Come September, my yearning for a Keatsian beaker full of the warm south was growing stronger, and the prospect was getting closer.
The lights have gone on, and off, continuously, at Bell Rock Lighthouse for over 200 years.
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.
A small child is poking her foot into a patch of sticky tar on a narrow country road. The gooey bubbles are irresistible.
Tired travellers under a sullen sky, we pass the sheds behind the taverna. Then an earthly shooting star appears. A firefly, looking for love.
I’m at a music festival. I’m lying on the ground and letting the sound wash over me.
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.