Tristan Rutherford — Head of Design

The short story: I'm a freelance travel / food / wine / yacht editor & writer who has won seven journalism awards for The Times and Daily Telegraph. Over 20+ year career, reporting from 80 countries, I've authored 20 travel books for National Geographic and Time Out, and published magazines for the world's largest superyacht agencies. Also acted as an editorial consultant for Google, San Pellegrino, Visit France and many others. In short, I author, edit, ghostwrite and project manage for the world's best known journals and brands. My clients find me a breeze to work with. I'd love to work with you too! The long story: Blame my parents. Aged three they moved me to a remote island in The Bahamas. Lobsters were considered poor people's food. Each weekend I would swim down with a snorkel and locate them. Then my father would shoot them. Totally delicious. On our island of Abaco there was a Bacardi distillery. Some islanders got paid in rum. I just sucked sugar cane. Every night was a party of bacchanalian excess, as if Hieronymus Bosch painted the last days of Wiemar Republic in the Caribbean. Then my parents moved from The Bahamas to rural England. Thanks guys. Great plan? More like ice plan! I spent years plotting my return to the sun. Back to my people. Folks with yachts, hats, espadrilles, Nikon instants, Slim Aarons portraits and Ian Fleming novels. Sun-tanned sybarites who could hold court on buried treasure, New York waiters, Provençal villages and Roman holidays. So I waited. I read Jan Morris. Patrick Leigh Fermor. Paul Theroux (Louis's dad). Bruce Chatwin. Every 10p thrift store copy of National Geographic I could get my hands on. There was a map by my bed where I plotted every adventure. I would walk the end of Karpaz peninsula in Cyprus. I would climb from Xinjiang Province in China into Kirghiz SSR. I would cross the Wakkan Corridor and the Darién Gap. Aged 25 I had travelled to 50 countries. But I wanted more. So I told a very big lie. After being made redundant from my only real job as a sports reporter I moved to Nice, France, because the living was cheap. Wine and coffee cost under a dollar, allowing me "to work on my oeuvre". In a pavement café. While wearing espadrilles. Then I called every travel magazine in the world and I told then I was "a travel writer living in France". British Airways High Life magazine believed my lie. SUCKERS! They sent me to Marrakesh on my first travel commission. I became a published writer. Then I didn't have to lie anymore. Mum, dad, I couldn't have done it without you.

Stackforce AI infers this person is a travel and lifestyle content creator with expertise in editorial consulting and publishing.

Location: London, England, United Kingdom

Experience: 2 yrs 2 mos