These Italian hills…
Though I’d jig a hornpipe if I saw one, I love this vivid viper of glass-green, and can imagine cooling...
Trickster to the gods
Mercurial, I knew about, and the tricksterishness. But I hadn’t encompassed Mercury’s full spectrum – the god of culture, but...
How to mess up an interview
What's the gravest problem facing the UK? Brexit? Not a bit of it. I loved this response of Harry Eyres...
Rules of engagement
Where I have failed to appreciate some of the most enduringly esteemed works of literature, it has often been due...
The aim of aimlessness
This made me think - surrendering to aimlessness to write poetry (and other things? A good letter? A story?). Perhaps...
Wine’s wonderland
The Romans, using an old Greek word, called southern Italy Oenotria, the land of wine; the Greek word draws attention...
Poetry as redemption
Harry Eyres’ book is as much about the nature of poetry as about Horace, and I was struck by this...
Of wine and poetry
Here we have a poet and a vintner who connects the magic between wine and poetry. Wine can be poetic...
On dry humour
This evokes oak paneled rooms in ancient colleges, and the quiet clinking of glasses interspersed with the odd guffaw.
‘A...
Horace’s idyll
Horace wrote the original script of all our Tuscan dreams of sun-opened flowers and hilltop villas.
‘O you who rejoice...
Freedom gained?
What is freedom? Options? Room for manoeuvre? Time? Carte blanche and blank cheques? Absence of censorship? Self-mastery? Purpose?
Recently I’ve...
Woven hillsides, tapestried landscapes
What a lovely metaphor for a carefully crafted landscape, stitched together row by row over centuries.
‘But the vineyards of...
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