On January 21st, Léonce Chenal turned seven. Seven years already… and yet, it feels like only yesterday. For a long time, I hesitated to set an anniversary date for this blog. Until one day, almost by chance, I stumbled upon an old email: a receipt, dated Sunday, January 21st, 2018, for the purchase of the very first theme for my blog. And that’s when I realized—this was the day it all began.

I can still picture myself in my tiny London studio on Prince of Wales Road, somewhere between Chalk Farm and Kentish Town West. It was one of those slow winter weekends when time stretches endlessly, when boredom lingers in the air. I felt like something was missing. A project, a passion, a space of my own—something beyond work and daily routines. I had always read a lot of blogs. And that day, the thought struck me like lightning: What if I tried?

I will never forget the moment I clicked that buy button. It felt almost premonitory, as if, deep inside, a quiet voice was whispering that in six or seven years, I would thank myself for taking this leap. I’ve always been fascinated—and sometimes terrified—by how a fleeting moment, a single impulse, can change everything. How a split second can redraw the course of a life—for better or worse. But we don’t always recognize the good ideas as they come. You just have to believe in them, take that first step… and let the rest unfold.

Seven years have passed since that day. Today, I write these words from the house where I have lived for the past seven months, in Bordeaux. The air is crisp, the sky a flawless shade of blue. Spring is approaching. I can feel it in the air. This light, this morning clarity, takes me back to another spring—the one in London. Those days spent writing in my sunlit room, pouring my very first words into Léonce Chenal, my heart brimming with dreams, my mind overflowing with ideas.

So, to celebrate these seven years, I wanted to share a part of this story with you. I’ve always believed that talking about oneself is immodest—maybe it is. So, if this doesn’t interest you, I invite you to stop here and explore my other articles instead. But if you are curious—if you love stories that begin with nothing yet change everything—then I hope these words will spark your curiosity and make you feel like you know me a little better. But then again, if you’ve been reading me all this time, don’t you already?

I love Paris, this vibrant city where every street tells a story, where every façade whispers a memory. I love its museums, its lively terraces, its hushed nights, its architecture that stands timeless against the ages, its ever-changing sky—sometimes a soft pearl grey, sometimes bathed in golden hues at sunset. I first lived there on Rue de Saussure, near Villiers metro station, in the 17th arrondissement. Then, a few years later, I returned—this time with my partner—on Île Saint-Louis, Rue des Deux Ponts.

Paris will always be a part of me. It is where I met the one who has shared my life for eight years now. A chance encounter, one of those coincidences that, in hindsight, feel almost like destiny. Paris, the city of love, they say. Perhaps it’s true, after all.

I can still picture myself in my little room under the rooftops, on Rue de Saussure. From the fifth-floor window of that Haussmannian building, my gaze would drift into the distance. And sometimes, amid the interwoven rooftops and the play of light and shadow, I had the strangest sensation of seeing it again. My mountain. The one I had watched every morning from the window of my childhood bedroom. The one that, standing like a barrier before me, had long instilled in me the desire to go beyond, to see what lay on the other side. Of course, I knew it wasn’t there. Paris had no snow-capped horizons. Yet my mind painted it there still, like a lingering mirage. A final reminder of what had once pushed me to leave.

And so, one morning, I stopped hesitating. I, a child of spring, born under an Air sign, followed the call that had always lived within me. With nothing but a large red suitcase, I left Paris and crossed the Channel—toward a city I had never set foot in before. London was waiting.

London was a revelation. I fell in love with this vibrant, electrifying city that never sleeps, a place that reminded me of New York—a world unto itself, where everything feels possible. The streets were in constant motion, the energy ever-renewing. The endless sprawl of the Underground and bus network stretched so far beyond the city center that, at times, I wasn’t sure if I was still in London or somewhere else entirely. Suddenly, Paris—by comparison—felt almost serene, almost provincial.

At the time, I was working for a hotel booking platform, and in London, I met the world. Every nationality was here. And so was I—a girl from a small Alpine town in France, suddenly surrounded by a symphony of accents, a mosaic of gazes, a collision of stories intertwining. And then, there were the British—who I adore. Always polite, always smiling, unwavering in the rain and in adversity, with that legendary composure, that effortless elegance that makes them so charming. In London, I felt at home.

