Bard's life

Warm memories of happy times recently spent in Bath, that most beautiful of cities.    THE ROYAL CRESCENT, BATH From the green park, the Crescent gleams ethereal in morning light: a bright tiara glinting there, discarded carelessly, it seems to scintillate, to float on air or drift away, as well it might, as though it were mere fantasy. What must once have been meadowland  with sloping banks, cascading streams, has now a different majesty. The mansions we explore in dreams    are no more fair and no less grand.      

Walking with our borrowed dog, Wilbur, in the tree-lined gardens of T he Roy al Crescent, it's no longer possible to ignore the fact that autumn has arrived. The paths are litte red with fallen leaves and an abundance of horse-chestnuts.  My days of playing conkers are long past but I still delight in their glorious texture and colour.   Due to the recent storms the leaf-fall has been less gradual than normal at this time of year. A limitless ocean of auburn and gold spreads out before us as we walk and seems to whisper as we paddle our way through it.   Wilbur, pictured here, is one of more than a dozen pets we've taken care of this year . A gentle, obedient fellow with a charismatic personality , he's one of our favourites.       AUTUMN WALK Two sets of boots displace dead leaves, two pairs of eyes inspect bare trees, two hands, ungloved, create a bridge : a cross it warm affection flows and, once again, I recognise that this is love, a love t...

I've been visiting a number of National Trust properties during my travels in England this year. One former stately-home inspired this piece of verse. ENDANGERED SPECIES A walnut table dominates the panelled room, dark as a scowl, where gloomy stags stare, glassy-eyed, from rosewood mounts with dull brass plates. We gather round the genteel Guide to gaze at oils where foxhounds howl in hunting scenes as, endlessly, red-coated men hurrah and bray, sup stirrup-cups, slap riding crops, while, over meadows, foxes flee. On mantlepiece and sideboard tops old photographs are on display of tweedy chaps, posed ankle-deep in broken birds, caps raised in cheers,    or coltish girls in evening dress, their eyes as innocent as sheep, all champagne, laughter and largesse, dead now, it must be fifty years. We stand there, pale suburbanites, and marvel at the upper class, strange creatures from a world long gone. Those peers, the debs, the gartered knights against the odds, they linger o...

As Autumn closes in about us, here's a bit of fun to lighten up the day. BRAND NEW HAT I wander into Kevin’s Bar. Scotch-rocks, I ask for, then kick back. I drink there for about an hour, maybe a couple. I lose track. I wear my brand new Stetson hat. My watch-chain fob hangs on my vest. I fill that vest but I ain’t fat. I’m one smart cat, you might of guessed. I watch the game and drink some more. Those goddam Redskins sure have form. I get confused, forget the score. Kevin’s is cool but over-warm. Behind the barkeep, hangs a mirror. Reflected in it is the door. What happens next is just a blur. A guy bursts in, emits a roar. I know his face: a dame I see, called Maymee, has his photograph. He’s sweet Maymee’s new fee-on-see . Guess he don’t want my autograph. I think it circumspect to split. Maymee is one amazing chick, but I’m no hero I’ll admit. I gulp my Scotch and exit quick, dart down the alley out at back, the goddam guy in hot pursuit. I got no gun: I never pack. He’s leade...

On 11 September 2001 the United States suffered a devastating blow from the jihadi forces of militant Islam when hi-jacked airliners were employed as improvised bombs to target the World Trade Centre in New York. Around 3,000 people died that day and, overnight, America’s attitude to terrorism was transformed. US financial and emotional support for the IRA was immediately and drastically reduced, leading to a downturn in violence in Ulster and the British mainland.   Sadly, the new era of global terrorism, ushered in by the events of that grim September day, is one that continues to affect us all.  REWIND Wind Time back. Reel Time in so that the struck towers rise from dust, reassemble themselves: all their glass, their concrete, a huge jigsaw, locked together, complete again. Thousands of keyboards blink to life, telephones ring, lights come back on, vending machines cough, eject fresh coffee into plastic cups, air-conditioning sighs then restarts, elevators descend, ascend,...

It's a long time since I've heard anyone saying grace but it was a daily occurrence when I was growing up in Presbyterian Belfast all those years ago.  My father was an Old Testament - style believer whose stern adherence to his faith , together with his deafness, tended to distance him from his impish and impious brood. O n those occasions nowadays, when I find myself dining in Christian company, th e ritual of those simple words evokes in me a p owerful sense of nostalgia. UNBELIEVERS With steepled hands, Father would pray: Dear Lord, we thank you for this food , and we would sit with downcast eyes, as though we cared or understood this piety upon display. We would devour our Ulster fries: black pudding, bacon, sausage, eggs, mopped up with salty soda bread, and roll our eyes, inwardly groan, while Father sat at table-head, firm in his faith and supped the dregs of tea grown cold, austere, alone. 

We don't have an overabundance of parks in Guernsey: three a t most , and only one of th ose has a lake. Saumarez Park , with its ducks and waterfowl, is an ever - popular venue on a summery day for parents, children and, inevitably, for lovers .   Photo by B Eckert IN SAUMAREZ PARK A bag of bread and some stale cake was what we brought that afternoon to feed the tame ducks on the lake. They gathered round us. Pretty soon, in force, the noisy gulls arrived, their beaks like weapons as they dived. We scattered food, retreated then and left them to their argument; strolled through the park. You saw a wren. It hardly seemed like time misspent nor mattered that the day was cool, for you were mine and beautiful.