The Bard of Tysoe: Darwen

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Showing posts with label Darwen. Show all posts

Sunday, 16 March 2025

Postscritch: The railway kitten…

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When writing about my first (that wasn’t my parents’) cat, Jay , I forgot — goodness knows how: as my jaw still bounces off my slippers thi...

Wednesday, 7 February 2024

A Tale of Two Kitties…

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A rather camera-shy Petronius the Arbiter The first cat is the steepest… I was outside Darwen rather than Damascus: however, the conver...

Wednesday, 21 January 2015

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

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Betwix’ thi ’ills, s’ bleak an’ barren, Lies a little town, bi the name o’ Darren. For most of the first forty years of my lif...

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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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