Tower Bridge, grand show-off and London’s fascinator, is not just a story book gateway – it is a steel-framed masterpiece of Victorian engineering, and one of the city’s greatest living links.
This collection of essays begins with a river and the road beside it, that “winds without rhyme or reason where it could run straight” .
Together they set the compass for Nicolas Bouvier’s meander beside people and their places, with moments picked out like glistening pebbles.
This copy was given to me by a friend.
I finished The Horns on a Thursday, and that Friday, the day I set aside to review the book, Mugabe died.
The news hit me like a wave full of debris – no joy, no relief, no anger – it just thudded me on to a shore that was no longer there.
The little boat – metal hull, room for four, and a fine engine – edges out past the sport fishing boats in the harbour to the curves that stretch beyond.
Here, the ‘no wake‘ signs behind us, we accelerate on towards the pale line of the Cape Cod National Seashore.
A query landed on The Phraser, linked to a piece I wrote seven years ago about an organisation that supports blind veterans.
No, I thought when I read the question. Surely not.
Then I thought again. If I’ve learnt one thing it’s that you should never underestimate an old soldier.
Here’s the query:
I bought this book a while back and then left it sitting in the bottom of a drawer. Bad idea. If there’s anyone who shouldn’t be shut away, it’s Dervla Murphy.
She flew out of the pages.
The sun shines, the island is brand new to us, and the day is ours…perfect for a wander. We decide to search for Priory Bay.
“Our favourite, not far, and you can probably get a cup of tea at the hotel there,” was the advice from a frequent visitor to the island.
So off we set, via the High Street and the purchase of a few supplies.