Fleming Nationalist Style 2: Marie-Rose Morel

A snapshot of Marie-Rose Morel, a member of the Flemish parliament for the Vlaams Belang party in Belgium. As we have seen, bitter controversy surrounds attractive women in politics. Politics is a distraction; I find beauty is an achievement in and of itself.

The White Bucks Connection

In early summer I bought a pair of white bucks for a planned series of events, amongst them the various proceedings surrounding my wedding. I have enjoyed these shoes.

White bucks have long played a role in my collection. When I was younger, during summer holidays in Connecticut and New York, I wore white bucks in a blucher style made of smooth nubuck with red crepe soles. These were (and perhaps still are) ubiqitous amongst certain portions of the Northeast prep school set; in the cooler seasons many students switched to tan bucks--which, back in England, sort of resembled abbreviated desert boots--or saddle shoes, neither of which I particularly care for.

Today I wear my white buck loafers with khakis or colourful shorts, linen dress shirts or polo shirts--and never with socks. They represent an enormous improvement over flip-flops and boat shoes and rarely fail to elicit favourable comments from the public. Worn in warm weather and paired with a cocktail and alluring smile, white bucks convey a spirit of fun and of effortless poise.

Houellebecq On Beauty

"Without beauty a girl is unhappy because she has missed her chance to be loved. People do not jeer at her, they are not cruel to her, but it is as if she were invisible, no eyes follow her as she walks. People feel uncomfortable when they are with her. They find it easier to ignore her. A girl who is exceptionally beautiful, on the other hand, who has something which too far surpasses the customary seductive freshness of adolescence, appears somehow unreal. Great beauty seems invariably to portend some tragic fate."

The Elementary Particles, Michel Houellebecq

Spotlight on Robert Morley

As the summer season draws to an end, my mind casts about for sartorial inspiration. Few things get my juices flowing more than the sight of flannel and tweed. The cinematic actor Robert Morley (1908-1992), shown above, was often to be found wearing such cloth. Large, rotund, jowly, sporting bushy eyebrows and a plummy accent, Morley was frequently placed in the role of quintessential Englishman. Note, too, his classic hair style, which featured a trimmed "winged" effect at the sides, sans sideburns. As luck would have it I recently saw Morley in the film The African Queen (1951), in which he plays an upright English missionary. Scenes of intense African heat and malarial swamps mingle with shots of sweat-stained bush jackets and moist brows. A timely reminder, one might say, of why I for one look forward to cooler weather.

Seychelles Safari

Following our recent two-event marriage ceremony, the first at a local religious establishment and the other at a beach resort, my new bride and I are off on a honeymoon to the Seychelles, Tanzania, and France for the month of August.



Life is good. Enjoy the rest of your summer.

Ian Fleming in the Seychelles

View To A Thrill: In the Seychelles with James Bond

Sunday, 9 July 2006

It was the spring of 1958 when Ian Fleming first set foot on Mahé. The author had come to the Seychelles for an extended holiday: seeking adventure, sunshine and inspiration for his latest James Bond book, to be called For Your Eyes Only.

By all accounts he found it here, at the heart of this beautiful string of islands in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Basing himself on Mahé - the largest of the 115-strong group and home to the capital, Victoria - Fleming spent some enjoyable and profitable weeks exploring, snorkelling and investigating the pirate legends so prevalent in these parts, and, most importantly, writing.

When For Your Eyes Only was published two years later, the influence of this trip was apparent. Among the five short stories that combine to make up the book was one set entirely in the Seychelles, which Bond, like Fleming, travels to from a rainswept London in the spring: "M had told Bond he was sending him to the Seychelles," wrote Fleming. "'Admiralty are having trouble with their new fleet base in the Maldives. Communists creeping in from Ceylon. Strikes, sabotage - the usual picture. May have to cut their losses and fall back on the Seychelles ... Just go and have a look.' M glanced out of the window at the driving March sleet. 'Don't get sunstroke.'"

