Let’s call him Bill Franklin. We meet him on West Wycombe Hill, by the huge, walled mausoleum to Sir Francis Dashwood (1708-1781), who founded the Hellfire Club and hosted its meetings in chalk caves he had excavated some 100m below our feet.
Starting the day eating bacon cooked on a gas burner is one of life’s simple joys. As is brewing fresh coffee on the same. Continue reading “Southwold Milestones And Memory (part two)”
I know the first time I remember coming to Southwold because there’s a photograph of me and Macey buried up to our necks in the sand. Continue reading “Southwold Milestones And Memory (part one)”
Me and The Goff walked the Thames from Woolwich to Rotherhithe on a sunny Sunday. It’s a stretch of the river neither of us have much cause to visit and it’s fascinating, not least because so unlike the London of our everyday lives.
There’s still industry here from an age of rust and clank sitting besides new flats that by comparison seem more modern than they already are.
It’s a place of dead and ruin, of abiding and of the future. Perhaps appropriately it crosses the Meridian Line.
And the river is wide, spanned at the east by the Thames Barrier, which shines beautiful in the sun, keeping greater ruin at bay.
I’M not known for taking my time over a drink but even by my standards that pint of cider barely touched the sides.
As with many things, John Steinbeck’s Doc had it best in Cannery Row – the first for thirst, the second for taste. He was talking about beer but I wouldn’t bet against him developing a taste for cider if it had been readily available in hot Monterey. Continue reading “All Change – Hastings To Rye”
Some newish songs…
Stroppy adjective: bad-tempered and argumentative. Origin: 1950s: perhaps an abbreviation of obstreperous. That’s from the online Oxford Dictionary. My Collins doorstop print edition also gives it as ‘awkward’, which I like more and suits this telling better. Continue reading “Ghent and the virtue of stroppy”