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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Tuesday, 25 March 2025

Would in thy palm dissolve…

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Conditionality Provoked by yet another hospital visit — this one more promising than most… — and therefore composed over a watchful, tho...

Friday, 21 March 2025

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind…

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The ballad of Woodhouse Colliery the siren blasts pre-dawn today wakes the locals at five-thirty it is time it screams for the chosen ...

Wednesday, 19 March 2025

In our arts we find our bliss…

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I have a cat I have a cat who comes to me but not into my arms she comes instead for blessings and to bring me magic charms by ...

Sunday, 16 March 2025

Postscritch: The railway kitten…

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When writing about my first (that wasn’t my parents’) cat, Jay , I forgot — goodness knows how: as my jaw still bounces off my slippers thi...

Thursday, 13 March 2025

Listen to the waves against the rocks…

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It was the top of page 212 that unlocked the floodgates I had been blinking back all day: For people who are in continual pain, the rela...

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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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