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, 31 August 2019

Let it die as it was born…

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I didn’t even have time to focus my binoculars. The shock slammed them hard against my surprised spectacles: anomalous barriers carving the ...

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Wednesday, 24 July 2019

The loss of distant horizons – almost, but not quite, a literature review…

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On my way to school pickup one smoggy, sweltering summer afternoon, I heard an older woman just ahead of me telling two small boys they’d h...

Thursday, 27 June 2019

My answers to the Neighbourhood Development Plan questionnaire (with a handful of minor edits…)

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Q9 Lower and Middle Tysoe have already met their targets under Stratford District Council’s Local Plan; and yet the village is blanketed wi...

Thursday, 18 April 2019

I find myself again with my dear old friend, William Shakespeare…

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I never thought to hear you speak again. – Shakespeare: Henry IV, part II (IV.v.90) I was walking back into the arms of a lifelong frie...

Monday, 25 June 2018

For going out, I found, was really going in…

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Yesterday – coupled with a developing desire to prove my brittle body once more able – the weather beckoned me far beyond the longing win...

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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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