Upon arrival, Bond becomes entangled with a sadistic American multi-millionaire called Milton Krest and his attractive but unhappy wife Liz. Fleming reputedly took the couple's surname from a brand of tonic and ginger beer he drank here - just one of a number of touches paying homage to the visit.

During his time on Mahé, Fleming stayed at a hotel on the north-west coast, built on an outcrop just north of the sprawling Beau Vallon beach. That grand old hotel, The Northolme, built before the First World War, has recently undergone a dramatic transformation. One of the first hotels on the islands, it has reopened after being turned into a luxury five-star retreat. The hotel now consists of 40 wooden villas within a mélange of paths, elevations and landscaping, all with stunning views of the Indian Ocean and the striking Silhouette Island a few miles away.

Bond fans will find the rebuilt hotel packed with Fleming associations: not only is the pretty private beach where Fleming swam exactly as it was during his visit, but the new management, Hilton Worldwide Resorts, has paid tribute to the author by dedicating a villa to him.

In a move that will surely make The Northolme the ultimate honeymoon destination for 007 enthusiasts, the oceanfront Ian Fleming Suite comes complete with a king-sized circular bed, Blofeld-style spinning chair and, best of all, the complete library of James Bond DVDs and novels. During my visit, there was even talk of adding an 007-shaped Jacuzzi outside, and a version of Monty Norman's Bond theme to be played every time the toilet door is opened.

Among Fleming's fascinations nearly five decades ago were the pirate tales that are told throughout the Seychelles. Many Seychellois believe there are still huge caches of buried treasure, including what is generally considered to be the greatest missing hoard of them all, that of the 18th-century buccaneer La Buse (The Buzzard). The bloodthirsty French captain, whose real name was Olivier LeVasseur, was captured on Mauritius, but not before he had hidden his treasure somewhere in the Seychelles. Standing before the gallows, legend has it he took out his map, tore it into several pieces and threw it into the baying crowd declaring: "Find my treasure who may." No one has yet, though people still look for it.

While following the treasure trail around Mahé, Fleming hired a car, buying a local driving licence in Victoria for five rupees. There's no need to purchase the extra licence today, but a car is still essential. Although Victoria is the smallest capital in the world, with just one set of traffic lights, Mahé itself is surprisingly large - roughly 150 square kilometres. The only other means of transportation is an infrequent bus service.

The tropical temperatures make this maze of islands and atolls an ideal place to visit - provided you avoid the rainy season from December to February. At times the heat oppressed our hero, who complained: "The temperature was 80 in the shade and the humidity 90, and in the enclosed waters of the lagoon the water was near blood heat." But in spite of it all, Bond managed to frustrate the villain, win the girl, and squeeze in a good deal of snorkelling, fishing and sailing along the way; a perfect trip to the Seychelles.

Copyright © 2006 The Independent

Resort Reads

Summer Mischief

It is with a modicum of penitence that I announce the number of posts here will start to diminish over the next several weeks. The summer season is proving more energetic than I anticipated. There are other responsibilities demanding attention, such as going to the beach, dining out, renovating the home, surfing, Arabic lessons, and managing new real estate investments. In this kind of market, with fear and panic infecting investors' decision-making processes, the best one can do is wait it out. Preferably in sunny climes. My trad crew and I will be in East Africa and Europe for most of the month of August. I will of course submit new posts now and then, schedules permitting. If you find yourself in the area, do drop me a line. Enjoy the summer.

Rhodesian Bowls

Brogue Maintenance

How often do you polish your brogues? I break out the shoe maintenance kit probably every 6 weeks or so. And this is only for the shoes I wear on a regular basis. Half brogues, full brogues, and tassel loafers. For the others, I provide an occasional wipe with a moist cloth. Only rarely do I apply a moisturiser treatment, to keep the leather strong and supple. Like watering the garden or washing the motor car, shining my brogues is a pleasant activity. I tend to lose myself in fanciful reminiscences. Casual observers may surmise that I am simply admiring the figure of my Asian neighbour's 18-year old daughter, but in reality I am reflecting on my role in the larger scheme of things, philosophically-speaking. In this way we can say that maintaining my brogues to a professional standard is the path to an empyrean consciousness. And that is a good thing, no?

