Westray and Papa Westray, far northern outposts of the British Isles, once a Viking colony, where the plaintive call of the curlew sounds over white beaches of the most extraordinary beauty.
Batman meets Gwen John in the home of my maternal ancestors. I eat some local cheese then experience megalithophobia with the supreme exponents of psych-sludge, Neolithic Axe Factory. (With thanks to the hallucinogenic imagination of Alexander Velky and the nuclear guitar of Tim Mortimer.)
A pint of beer in Guy Fawke’s birthplace leads to a rumination on war and peace, life and death and a piece of cake.
A waxed paper sauce pot paradise.
An island off the east coast of Scotland, where gannets live within a stabbing circumference of each other.
Apollo 8, the first colour TVs, asbestos, plague and Chesterfield’s twisted spire.
A boat trip from Seahouses to the Farne Islands escorted by a squadron of puffins.
Bobby Casey, County Clare’s fiddling superstar.
In which Peter Cushing whispers to his roses.
Do not hope to find the white hart.