[W]hy should proud summer boast
Before the birds have any cause to sing?
Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
From Love's Labours Lost.
Setting the fire in the wood stove I position one split log of oak across the back of the grate, and one along each side. Until late las...
COUNTY by John Betjeman God save me from the Porkers, God save me from their sons, Their noisy tweedy sisters Who follow with their gun...
On Friday the cloud was low enough to hide Farleton Fell as I drove through the Yealands then as far as I could get down the track without...