The dogs, marking sand with brief print, ancient scratch-language, lengthen and, boundless, plunge at the cones of surf, smashing them, barking. * A lone figure travails the blown beach. He drags a suitcase. He looks up from his feet and seems surprised to find another living here and, as we pass, I see that the … Continue reading The Empty Benches.
‘The Village Collegiate Xmas Do Will be held this year in the Bingo Hall. Festivities will commence at half two On Black Eye Friday – come dressed for a brawl.’ * The sign on the wall of the faculty was surprising to see to say the least - last year’s do ending so tragically with … Continue reading The Village Collegiate Xmas Do.
'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.
