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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Sunday, 31 July 2016

The jest I’ll show you here…

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I walked in somewhere around figure 69 – molto allargando , con passione – the sound of a lone, warm cello singing one of the most be...

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Q is for Quietude…

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Note… This post was written for – and originally published as part of – The Cross‑Eyed Pianist ’s A Pianist’s Alphabet series on 18 Jul...

Sunday, 24 July 2016

Fizzy deadly nightshade cordial…

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Listen, don’t mention Christopher Marlowe! I mentioned him once, but I think I got away with it all right…. So! It’s all forgotten now,...

Tuesday, 12 July 2016

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the slaughter…

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Please note… The following review (if that’s what it is) discusses aspects of mental illness – albeit from my limited, yet intimate, expo...

Monday, 11 July 2016

Not without good reason…

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Nature or nurture? A debate that has raged for years; and to which I can proffer no simple solutions. Personally, I have a well-develo...

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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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