Tweed At The Races

Voila (Françoise Hardy)

Gucci In Silentium

Southwick Chalk Stripe in Focus

A close-up of my favourite suit, a single-breasted, two-button navy chalk stripe number by Southwick. As you know, I have a thing for Southwick. This is the undarted Plymouth model. I acquired it more than ten years ago at Van Driver, a men's store in Greenwich that sadly is now closed. It is too heavy for all but the coldest months in Southern California. I pair it with shirts with spread collar, foulard ties, and black half brogues or tassel loafers. Deservedly or not, this is the standard by which I measure the other items in my collection.

¡Viva España!

Congratulations to the Spanish team for the Euro 2008 Championship.

Wine Appreciation Society

Is wine-drinking an art or a calling? In my case, the latter, decidedly so. After all I have spent more than twenty-two years pursuing it. Although I have taken innumerable wine courses and as a result can explain the difference between claret and burgundy with ease, I would much rather drink wine than study it, or even talk about it. "Ought we to be drunk every night?", asks Charles. It is a question I have answered in the affirmative, like Sebastian, for the last several years. Currently I am sampling the wines from Argentina, having exhausted South Africa and Chile. As I have mentioned previously, my drinking days are nearing an end.

Quiet Life (Japan)

On the Tea Table

Madras Friday

On these gloomy mornings, when a spot of colour is required, I turn to madras. Pride of place in my portfolio belongs to a pair of Berle flat-front shorts. Easily the most comfortable shorts I own. The rare candid photograph (above) depicts the madras shorts, a pink Brooks Brothers slim-fit OCBD, and a battered pair of Sperry Topsiders. I don't know about you, but I typically do not tuck in my shirt whilst wearing madras shorts; in fact I usually just don a white polo. The weather today should clear up well before lunch time, at which point I should be somewhere in downtown Laguna Beach, FT and G&T in hand, watching the tourists. If you happen to be in the area, do join me for a drink and we can discuss the important matters of the day. Suffice it to say, I do not have any client meetings today.

Southwick Houndstooth

A photo of a black and white houndstooth Southwick sport jacket from Culwell & Son. I acquired it during a visit to Dallas in 1996 to see a girlfriend studying at the Cox School of Business at Southern Methodist University. The jacket was one of two significant souvenirs from that trip, the other being a wrecked heart that has long since mended. Young love can be capricious and so my affections quickly moved on, yet the jacket remains. Even today, I can not part with it. I wear it rarely, to be frank, and only rediscovered it last year lurking at the back of my closet like a red-headed stepchild. But when I do, I pair it with a white dress shirt, charcoal flannels, and black Alden tassel loafers. I realise this is an unimaginative look, so I am open to suggestions.

Somali Love-Poem

If I set myself to write
Of the love that holds my heart
A wondrous great kitab
Could not contain it all.

I long for thee as one
Whose dhow in the kherif
Is blown adrift and lost
In the grey and empty sea.

The curving of my breasts
Like apples sweet and small
Are thine to caress
When night turns dusk to dawn.

Then lay between these breasts
And call thy life fulfilled.
And never be denied
This well of happiness.

Poem written by young Somali woman to her English lover (1940s)

The Transvaal, South Africa

In the course of my wanderings around Southern Africa in the late '90s, I met a young man who lived with his family at the foot of the Soutpansberg mountains in the Transvaal in South Africa. Jannie was 21, with long blonde hair, and managed the family farm. Discovering I was from London, he said he wanted to immigrate there for work. He grew up on his uncle's farm. His uncle was an eccentric who liked to hide in the bushes and take pot shots at the black farm workers with a homemade slingshot. The family kept as a pet a tame warthog which they had raised from a piglet. The warthog behaved just like a dog, chewing on an old tire hanging from a tree and swinging from it by its teeth. It also chased cars, the sound of which would cause it to run clickety-clack into the kitchen, its little hooves invariably slipping out from under it as it slid on its back across the smooth wooden floor. It was eventually run over by one of the big 18-wheeler trucks rolling north towards Zimbabwe.

