For some years, I lived in the delightfully quaint hill town of Rye, with its mix of black-tarred timber warehouses, steep cobbled streets and half-timbered cottages; an island rising out of the Romney Marshes, that mysterious landscape of big skies, … Continue reading
As a small boy, I was a caddy to my father, a keen golfer who was recovering from heart problems. Most of the time, he played at Belton Park, in Lincolnshire; a landscape laid out by Emes, a successor to … Continue reading