.

Edwardian Elegance: When royals set British style
If you love the Gilded Age, The Edwardians exhibition is a feast. Housed in the King’s Gallery, it charts the era from Edward VII’s marriage to Alexandra of Denmark in 1863 through World War I, focusing on the artistic lives of two glamorous royal couples: Bertie and Alexandra, and their son George and his wife Mary.

Alexandra’s early influence is evident in the Danish touches that adorned England’s royal homes — stunning Copenhagen scenes, Royal Copenhagen porcelain, and exquisite silver. These were collectors who delighted in decorative gewgaws and books alike: from Meissen monkeys in an orchestra of whimsy to a beautiful example from the William Morris Press, the craftsmanship and artistry on display is extraordinary.

For me, the exhibition had a deeply personal resonance. One of my husband’s ancestors was a member of the Danish court who came to England with Alexandra and became governess to the princesses. Among the treasures on display are watercolours by Queens Alexandra and Mary. Hanging on our bedroom wall are watercolours by the three princesses, gifts to their governess. It was exciting to see the similarity in style and imagine the women sharing a teacher and painting excursions.

Maximalism was the rule of the day. Alexandra’s coronation robes were adorned with metallic threads and the flowers of the nations, a motif she introduced, while Mary’s jewellery continues to dazzle in the Royal collection. Travel also played a role in shaping taste: from New York to India, South Seas, and Australia, souvenirs and artistic encounters enriched the royal aesthetic. And yet, as visually sumptuous as it was, the Edwardian world was fated to collapse with the advent of World War I.

Marie Antoinette Style: Rise, fall and reinvention
Hopping over to the V&A, I travelled 20 minutes west and 150 years backwards to the world of France's most famous queen. I was prepared for a show heavy on modern fashion, light on history — perhaps because of the Manolo Blahnik sponsorship and promotional photos that were almost entirely of modern fashion. Instead, I found a deeply immersive historical experience. I’d guess that more than 65% of the exhibition focuses on the queen herself, charting her life through clothing, accessories, and the material culture of the French court.

The exhibition opens with a dazzling array of 18th-century costumes — most not belonging to the queen but conveying the extraordinary opulence of the age. There are outrageous diamonds, jewelry cases brimming with bling, towering hairstyles, and even the queen’s piano. One striking section lets visitors explore scent in the palace, a sensory detail often overlooked in historical exhibitions.

The story moves beyond objects to Marie Antoinette’s legacy: her vilification in pamphlets and caricatures, her imprisonment, and eventual death, followed by her posthumous rehabilitation. The English and Empress Eugenie played key roles in restoring the queen’s image, linking her name to luxury, culture, and fashion. Finally, the exhibition pivots to contemporary couture inspired by Marie Antoinette — costumes from film, installation art, and high fashion — a reminder that her style remains iconic centuries later. Unlike the Edwardians, however, she didn’t live to see her world change. It came crashing down with revolution, a violent punctuation to opulence untempered by social awareness.

Two Courts, Two Fates
Comparing and contrasting the two exhibitions is compelling. Both courts relished beauty, both spent lavishly on art, fashion, and decoration, and both eventually faced their reckoning. The opulence of Edwardian England died— metaphorically and literally with the slaughter of WWI — but many of its key players lived on to reinvent themselves in a more sober age. Meanwhile, Marie Antoinette’s court ended abruptly and brutally, and was vilified for years before it was resuscitated to for other purposes. Fortunately we don’t have to pay any price for indulgence other than admission fees. Both exhibitions reward that investment with sensory delight.

In terms of presentation, the V&A takes the crown: soundscapes, scent, and immersive displays transform the Marie Antoinette show from mere exhibition into a multi-sensory experience. The Edwardians, by contrast, offers a quieter, reflective feast of objects, drawings, and family histories — equally rich but more contemplative. You feel much more of a sense of getting to know Bertie, Alexandra and their families, while Marie Antoinette remains more “celebrity” than authentic human throughout.

For those who want to explore both worlds, hurry up: the Edwardians closes on 23 November. You have much more time for Marie Antoinette Style, which runs until 22 March 2026. A side-by-side journey offers a rare opportunity to compare courtly maximalism across centuries, in Britain and France, and to reflect on the social forces that shape — and may eventually topple — even the most glittering of worlds.

You can find short films by me on both of these exhibitions on my Facebook, Instagram or TikTok accounts. Follow the last for the most extensive, up-to-date content.