Halfway

The lake is clouded, an almost luminous turquoise. The bottom feels slick, like soaked wood in winter. For weeks the daytime temperature has been over twenty-fi...

Success and Succession

The path drops steeply via a series of switchbacks, between granite outcrops and boulders, crossing streams that plummet down the mountain. I hear birds whose c...

The Oak and the Swift

Lately I’ve started to pity swifts.  They arrive around Mayday every year, appearing over the river in helter-skelter couples. They then form larger groups and ...

A Place of Contemplation

I am writing these words in the overgrown graveyard of a disused chapel half way up a mountainside. Five miles down the valley Hay Festival is in full swing, th...