A novel borne out of an earthquake, a departed friend, and a translation from which lost voices rise.
We are what we eat. In this case, a lot of cheese.
Extinction has been going on for a long time: since creation itself in fact. The first man-made extinction dates back […]
Stepping off the calendar, away from the regulated, rigid, mechanistic march of minutes – for a spell, anyway, as winter approaches.
Greek myths and Dorset magic in autumn.
A walk in wild Wales along the Pembrokeshire coastal path involves close encounters with puffins, seals and shearwaters…
Imagine life stranded in an airport for 18 years. The strange open-ended true life parable of Sir, Alfred.
The whole mists-and-mellow-fruitfulness schtick: the scent of wood smoke, the fungi popping up all over, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the squirrels squirrelling… There’s something about autumn’s inescapable sweet melancholy, the pas de deux of death and life, the decay that presages seedburst, the nourishing of the earth by the leaf-fall from the sky: I just love it.
It was, in Thoreau’s lovely phrase, the afternoon of the year. The hills slumbered under the wide blue sky, looking more like Tuscany than Dorset, alternately suntanned and bleached…
Three Morning Pages filled with an ode to a hairbrush, or shopping lists, or in-depth “journalling” — there is a lot that we write on life’s behalf