There is a certain freedom in London, a lightness of being I have never found elsewhere. Originality, eccentricity, newness—here, they aren’t just accepted, they are sought after, celebrated. I met extraordinary minds, inspiring personalities, people who challenged my way of thinking. Conversations that seemed insignificant at the time but, in hindsight, left an indelible mark on me. That’s the magic of life, isn’t it? The chance encounters, the words exchanged in passing, the fleeting moments that, without us realizing, set a chain reaction in motion—a silent upheaval, a shift.

Like that seemingly ordinary conversation I had one day, over lunch, with a colleague. She was blonde, lively, a Canadian with eyes that always seemed to smile. I confided in her about my project—this dream, this crazy idea that was Léonce Chenal. The project I had been working on in secret, the one I wanted to turn into my profession. She listened, then, with that effortless spontaneity of free spirits, she said: “Why not quit and dedicate yourself entirely to your passion?” Her words struck me. It was so different from what I had been taught in France, where security is prized over audacity, where caution outweighs instinct. Her optimism felt refreshing, luminous. A breath of fresh air. A moment of epiphany.

Returning to Paris was brutal. But the heart always knows. And yet, London was in me. Too much. Already, Parisians—with a certain irritation, perhaps even a touch of jealousy—were asking why I was always smiling. As if it were suspicious, out of place. But I had learned, between the lines, that a smile is a form of politeness, a way of greeting the world with kindness. It’s strange how a city can change you forever.

It was 2020, and then, the world shifted. A sudden halt. A reminder that life is fragile, fleeting, hanging by a thread. I realized then that sometimes, you have to gather your courage, let go of what holds you back—a job, a city, a comfortable routine that makes you unhappy—and step into the unknown. Even if that unknown is hazy. Even if, at the end of the road, there is nothing at all. But after all, a path can always be retraced if you’ve lost your way.

So, I did it. I handed in my resignation. With a few savings in my pocket, we packed our bags—my partner, my cat, and I—off in search of somewhere new. Amsterdam, here we come. No second-guessing. No hesitation. We sold a few pieces of furniture, boxed up our belongings, and loaded everything into a moving truck. Six hours on the road, leaving Paris behind, and on October 1st, 2020, we arrived in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. We had moved in the middle of a pandemic. The tourists were long gone. The city, usually buzzing with life, felt as though it belonged to us alone. Amsterdam was ours.

By a stroke of luck, we had found a small but magnificent apartment, built in 1882. Its architecture had a touch of the Haussmannian, an air of elegance and timelessness—a corner apartment, on the second floor, with grand windows, one of them gracefully curved. The high ceilings amplified the space, adorned with delicate moldings, a listed façade preserving its history… and above all, a breathtaking view of the Kloveniersburgwal canal.

The windows were immense—sash-style, with an old system of pulleys and cords, their wooden frames worn by time, the single panes shivering in the wind. Opening and closing them felt like a feat of strength. The apartment had remained untouched by time, with that faded charm that gives old places their soul. But it was bathed in light. From my bed, in my small bedroom, lying on my back, head full of dreams, I could gaze up at the clear blue sky, whenever the weather chose to be kind.

The view from the apartment was a living painting, ever-changing. Five windows opened onto the canal, each offering a different tableau. To the left, an impressionist blur—the curved glass of the window distorted the scene slightly, bending the perspective over Nieuwmarkt square. In winter, the great Christmas tree stood there, its lights twinkling like a thousand stars.

In the living room, two windows framed variations of the same composition—the Trippenhuis, built in 1660 for Louis and Hendrick Trip, wealthy arms merchants. Its mortar-shaped chimneys stood as a silent reminder of the fortune they had made. By 1812, the Royal Institute of Sciences, Letters, and Fine Arts had taken up residence here—the precursor to today’s Royal Netherlands Academy of Arts and Sciences (KNAW), founded in 1808 by Louis Bonaparte, Napoleon’s younger brother. A curious twist of fate, perhaps—a quiet nod to our French roots, to find ourselves living across from an institution established by a Frenchman, a Bonaparte, no less.

At nightfall, when the streetlights cast their warm golden glow, their reflections dancing upon the dark waters of the canal, rippling with each passing boat, I would watch the quiet ballet of the Academy’s guests. Through a window framed by deep red velvet curtains, a soft light spilled into the street, offering fleeting glimpses of masterpieces hanging on the red velvet walls within.

But the greatest masterpiece was found in our bedroom. Two enormous windows, twins of those in the living room, but opening onto a spectacle that only time and the seasons could paint. A majestic elm, standing tall at the water’s edge, proud and unwavering. So grand that from the window, I could almost reach out and touch its branches. Often, as I watched it, I would wonder—how old was it? How many lives and stories had passed beneath its silent watch?

