132 – The Great Heron Migration

Flying towards me yesterday evening as I ran down Preau Hill was an army of darkness, the likes of which I’d never seen before.

‘Aliens,’ I cried out as I looked up at the blackening sky.

But it wasn’t a spaceship I saw. It was a blanket of feathers carpeting the sky from horizon to horizon. An impenetrable duvet of death heading straight for me in the form of a massive flock of herons. Continue reading “132 – The Great Heron Migration”

131 – First Day of Spring: It’s Official

Why? Well, firstly, the sun was shining, so that’s a start. Secondly, the pond was crowded to bursting point with herons, great diving beetles, water boatmen, palmate newts and pondskaters, all enjoying the warm golden sun. Clouds of frog spawn floating up from the depths like giant nebulae in the cosmos. Drifting silently to the edges and anchoring themselves firmly on the bulrushes. Daffodils poking through the sodden earth. The grass as green as spinach. The sky as blue as toilet flush. The tiles on the ancient barn, glowing red once again after a winter of gloom. Continue reading “131 – First Day of Spring: It’s Official”

130 – Time to write?

I follow a blog called 101 Books written by a guy who’s reading his way through all of Time Magazine’s 100 Greatest Books since 1923 (1923 being the date Time was founded), plus Ulysses, which was published in 1922.

It’s full of books you’ve probably read or want to read. Out of the 101, I’ve read 19½. Number 19, White Noise by Don Dilillo, I read a few weeks ago. Number 18, Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry, I finished in the summer. Number ½, I half read in Plymouth 14 years ago, leaving the other half in a bar. It was Ulysses. Continue reading “130 – Time to write?”

129 – The Little Copse at the Bottom of the Hill

There is a little copse at the bottom of the hill that has been my saviour these past few months. No bigger than a Wetherspoons pub, it has provided me with enough wood for both heating and cooking. As well as a source of constant entertainment for the local farmers who have watched me mercilessly drag huge broken boughs of oak and ash up the steep grassy bank to the barn. A city boy trying to plough the earth with sticks. They’ll miss me when I’ve gone. Continue reading “129 – The Little Copse at the Bottom of the Hill”