The Bard of Tysoe

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
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— Oliver Ryan

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Saturday, 26 July 2014

Bard & Tew (Part 3)

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With Mike Sanderson The Bard was recovering, and decided, for the good of his health, to amble up to the windmill: something he ha...

Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Other comments…

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Tysoe has evolved steadily over the years – in the last century growing by just over three houses per year, on average – and, althoug...

2 comments:

Friday, 18 July 2014

The right to die the right way…

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Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. – William Shakespeare: Hamlet Having a sligh...

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Depart at leisure…

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If ever there was a bird which defined joy – and was defined by it – it is the swift , with its easy and enjoyed mastery of its envi...

Friday, 11 July 2014

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf V

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Not dark yet… When the Badger called all the inhabitants of the river bank together, for the first time, under the ancient small-leaved...

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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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