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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Thursday, 10 December 2020

A long December…

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It may be down to the fact that I’m listening to – no: immersed in – Counting Crows a lot , at the moment (a very extended moment that ha...

Thursday, 12 November 2020

The weight of this sad time we must obey…

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I watch, and am become like a sparrow That is alone upon the house-top. – Psalm 102:7 It may have happened a million times. Or it...

Wednesday, 7 October 2020

Unfinished sympathy…

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Seven tsunamis of grief In memory of Marie Ward: 21 September 1930 to 30 March 2021 The land is dry And yet the waves come Silenced a...

Friday, 22 May 2020

Lockdown diary #5:
Enter into his gates with thanksgiving…

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Peacefully, joint in sleep To Eric Ward (10 March 1929 to 19 May 2020) I know what it is to die But not to know that you are dying – A...

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Tuesday, 21 April 2020

Lockdown diary #4:
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

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Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer...

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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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