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5 Mins with FELLA
Postcards from a European Summer
For our latest Postcards journal, we join the girls behind Composition Studio as they journey through the South of France and Italy, sourcing vintage treasures along the way. Between antique markets, long swims and leisurely meals, FELLA becomes their unofficial uniform for a summer spent under the European sun.
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South of France between Montpellier & Avignon ‘The Unexpected Spot’ 1. Collias
Collias was one of those places no photograph could have prepared me for (nor did due to some questionable google map entries). Hidden beneath the village, the Gardon winds through pale limestone cliffs carved by the running water , the old stone bridge overhead framing kids fearlessly jumping into water so impossibly clear it hardly looked real, or deep enough. The river is fed by natural springs from the Cévennes, and you feel it instantly. Even in the middle of summer, the water is startlingly cold—the kind that steals your breath before somehow giving it back. Every swim felt like pressing reset.
On the way, we stopped at the local épicerie for three glasses, a bottle of local cider and a bag of ice before making our way down to the river. By then, Ella had reached that very specific stage of exhaustion where she'd almost figuratively blacked out after 5 consecutive days of markets, early starts/late nights and too many kilometres. Wrapped in our Fella swimwear, we waded in reluctantly, laughed through the first freezing minutes, and climbed back onto the rocks feeling like entirely different people.
And if you're anything like me and can't sit still for long, don't stop at the swim. Follow the river on foot, scramble over the warm limestone rocks, discover the waterfall from different perspectives and quiet inlets tucked around each bend.
Southern Italy, Puglia. ‘The people watching place’ 2. Punta Prosciutto
By the time we reached Punta Prosciutto, our dear friend and designer Oscar Leal of Belance had joined us, along with Courtney Skippon, and after a day of haggling over antiques, drinking espresso and speaking in a combination of English, Italian and hand gestures, we'd officially caught the sillies. It was another day with the mercury climbing well beyond what any sensible brain should be expected to function in, so we surrendered to the sea. We hadn't expected Punta Prosciutto to be quite so gloriously full of local Pugliesi, but it turned out to be one of our favourite afternoons.
The people-watching alone was worth the drive. Every imaginable style of swimwear, neon colours scattered across the sand like confetti, an endless flotilla of inflatable swans, dinghies and pedal boats with slides drifting across the impossibly turquoise water. The nonnas quietly ruled the entire beach, somehow commanding everything while barely moving an inch from their sunbeds. It felt unapologetically Italian.
Sitting beside us was an absolute queen—a woman with the kind of effortless glamour Italians seem to possess in abundance. She had tied a vibrant sarong around her head against the afternoon sun, and within minutes I'd shamelessly copied her, wrapping my Fella sarong into a headscarf.
Someone (myself) convinced me to order a Blue Spritz, which I remain slightly sceptical of as a concept but completely sold on as an afternoon ritual. That, and watching beach life unfold around us, was the cherry on top. We stayed until the light lost its pizazz, laughing far more than we should have. Ella somehow managed to buy the hat straight off a man's head, Oscar was in tears for most of the afternoon, Courtney quietly encouraging every ridiculous idea, and none of us could quite remember why we were laughing so much anymore.
Southern Italy, Puglia. ‘The people watching place’ 2. Punta Prosciutto
By the time we reached Punta Prosciutto, our dear friend and designer Oscar Leal of Belance had joined us, along with Courtney Skippon, and after a day of haggling over antiques, drinking espresso and speaking in a combination of English, Italian and hand gestures, we'd officially caught the sillies. It was another day with the mercury climbing well beyond what any sensible brain should be expected to function in, so we surrendered to the sea. We hadn't expected Punta Prosciutto to be quite so gloriously full of local Pugliesi, but it turned out to be one of our favourite afternoons.
