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, 2 January 2015

Something is rotten…

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It used to be so good On 25 October 2014, an article entitled Report gives a snapshot of life in the district appeared in the Stratford-...

Tuesday, 30 December 2014

I’ve tried walking sideways…

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Figures often beguile me, particularly when I have the arranging of them myself; in which case the remark attributed to Disraeli woul...

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Sunday, 28 December 2014

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf III

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New morning… It was very late the next morning when the Mole awoke – startled to find himself actually in bed for once! The seduction o...

Saturday, 27 December 2014

Hither, page, and walk by me…

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Christmas walking seems to be what an American friend of mine would call a “ thing ”, nowadays: an increasingly habitual, or even trad...

Thursday, 25 December 2014

Oh, morning, at the brown brink…

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All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the...

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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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