The Bard of Tysoe

The Bard of Tysoe

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
“I love your blog! You write so beautifully.”
— Oliver Ryan

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Friday, 5 September 2025

Left under a photograph on Substack…

Poem for Michael Young We leave our little red hearts behind: but isn’t that being just a little unkind… – shouldn’t we say what moved u...

Monday, 25 August 2025

I’ve got to think of my future…

The wait will soon be over… Twenty two years ago, a truly talented wise man — one of a trio, fortuitously — recommended a record, “an LP”...

Wednesday, 7 May 2025

If knowledge could be set up against mortality…

Bridge 142, Shropshire Union Canal © 2000 Simon Crosbie for Rosie: Simon’s song (in memory of Simon Crosbie: 25 December 1966 to 24 Apri...

Wednesday, 30 April 2025

The old man and the tarn…

For Paul Besley … — inspired by him, his writing, and a recent visit to Eel Tarn . As the Sun also rises, so the Moon rests. Its waning gl...

Thursday, 27 March 2025

I’m definitely amazed…!

I picked up the book in the image — a book I had been anticipating for weeks — and was crying by page 2: recognizing elements of both mys...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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