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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Wednesday, 7 February 2024

A Tale of Two Kitties…

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A rather camera-shy Petronius the Arbiter The first cat is the steepest… I was outside Darwen rather than Damascus: however, the conver...

Wednesday, 31 January 2024

Can I take your postcode, please…?

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Exactly ten thousand days ago today, driving home on a gently warm afternoon in the middle of September 1996, I was on the receiving end of ...

Sunday, 7 January 2024

Unless a man starts afresh about things…

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Loweswater at dawn, frozen in time My first walk of the new year: and to a location now – as it will be forever – so very near to the cent...

Thursday, 18 November 2021

Farewell, my Little Man…

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And so succeeded. For Felix, with immense gratitude and love… – we shall not look upon your like again. Like Jesus, he came down to Ea...

Saturday, 2 January 2021

And pay no worship to the garish sun…

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before the dawn with thanks… to Barbara Aves (13 March 1936 to 21 December 2020) the daws drive dark before the dawn; gather for the fi...

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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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