The cypress trees of Provence, and, eventually, van Gogh
Come September, my yearning for a Keatsian beaker full of the warm south was growing stronger, and the prospect was getting closer.
It is indeed a light in a dark place
The lights have gone on, and off, continuously, at Bell Rock Lighthouse for over 200 years.
Doon the road
A small child is poking her foot into a patch of sticky tar on a narrow country road. The gooey bubbles are irresistible.
Circling home
Three generations are looking out across the fields and woods. My father pulls on his cup of tea. His eyes are on the horizon, where the saddle between two distinctive hills frames the view.
Silent sparks
Tired travellers under a sullen sky, we pass the sheds behind the taverna. Then an earthly shooting star appears. A firefly, looking for love.
Fieldwatch
More white flowers than a high-class wedding
‘A symphony of ancient trees’
I’m at a music festival. I’m lying on the ground and letting the sound wash over me.
Two trees
Here’s a poem for you. Only I haven’t written it yet.
Hunting Country
When I was ten, a man cut off a fox’s tail and used it smear blood on my face. I had been ‘blooded’: a hunting rite of passage.
Pond life
Despite last autumn’s constant rain, this is a water-deprived area.
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