Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
He woke beneath a kitchen table. Scattered crumbs rose like far-off prairie mountains on the tiles. Through a slice of window he could see a deep crusted snow, shining on a rooftop. The sky held more snow. He was wearing someone else's jumper. Heavy, handwoven, Hebridian: blue with a daisy motif. He stared at the … Continue reading The Kiss.
'An easy to moderate climb', the guidebook promises. But, halfway up Catbells' spine, she turns to me and says, "I cannot carry on." * We had followed in footprints of dead Roman legions. I'd seen her walk on her hands on Tynemouth beaches. But she cannot carry on. We measured maps by millimetres, drank goats' … Continue reading An Easy To Moderate Climb.
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