I didn’t take any photos on the Sunday of our Bank Holiday Weekend. The best that can be said of the weather is that it wasn’t as rough as it had been during the night – which was one of those nights in a tent when you lie awake listening, during moments of relative calm, as a wave of wind comes roaring down the valley, crashing through the trees until it hits the tent and sends it into another paroxysm of shuddering. 577 more words
Tags » Birketts
The Junior Sherpa, The Adopted Yorkshire Couple, The Shandy Sherpa, The Beach Funster. Dr R discretely out of shot somewhere?
You’ll know those conversations which just go round in circles; it’s pretty clear what most people involved think, but nobody wants to make a decision? 663 more words
Over the Easter Weekend we had fog. Lots of it. Not so much a blanket of fog as a well-lofted, thick, winter duvet. We judged the visibility by the number of oaks we could see in the field behind our house: sometimes it dropped to just one, at other times excitement rose when as many as three loomed up through the cloud and we began to imagine that the fog might be thinning and lifting – but no such luck. 1,380 more words
Castor and Pollux, Leiber and Stoller, eggs and bacon, Weller and Worthington*, cheese and pickle, Cooke and Moore, Boswell and Johnson – some things are destined to always be associated in our minds, and whatever individual merit each half of the partnership has, we none the less feel that the whole is somehow greater than the sum of the parts. 902 more words