The Colour of Spring
Waiting for the colour of spring.Let me breathe… – Talk Talk, April 5th. A hot, pale blue sky arches over … Continue reading The Colour of Spring
Tag: History
The Girl in the Doorway
Later, I see a plaque. Carved stone, old, official. Two characters: “Civilisation endures.” I do not know what to do with these two things: the girl, the plaque. But they belong together. They must. Continue reading The Girl in the Doorway
WHERE THE PRAIRIES MEET THE MOUNTAINS
At Waterton Lakes National Park–a landscape of perpendicular mountains and deep, glacial lakes on the eastern edge of the Canadian … Continue reading WHERE THE PRAIRIES MEET THE MOUNTAINS
The Liberty Timbers
But it’s not one that a Jack Tar would recognise. Instead of oakham, gunpowder smoke, tobacco and rum, I can smell oak polish, high-end perfume, old wood, and new money. It’s a curious blend, like Chanel No.5 dabbed behind the ears of Admiral Nelson. Continue reading The Liberty Timbers
The Riddle of the Stones
The hills rise behind Abergavenny like a wall built by giants, steep, green, and unyielding. They are the town’s backdrop … Continue reading The Riddle of the Stones
The Tower of Gaucín
Climbing through the old gate, the heat is instant and enveloping. The stones radiate the morning’s stored warmth; lizards dart along the ramparts. I follow the rough path upward to the bell tower, where a single bronze bell hangs under a weathered brick arch. Continue reading The Tower of Gaucín
Return to the Wylye Valley
Our road to Corton had begun in London, but not in the present day. It stretched back to 1760, when my ancestor, Matthew Blakiston, served as Lord Mayor of London. Continue reading Return to the Wylye Valley
St. Mary’s Dymock
A bell tolls. Its sound rolls across the village: slow, deliberate, resonant, as though each stroke is being rung not … Continue reading St. Mary’s Dymock
Strange Faces
The dome of Herefordshire sky above Kilpec is so wide and blue it seems like a theatre backdrop, flecked with … Continue reading Strange Faces
The Bridge at Crickhowell
This is a statement in stone, a survivor of centuries, a spine across the river, carrying the memory of hooves and wheels, boots and bare feet. Continue reading The Bridge at Crickhowell
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