The people-watching alone was worth the drive. Every imaginable style of swimwear, neon colours scattered across the sand like confetti, an endless flotilla of inflatable swans, dinghies and pedal boats with slides drifting across the impossibly turquoise water. The nonnas quietly ruled the entire beach, somehow commanding everything while barely moving an inch from their sunbeds. It felt unapologetically Italian.
Sitting beside us was an absolute queen—a woman with the kind of effortless glamour Italians seem to possess in abundance. She had tied a vibrant sarong around her head against the afternoon sun, and within minutes I'd shamelessly copied her, wrapping my Fella sarong into a headscarf.
Someone (myself) convinced me to order a Blue Spritz, which I remain slightly sceptical of as a concept but completely sold on as an afternoon ritual. That, and watching beach life unfold around us, was the cherry on top. We stayed until the light lost its pizazz, laughing far more than we should have. Ella somehow managed to buy the hat straight off a man's head, Oscar was in tears for most of the afternoon, Courtney quietly encouraging every ridiculous idea, and none of us could quite remember why we were laughing so much anymore.
Notable mention also to the one hotel we stayed in: 3.1. Le Grand Mazarin
Le Grand Mazarin - Our first stop after landing in Europe wasn't a café or a monument—it was straight to the pool at Le Grand Mazarin. We had arrived on the hottest day of Paris' heatwave and, with our room not yet ready, slipping into our Fella swimwear and disappearing beneath the hotel's beautifully designed indoor pool felt like the only sensible way to shake off nearly 24 hours of travel.
Hidden below the delightfully unique hotel, the pool feels more like an intimate salon than a wellness space. Wrapped in rich green tiles, warm lighting and surrounded by whimsical artwork on the ceiling and playful interiors that echo the hotel's maximalist character, it was the perfect contrast to the heat of the city above. Floating there, it felt impossible to conjure the strength to brace the heat.
Notable mention also to the one hotel we stayed in: 3.1. Le Grand Mazarin
Le Grand Mazarin - Our first stop after landing in Europe wasn't a café or a monument—it was straight to the pool at Le Grand Mazarin. We had arrived on the hottest day of Paris' heatwave and, with our room not yet ready, slipping into our Fella swimwear and disappearing beneath the hotel's beautifully designed indoor pool felt like the only sensible way to shake off nearly 24 hours of travel.
Hidden below the delightfully unique hotel, the pool feels more like an intimate salon than a wellness space. Wrapped in rich green tiles, warm lighting and surrounded by whimsical artwork on the ceiling and playful interiors that echo the hotel's maximalist character, it was the perfect contrast to the heat of the city above. Floating there, it felt impossible to conjure the strength to brace the heat.
FELLA - the unofficial uniform of the Composition
We never intended for Fella to become our sourcing uniform, but somewhere along the way it did. Having once again packed entirely impractical clothes for a European buying trip/heatwave, we quickly realised that spending ten-hour days wandering antique markets, sprawling warehouses and sun-soaked car parks in temperatures well into the high thirties called for a different approach.
Our Fella swimwear and sarongs became the hardest-working pieces in our suitcases. They were thrown on before dawn for market mornings, layered beneath tops while negotiating over antiques, and worn far more publicly than any swimsuit probably should be. I'd even go so far as to say they may have helped us strike a few deals—it's hard to be too serious when everyone is melting in the Puglian sun.
FELLA - the unofficial uniform of the Composition
We never intended for Fella to become our sourcing uniform, but somewhere along the way it did. Having once again packed entirely impractical clothes for a European buying trip/heatwave, we quickly realised that spending ten-hour days wandering antique markets, sprawling warehouses and sun-soaked car parks in temperatures well into the high thirties called for a different approach.
Our Fella swimwear and sarongs became the hardest-working pieces in our suitcases. They were thrown on before dawn for market mornings, layered beneath tops while negotiating over antiques, and worn far more publicly than any swimsuit probably should be. I'd even go so far as to say they may have helped us strike a few deals—it's hard to be too serious when everyone is melting in the Puglian sun.
