People often imagine antique buying as terribly glamorous.
And look — sometimes it is. There are French villages, beautiful architecture, long lunches, and the occasional moment where you stand in front of a piece and think, well… you’ve survived 200 years and somehow ended up here with me.
But between those moments?
Absolute chaos.
The reality of buying antiques overseas is far less Under the Tuscan Sun and far more The Hunger Games: Decorative Arts Edition.
The day usually starts in darkness. Not metaphorical darkness. Actual darkness. Alarm clocks going off at offensive hours so you can be at the grounds before sunrise ready to fight for your survival.
And you are not alone.
Thousands of professional buyers gather outside the gates. Dealers. Designers. Stylists. Collectors. Everyone caffeinated within an inch of their life.
Between us and the antiques?
A prison-like fence line.
On the other side sit hundreds upon hundreds of trucks and vans, tightly packed into rows, alongside vast halls housing centuries worth of furniture, lighting, art, mirrors, garden pieces, textiles and objects. Rustic farmhouse tables beside gilt Italian mirrors. Religious relics beside chrome 1970s lamps. One minute you’re holding a perfectly worn French confit pot, the next you’re staring at a taxidermy peacock wondering who on earth buys these things. (Answer: someone always does.)
And if this scenario wasnt spicy enough, the trucks aren’t allowed to unload and display until the official opening bell rings.
And then…
Dingdingding.
Game on.
The gates open and suddenly thousands of grown adults surge forward like a tidal wave carrying coffee cups, measuring tapes and very little regard for personal space.
You’re trying not to get crushed while simultaneously scanning for:
-
good timber
-
original finishes
-
decent proportions
-
hidden damage
-
signatures
-
reproduction pieces pretending to be old
All while moving at speed because if you hesitate too long, someone else buys it.
And they will.
There’s no:
“I’ll come back later.”
Later is gone.
We’ve seen pieces sold literally out of someone’s hands. Dealers wrapping purchases while three other buyers hover like seagulls at a chip shop.
Of course, by this stage we’re not casually wandering around carrying a little purchase tucked under one arm.
Our logistics are military-level.
While we weave through lanes trying to secure pieces before someone else gets there first, our team are effectively on standby waiting for the call. The second something is bought, they appear at speed with enormous flatbed trolleys ready to collect it and get it safely back to our dedicated truck.
And honestly, they are the unsung heroes of antique buying.
Rain, mud, freezing mornings, blistering heat — doesn’t matter. They work relentlessly without complaint, manoeuvring gigantic mirrors, marble tops, garden urns and awkwardly shaped furniture through crowds of frantic buyers who all seem to have lost peripheral vision.
Then comes the real art form: loading the truck.
What looks impossible to the average person somehow becomes a perfectly packed rolling game of Tetris. Every centimetre accounted for. Heavy pieces balanced carefully. Fragile lighting tucked safely between furniture. Mirrors wrapped. Marble protected. Nothing rubbing, shifting or knocking.
It’s part strategy, part engineering, part miracle.
By the end of the day the truck is packed so tightly you’d swear another teaspoon couldn’t fit inside… and yet somehow someone always finds room for “just one more mirror.”
Then there are the dealers themselves.
Some we know well. Some we’ve bought from for years. Others are completely new discoveries. Part of the strategy before any fair is researching the lineup and working out who you absolutely must get to first before the crowds descend.
Because here’s the reality: it is physically impossible to properly cover everything.
There are simply too many trucks, too many halls, too many dealers and too many objects competing for your attention.
So we go in with a plan.
Priority dealers first. Beeline there. Then explore.
Simple in theory.
In reality? Not even remotely.
Every single piece we buy is investigated properly. We physically inspect it, question the dealer, negotiate pricing, discuss condition, photograph it, measure it, then manually enter every detail into our order books. And yes — this whole situation is still remarkably analogue.
No sleek little iPad operation over here.
Just notebooks, reference numbers, photos, scribbled notes and slightly chaotic communication flying between vendor and buyer and the truck team.
Once purchased, we send through instructions for collection
…before immediately darting off towards the next thing.
Now, earlier I mentioned “having a plan.”
That does not necessarily mean we stick to it.
In fact, within approximately seven minutes of entering most fairs, any promises of “sticking together” or operating like a “well-oiled machine” tend to dissolve entirely.
It quickly becomes:
“Where the hell did she go?”
or
“Oh God, I KNOW this isn’t what we need… but someone is going to love this.”
Insert wildly eclectic object here.
And contrary to what people might imagine, we do not float around agreeing on everything while holding hands in matching linen outfits.
We are actually fairly brutal with each other.
Lovingly brutal perhaps — but brutal nonetheless.
The mother/daughter dynamic becomes very apparent when one of us is passionately defending an enormous 19th century object while the other is calculating whether it will:
a) fit in the truck,
b) survive shipping,
and
c) have commercial appeal
That said, when one of us feels very strongly about a piece, the other usually folds. Eventually.
And then there’s the refreshment situation.
When you’re buying through France and Italy, survival is largely fuelled by coffee, carbs and whichever champagne or wine tent you collapse into mid-afternoon.
Protein bars?
Absolutely nowhere to be seen.
By the end of the day we are filthy, exhausted, overstimulated and running entirely on adrenaline, caffeine and approximately three bites of pastry.
But also exhilarated.
Because despite the chaos, despite the sore feet and the endless logistics, there is nothing quite like the thrill of uncovering pieces you know are special.
The patina on an old timber console worn smooth by generations of hands. The slightly wonky pair of urns with more personality than anything mass produced ever could. The thrill of spotting something extraordinary, that makes your heart rate go up, you can imagine it back home with it's new passionate custodian.
This is the magic of antiques.
Not perfection — character.
Not matching sets — layered homes that feel collected over time.
We love modern pieces. We understand the appeal of a beautifully cohesive catalogue look. Easy, polished.
But antiques bring soul into the mix.
The tradition now is simple: once the buying day is finally done, we sit down somewhere — usually looking mildly dishevelled — and order an Aperol Spritz.
It has become our official end-of-day ritual.
A moment to decompress, compare notes, laugh about the disasters, question our own sanity, and celebrate the finds we cannot wait to bring home.
Most of all, we’re excited beyond words to finally show you everything we’ve sourced.
And then comes the next chapter entirely:
packing and shipping.
But honestly… that deserves its own blog post.
