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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Tuesday, 1 March 2016

The word is my shepherd…

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Please note… …that this post is not intended as a way of generating or seeking sympathy – not for myself , anyway. My plight – such as it ...

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Saturday, 27 February 2016

But even the very middle of my heart…

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In limbo (I feel that I am nowhere now) For Gilly, Graeme, and Rose… I am not dying (except in the usual gentl...

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Thursday, 25 February 2016

Let joy be unconfined…!

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On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying f...

Monday, 22 February 2016

Foretelling spring…

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The trick with many a National Trust property (if not all …) – whether or not you want to nip into the restaurant for a sneaky coffee a...

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Saturday, 20 February 2016

Sentenced to life…

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I feel that I am nowhere now For the Giraffe who Has Nothing and the Rider who Writes… I am not dying (except in the usual ...

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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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