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, 13 October 2017

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf V

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Lone pilgrim… Unlike most of the local creatures – who never ventured far from where they were born, throughout their lives – the Badger (...

Thursday, 21 September 2017

You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone…

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My momma always said, “Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” It seems Mrs Gump was right. The Good...

Tuesday, 22 August 2017

All the remain is “Welcome”…!

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Welcome to the blog of the Bard of Tysoe… – especially if this is your first visit (hopefully, of many)! If you’ve arrived here after no...

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Beethoven – from page to stage (and beyond…)

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Introduction As the title of this post indicates, it chronicles a journey through and around one piece of living, breathing music – in th...

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Thursday, 13 July 2017

That band who so vauntingly swore…

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I wrote (almost exactly twenty-four hours ago – although the two days cushioning this period have somehow become concatenated; or even coal...

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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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