Our history lives on in our language. We have Saxon words for livestock, French ones for meat – cow-bœuf .. sheep-mouton .. pig-porc – because the conquered Saxons merely tended what their Norman overlords got to eat. Here in Peterborough Cathedral, … Read More »
Endcliffe Park Cafe, where stunned witnesses gathered for hot tea and mutual solace South Yorkshire Police say they are closing in on the Endcliffe Park snow-pornography ring that today left park visitors, many with small children, in shocked dismay. Some … Read More »
It drops well below zero on Wednesday night but man and dog are well wrapped in down bag and heavy duvet. (For my winter vanning set-up, see A rubber tramp in Redcar.) As I drift off I embrace my inner … Read More »
I’d been an hour on the island when Britain’s largest bird of prey flew over my head. Despite the gravity of my situation, I just had to share with the only person I could. Excuse me! I’ve just seen a … Read More »
I’m back from eight days rubber tramping Britain’s south coast, taking in the Somerset Levels, New Forest, South Downs, Dungeness and Thanet … gnocchi and pesto for supper at Pulborough Brooks Nature Reserve, West Sussex … having spent the beginning … Read More »
Fresh ploughed fields, two minutes up the lane rom our Church Street cottage Neck of the Cromarty Firth, the oil rig on the right horizon one of several towed in for repair The wooden structure is an extension of Cromarty … Read More »
It’s that time of year. Yesterday my friends Heather … … Tebay … … and I motored out to Strelley, tucked between Ilkeston and DH Lawrenceland to the west, Nottingham to the east. Taking an unmetalled road that leaps the … Read More »
On my meander from Nottingham to London for the demo on Saturday I spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights in the van on a quiet lane a mile northwest of Worcester city centre. On the east side of the road, large … Read More »
In the bleak mid-winter, frosty wind made moan/Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone – Christina Rossetti Friday, 07:30. Snug in down bag under heavy duvet, I peel back a corner of the nearest blind to take in the … Read More »
Hartlepool, north of the Tees, is my kind of town. Time ravaged and forlorn, the striking and the truly banal rub shoulders as both stagger under the weight of histories ancient and modern. It’s a place of friendly folk whose … Read More »