Tweed in Chair

A Beautiful Heaven

"The average age for a man in the Bronze Age was eighteen. In the Roman era, twenty-two. Heaven must have been beautiful then. Today it must look dreadful. When a man reaches forty, he has no chance to die beautifully. No matter how he tries, he will die of decay. He must compel himself to live."

A Life In Four Chapters, Yukio Mishima

Flemish Nationalist Style

A snaphot of Gerolf Annemans, an officer of the Vlaams Belang party in Belgium, wearing a bow tie, checked shirt, and navy blazer. Unlike Mr. Annemanns, I am not partial to bow ties; indeed I have been specifically requested not to wear one. Exhibiting a bow tie, one could argue, can be construed as a controversial, even radical, act in today's sartorial environment. However, it is images such as this one that cause me to reconsider.

Out Of The Blue (Roxy Music)

Gucci Snaffle-Bit Sensations

Whenever I hear the phrase light in the loafers, I can only assume the speaker is referring to my Gucci snaffle-bit loafers. These shoes are a true friend. I have been wearing Gucci loafers in one form or another since I was a very young man.

During my Sloane Ranger years in London, they were a mainstay of my weekend uniform. My chums and I wore them to pubs and clubs. Gucci snaffle-bit loafers, I think, have a certain brand distinction and jet-set reputation, but they are also renowned for being the footwear of choice for Eurotrash. Whatever the case, they certainly have their admirers. Several years ago I donned Gucci snaffle-bit loafers for a jaunt to the Upper East Side of Manhattan with a university friend to pick up a Raoul Millais painting for an art collector client. The sight of my shoes apparently so moved the owner, a fashionable Middle Eastern woman, that we negotiated a significantly lower price.

The classic Gucci snaffle-bit loafer features red-and-green webbing under the hardware, as the photo (above) illustrates. The Gucci loafers in my shoe portfolio are black suede with a lug sole. They are still going strong after almost ten years. Last night, I can report, I wore my Gucci loafers to a photo shoot in Laguna Beach. And this morning, I am still cleaning the sand out of them.

Riding Boot Porn

Bruce Chatwin Preppy Chic

The English writer Bruce Chatwin (1940-1989) was a devotee of OCBD shirts, which numerous photos can verify. I include just two here, including one featuring him in an OCBD and tick-weave jacket with a 3/2 roll. The other shows him in a white OCBD and boat shoes. A masterful writer and engaging character, he is missed.

A Thing For Pink

Pink is my signature colour. If you consult my family and associates, you will discover I am known for my pink shirts. Brooks Brothers OCBDs, to be exact. I own three in the non-non-iron, slim fit style. In certain circles, these shirts are a veritable icon. For me, they are like a second skin.

Pink has long featured in my portfolio. As a young man I wore pink OCBDs and polo shirts from Lacoste and Polo until they fell apart. In fact, I still do. In the banking world of London and New York, I often wore pink dress shirts, usually with a spread collar and double cuffs, as did many of my colleagues.

I find pink striking and conservative at the same time. It complements my blue eyes and skin tone, especially in the summer when I develop a dark tan. My shirts generally receive a positive reception, particularly from women who seem to appreciate pink the most. The women in my life, I have found, actively encourage me to wear pastel colours such as pink, and to grow my hair long. For some men, however, pink is a controversial choice, especially on the West Coast where dark, somber tones such as black and grey predominate in business settings. I occasionally receive curious glances from them when I wear my pink shirts. But, outright hostility is rare. Recently, while queuing for a cup of tea at a local tea shop, I was bemused to overhear a confused little girl ask her mother why a boy was wearing a pink shirt.

In my closet, pink is not limited to just shirts. I occasionally don a well-worn pair of pink twill shorts from Vineyard Vines. And should you rummage round my wardrobe, you will uncover a pair of pink cashmere socks from Paul Stuart. In addition, I will admit, I also have two pairs of pink boxer shorts, whose colour is a result of a laundry mishap.

I wear the pink if not with pride, then with an insouciance borne of experience and trial.