A Field(en) in England (or dancing at Lughnasa)
There was an absence of fire which I must confess saddened me. What’s a pagan celebration without a…
There was an absence of fire which I must confess saddened me. What’s a pagan celebration without a…
It’s a season of west coasting. One week on the pink granite coast, and now taking a drive…
Brittany. Celtic redoubt, dolmens and menhirs, a land of buckwheat galettes and medieval towns, cobbles and harps, bagpipes…
Michael Henry opens the door and we enter a stillhouse unlike any other. There’s swan-necked pots in the…
The story of Scotch is cyclical. It is one of success, miss-steps, triumph and no lack of hubris.…
I Islay. Out there, the geese are flying north. Hundreds of them, black against the yellow and blue…
Hello strangers. It seems appropriate at Easter to break from a disgracefully long – book induced – absence…
What was intended to be a hot off the plane, quick review of my New Zealand tour has,…
Michael and I head out at 6am under a full moon. Dawn creeps, orange and scarlet, blues and…
After a tour of the North Island’s distilleries, I headed back south… then west … The flight from…