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, 23 December 2017

He knew how to keep Christmas well…

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There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapne...

Friday, 8 December 2017

A man’s whole life can be changed by one book…

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Dear Ta-Nehisi – I am truly sorry. I did not know. (And had not searched, researched, or inquired.) I did not know the burden you have alw...

Saturday, 2 December 2017

Messiah: Themes and variations…

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9 December 2017: Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon On 9 September 1742, George Frideric Handel wrote a letter to his close friend (a...

My colours are as red…

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It was as if they were precisely as I had left them: serene shapes bathed in blazing sodium – a tinge flattering of the redwings , particu...

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

Anniversary (a)musings…

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Just a little set of amuse-bouches – of hastily-scribbled, reasonably relevant, limericks… – to celebrate four years of blogging! (Photo ...

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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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