I arrived in Glastonbury in 1999, thanks to a friend of mine who ran a Druid Clan of Dana grove in the town at the time. I moved from Yeovil, where I was living in a flat owned by my late mother, who passed away in October. I have some good memories of my mother,...
One of our favourite walks remains the Bove Town, Stone Down Lane and back down Bushy Coombe one, ending in Dod Lane, home of course of NFG’s illustrious founder, Vicki. This week, however, we checked out the newly-pebbled Paradise Lane Cycle Route right at the at the top of Bove Town, pausing on the shiny...
One of the many joys of living in Glastonbury is the way so many people dress up, if even a little, just to go out for a bag of spuds, loaf of bread or whatever, and indeed there are many who do so whether they’re going out or not. We live in a time when...
There is a great conspiracy afoot, and it affects all of us. All our lives, and indeed all down the ages of humanity, all of its societies have been in hock to it. It’s breathtakingly convincing; the evidence of our everyday senses sings its reality; we awake (even after transformingly dramatic dreams full of insight...
I was but a small child Before Covid, rippling and insinuating its way across the globe, an invisible monster lurking on every door-handle in every street, and it’s hard to believe that I was part of that world at all. There’s plenty of documentary evidence of life BC, of course, and old people nod wisely...
The long rolling winter winds blow coldly and steadily westward off the deep Atlantic ; they catch all manner of things and speed them to the east high over Cornwall’s rocky spur and deep into the softly rolling red Devon hills. High over Exmoor they rush and moan, sweeping down, rustling and loosening the last...
No, the title’s not actually my Native American name (though I’ve been accused of doing so quite frequently). I’ve recently decided to become Wearyall’s bull-whisperer, taking the footpath up the Hill from the Roman Road not far from the Pomparles Peace Camp and then walking into Glastonbury along the top of the hill. A large...
The old bicycle, a vintage Amsterdam model, clanked a little with each turn of the pedals. The brakes were adequate but it really needed new ones, though she rarely used them anyway on the flat Somerset Levels; the long droves usually afforded plenty of time to see and avoid any obstacles a long way ahead....
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