Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…

Rather than try to redress our humiliations by insisting on our slighted importance, we can, through the help of an artwork, endeavour to appreciate, our essential nothingness. A sense of the sublime in our ordinary lives is usually a fleeting state, one that occurs more or less at random. Art as Therapy- Alain de Botton and John Armstrong Covid entry Aug 2020 There was something very British and yet completely European about the rooftops that summer's night. The grey slates were hot and matt in tone, soaking in the sunset. Each roof interlaced with another like herringbone, pretty almost.   The woman had become malleable in the heat. The hot air…

Dear friends, I have decided to publish an open letter that I have written for my Son. It captures something of the predicament I find myself in since Sholto has gone for a holiday with his Father. Paul Simon also grapples with a longing heart at a great distance in his prose for 'Kathy's Song ' Kathy’s Song I hear the drizzle of the rainLike a memory it fallsSoft and warm continuingTapping on my roof and walls And from the shelter of my mindThrough the window of my eyesI gaze beyond the rain-drenched streetsTo England where my heart lies My mind's distracted and diffusedMy thoughts are many miles awayThey lie…

Dear Friends,My laptop sits tentatively next to an old typewriter that has been lent to me by a journalist who used to globe-trot clad with this mass of metal that, at the time, was the technology of the day.I imagine that the laptop and the typewriter are cats sitting on my desk. The typewriter is an old rescue cat, being introduced into the family home for the first time. Twitchy beside her and inquisitive the kitten (laptop) is somewhat put out, jealous by the worldly wiseness of the gnarled appearance of the imposter. The typewriter has an air of indifference and would like to be left to snooze for as…

Today the wind is wild, scattering cream rose petals about my modest lawn that I mowed yesterday. They look like fallen maidens who, after an evening of fun and frolics, have suddenly become frightfully tired and collapsed mid waltz to the ballroom floor. The intact, well preserved roses on the pergola look down at them with distaste. Looming above us are drab clouds, they bring solace only to a fisherman as he patiently waits for the fish to take a bite as he wades in cooling water. I am only discouraged by the grey as I watch the clouds move smoothly across the frame of the window. No sunshine is…

Dear Friends,  Almost two months into the ‘lockdown’ of Covid-19 - I feel our only weapon is the art of the pacifist until the vaccine breathes life! Like match boxes we all have the potential to become ash - but here inside we are safe - for the rough glass paper is without and we stay within. Back to back, side by side, ear to ear and nose to nose. Barely room to strike a pose, but the selfies spawn - endlessly and perhaps with more vigour. What else is there to do? How has one found the different pace of life - nice? Is it slower? Do you notice…

Dear Friends, I write to you from my new garden in Hay-on-Wye, the sun is shining, my hand-sewed bunting flaps silently to the spring breeze and I type from the sunny corner with a coffee to my right. The radio is playing some delightful violin concerto and I feel at peace. My toddler is snoozing under the tree in his pram. I notice a smattering of sparrows plucking up the courage to peck away at the bird feeder - their minds, I imagine, go something like this:                                   “Hoorah the human fledgling is no longer a threat to us, quick: eat, drink and be merry!” I notice the lack of human…

Dear friend, I find myself in a perpetual state of anxiety, guilt and with feelings of powerlessness as a human being who has produced offspring in the epicentre of the Climate Emergency. Below is a description of how my desire to be part of a thriving natural world is often starkly juxtaposed with realising the damage of ones very own existence. I have no answers - all I can do at this very moment is to share my words with you. The Trespasser: Today we drew up upon a road full of character and majesty. We had already begun a day of slapdash-adventure, following an urge of childish mystery. Now…

Dear Friends, I sit at the table with my one-year-old son beside me - he plays with wooden blocks and sings to himself - an instinctual meditational hum. The sun is warm outside but we are in our flat, shaded and cool. We have been listening to BBC Radio 3 but the classical music became too eerie for me, and so I popped Stormzy on. I for one am delighted he has become a British household name. Since first hearing ‘Vossi Bop’ on the radio I appreciated his lyrical poetry, yet there was a disconnection because I felt that I lacked the cultural and social understanding of Stormzy’s core vernacular.…

How The Light Gets In Festival site Dear Friends,What a contrast from last week. The Hay Literature and How The Light Gets In festivals of 2019 have drawn to a close. There is an appropriate drizzle pitter-pattering on the pavements and a breeze shakes the bunting about, waving a vigorous goodbye to the fun and frolics that rested upon Hay-on-Wye for a brief amassing, as though people had come from far and wide on a pilgrimage. I like to think of them as pilgrims of the humanities. As a resident of Hay myself, living slap bang in the centre, one can’t help but ogle at the carnival energy they bring with them -…

Dear Friend,There is so much to tell you that it is hard to know where to begin. One positive attribute about not keeping up with one's blog posts isthat there is a great deal to divulge - hopefully making for an interesting read.The last post I wrote (River Wye?) describes a blissful summer and the sensations and emotions that arose during many a swim in the river. Now that memory floods back to me - a British pastime at its best. Today the spring sunshine pours forth upon the small backs of the lambs in the fields and with the warmth the people in town seem friendlier too. Annie swimming in the…