A Little Bird Told Me... Penned (with pride) by Her Royal Highness Charlotte Kiln

Of Robins, Remembrance & Red Waistcoats

Oh, my dears of Heemstede and beyond, gather 'round. This week, the cafe was visited by something feathered and rather fantastic-not a pigeon with no manners, but a parcel of perfectly sweet keyrings, each bearing the image of a robin. Not just any robin, mind you. Our robin. The same cheery chap that graces the Kiln & Kettle logo. 

Now, robins are not merely birds with bright waistcoats and button eyes. No, they are winged carriers of comfort, known in folklore as messengers from beyond. When one flits near your window, some say it's a visit from a loved one-a whisper from the other side. As your resident molten-hearted monarch, I must say I find the idea rather beautiful. 

But there's more. You see, my darling daughter is named Ava-meaning "like a bird"-and in our little kingdom, the robin sings not just with folklore but with family. When I began handing these keyrings out to guests, I simply hoped they'd bring a smile. What I received instead were stories that made my glaze shimmer. 

One woman paused as I handed her the robin. Her eyes softened. "A robin visits our balcony every week," she said. "I always think it's my mum. Or perhaps my gran. I like to believe it's her." Her smile held the kind of warmth that makes porcelain blush. 

Then, with a chuckle: "Well... the cat brought her inside once." Heavenly visit, meet housecat drama. Even the afterlife appreciates a twist. 

A Farewell, A Frog & a Farmhouse Dream 

It was a visit steeped in sweetness and sentiment: a mother and daughter duo arrived, cloaked in warmth and that rare, quiet sparkle. You know the kind-souls who enter a room and instantly soften the air. 

The daughter, young but fiercely focused, selected a mug and a little bowl. The bowl featured a frog. Not just painted on, mind you-but lounging over the rim like he'd just finished his tea and was preparing for a nap. Absolute genius. While daughter created, the mother spoke of their next chapter: they're soon moving to a little farm. Chickens, horses, misty mornings-the whole pastoral poem. But before they swap bicycle bells for rooster calls, they came back here. "We had to come back before we left," she smiled. "This place is part of our story now." And just when we thought the scene couldn't be sweeter, in whisked the father and younger brother-on bicycles, naturally -off to find ice cream while the ladies savoured their sacred time. It was one of those afternoons we wish we could bottle. Gentle. Golden. Just enough magic. 

Bonbons, Bowls & Baby Talk 

Thursday morning began with a scandal- and by scandal, I mean chocolate carrot cake. It whispered to us. Dared us. And reader, we listened. 

And then she arrived—our beloved returning guest. You know the one. She glides in with the grace of a duchess, the wit of a novelist, and a heart as sweet as the bonbons she brought along. With her, a box so elegant, so deliciously mysterious, it might as well have had a velvet ribbon and a sonnet tucked inside. Inside? A treasure trove of bonbons 

each one a tiny masterpiece in a rainbow of colours and curious shapes. Some shimmered, others glistened, and each seemed to have its own personality. Reader, we nearly fainted. 

She presented them as a thank-you for our opening. In return, we offered cake. There was a mutual nod. A knowing. A sugar-soaked pact. 

We spoke of Ireland and childhoods, of family and ambition. The hours passed unnoticed, the paintbrush twirling through pinks and lavenders as she created a bowl so tender it practically cooed. Later, her husband arrived-tall, soft- spoken, with the air of a quiet lyricist. They sat together, coffee in hand, love between them. We heard giggles, dreams, and murmured talk of the tiny feet they'll soon welcome. It was a moment so gently beautiful, it could only be captured in ceramic. 

Teacups & Treasures from Wonderland 

Oh, reader, hold on to your tea sets. A group burst through our doors this week like a kaleidoscope of colour and chaos. Laughter trailing behind them like perfume. These were not just guests-they were an event. They came to paint, but really? They came to sparkle. 

Each piece was a story. Each brushstroke a giggle. And then... the teacup. A tribute to Wonderland itself. It had swirls, grins, mischief and madness. The Cheshire Cat, wide-eyed and cheeky, stared from its porcelain side, and atop it all, the words: "We're all mad here." 

Indeed. Mad for colour. Mad for company. Mad for moments that feel this alive. 

Bubbles, Beauty & a Bond Beyond Time 

This week brought a mother-daughter duo that turned the studio into a sanctuary. Life had kept them busy, but they carved out time to reunite with intention-and with champagne. 

They painted. They sipped. They caught up on everything from daily chaos to dreams yet to be shared. The daughter's accomplishments sparkled in every word the mother didn't quite say-but wore in her proud gaze. And goodness, did they look like sisters. 

Every glance, every shared laugh was a reminder: love doesn't fade-it deepens. It was an afternoon of quiet joy and soft power. The kind of visit that reminds me why I do what I do. 

Guest of Honour: Her Majesty (aka Mum) 

Now, permit me a personal note. This week, my mum-yes, mine-graced our humble studio all the way from the UK. And she didn't just sit back and sip tea. No. She painted. Boldly. Brilliantly. A plate emblazoned with the word: Grateful. Which is what I am. 

Were it not for her relentless belief in me, her unwavering support and unconditional love, Kiln & Kettle would still be a scribble in my diary. Watching her create within these walls... well. It meant everything. 

Thank you, Mum. 

The Froobel Effect Continues... 

Ah, Froobel. Our style muse. Our paint- swirling socialite. Since her now-famous cup graced our feed, imitators have emerged. "Inspired by Froobel, they say. One even whispered, "I think mine's nicer." Darling. The audacity. 

The throne awaits. The crown-shaped teacup glistens. She must return. There is gossip to be had, and glazes to be judged. 

A Day for Daisies (and New Beginnings) 

A group of women arrived this week with enough joy to warm the whole of Heemstede. Friends, family, perhaps a fairy circle of kindred souls. They painted delicate daisies, cheeky kiwis, and the prettiest pastel swirls you've ever seen. One masterpiece stood out-a house number plaque. Painted to celebrate a brand-new beginning in a brand-new home. A sign of fresh chapters. It nearly made me melt (and not from the heat). 

They stayed all day. Painted multiple pieces. Laughed. Shared cake. Complimented our bathroom. Yes, really. And do you know what? It meant the world. 

A Rainy Sunday at the House That Clay Built 

Rain trickled down. The cafe glowed. Excitement in the air, glasses clinked. It was not grand, but it was deeply felt. We are almost one month old, and I must say-it feels like both a blink and a lifetime. On Sunday, we gathered with those who believed in this dream before it had a name. Women who cheered from the shadows, who offered tiny wrappers for our chocolates, who gave us strength when the shelves were still bare. We painted. We sipped. We celebrated the quiet courage of beginnings. And to all of you-new, familiar, or simply curious-thank you. For every booking, every smile, every glaze, and every 

whispered compliment. We see it. We feel it. We're just getting started. 

With more love than even I can fire into a pot, 

Charlotte Kiln

Your endlessly watchful, slightly dramatic, always devoted ceramic sovereign