The Bard of Tysoe: Lake District

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Showing posts with label Lake District. Show all posts

Wednesday, 30 April 2025

The old man and the tarn…

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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, 13 March 2025

Listen to the waves against the rocks…

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It was the top of page 212 that unlocked the floodgates I had been blinking back all day: For people who are in continual pain, the rela...

Thursday, 26 December 2024

A lymerical ballad…?

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Written in Dove Cottage… …in the time it took me to climb the café stairs! There once was a chap called Will, who struggled to stay ver...

Wednesday, 31 January 2024

Can I take your postcode, please…?

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Exactly ten thousand days ago today, driving home on a gently warm afternoon in the middle of September 1996, I was on the receiving end of ...

Sunday, 7 January 2024

Unless a man starts afresh about things…

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Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the cent...

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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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