The Bard of Tysoe: summer

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
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Showing posts with label summer. Show all posts

Monday, 25 June 2018

For going out, I found, was really going in…

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Yesterday – coupled with a developing desire to prove my brittle body once more able – the weather beckoned me far beyond the longing win...

Sunday, 28 May 2017

The soul that sees beauty…

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Sunday There is a hierarchy, it seems, to Tysoe’s with-sun-rising birds. As the first sodium-bright slash of dawn slices the horizon, the...

Thursday, 18 May 2017

Up Hill and Down Dale; or There and Back Again…

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It was always ‘The Hill’ – or even ‘My Hill’ – never given its given name . Not that such mattered. When I was trialling my resurrected sk...

Tuesday, 13 September 2016

Tomorrow will be dying…

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Here I am, sitting at the garden table, wringing out the occasional, disconnected phrase – with the encouragement of a variegation of b...

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Monday, 6 June 2016

That familiar conviction…

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From time to time, I forget that kestrels can fly: so used am I to seeing them simply suspended ( the majestic puppets of an invisibl...

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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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