Each spring, between March and April, it offered us a breathtaking spectacle—delicate, pale green blossoms, almost yellow, that slowly gave way to broad leaves, shielding us from the stifling summer heat. Over time, as I watched it each day, I developed an almost phenological eye. I learned to recognize the earliest signs of spring—the birth of buds, the first shy flowers, the leaves shifting from fresh green to the golden hues of autumn. And every day, I felt it watching over us.

I can still hear the cry of the seagulls, a quiet reminder that the sea was never far. The murmuring of ducks in deep conversation, filling the mornings with their indecipherable chatter. Sometimes, at the edge of my vision, a swan or two would glide past, moving across the canal with an ethereal grace, like a fleeting mirage.

But of all the things that marked me upon moving into this apartment, the first was the sound of the Zuiderkerk carillon. Built in 1603, its tower stood proudly in the Amsterdam skyline, visible from our bedroom window. Every hour, its bells rang out a joyful melody, their crystalline chime suspended in the air. Since 1656, they had kept watch over the neighborhood, their tones unchanged since the Hemony brothers cast them centuries ago.

And often, with a quiet sense of awe, I couldn’t help but wonder—had Rembrandt heard them too? Had he, in the chaos of his time, found comfort in the same music? Had Monet, sitting at the edge of Groenburgwal, heard their echoes as he painted the Zuiderkerk in 1874?

Then, one day, Amsterdam froze under a snowstorm. The snow fell endlessly, wrapping the city in a soft, muffled silence, blanketing rooftops, streets, and canals in a sheet of white. The wind howled through our old sash windows, rattling the weathered wooden frames, slipping through the cracks in the aged glass.

The canal, too, had surrendered to winter, turning to ice. And already, the Amsterdammers had laced up their skates. They glided over the frozen surface with effortless ease, gathering in groups, improvising spirited games of ice hockey, their laughter and the sharp scrape of blades against ice carrying through the still air, reaching even our apartment.

From the window, I watched this scene from another century, mesmerized by a city that knew how to reinvent itself with every season. And yet, as the days slipped by, one thing remained unchanged—the gentle chime of the Zuiderkerk carillon. Its quiet melody marked the rhythm of our days, measuring time like a discreet metronome of our lives—three beautiful years long.

It was here, in this light-filled space, wrapped in music, steeped in history, that I worked tirelessly, with dedication and heart, to build Léonce Chenal. What had begun as a quiet idea, a simple space of expression, had become my life’s work. In the meantime, my grandmother, Léonce Chenal, had passed away, giving this project an even deeper significance. From that moment on, I envisioned it as so much more than just a blog—a universe where everything intertwines and merges—fashion, art, cuisine, beauty, perfume.

Everything is a pursuit—of beauty, of taste, of memory, of emotion. A world that is imaginary, yet undeniably alive. A shimmering, ever-changing chimera, like a book with a beating heart. And it is through my words, through our exchanges, that this project lives, transforms, and evolves—shaped by time, experiences, travels, and encounters. And if, by some stroke of fortune, even for just a fleeting moment, I can bring you a spark of joy, a glimmer of beauty, a touch of color to soften life’s uncertainties—then my mission will be fulfilled. My purpose, realized.

I can still smell the jasmine and ylang-ylang essential oils, the ones I always diffused in our apartment in Amsterdam at this very time of year. As if to summon spring, which, each year, felt like an eternity to arrive. But I open my eyes. I am no longer there. I am here, comfortably settled in my midnight-blue velvet armchair, my laptop resting on my beloved acacia wood table. Beside me, the diffuser releases the same familiar scent of jasmine and ylang-ylang—a faint echo of the past.

I gaze into the distance, lost in thought, caught somewhere between nostalgia and joy. Through the bay window of this house in Bordeaux, I see them—three towering cypress trees, rising before me. Immense. They extend beyond the frame of the window, too vast to be contained. Like a Van Gogh painting, they flare upwards, feverish, pulsing under the light, their tips vanishing beyond my field of vision—as if pointing elsewhere, toward an unseen horizon, one I cannot yet discern.

And for a moment—just a moment—among the tangle of colors, between the slender branches, the scattered pine cones, the jagged edges and soft, rounded forms… She was there. My mountain.

P.S.: If this letter has brought you joy, feel free to share it with those dear to you—for stories are best when passed along. Should you wish to reply, pen me a note, or send your correspondence through this contact form. And if this letter has delighted you, you can always treat me to a delicious croissant. Merci!