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Author / Adrian Cooper
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Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on the Fat of the Land
For all these reasons, John Seymour’s is a voice that still needs to be heard, and a voice that can change lives, including perhaps yours.
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Stardust by Alex Woodcock
The slab was the first thing in the van. A piece of Irish limestone about three feet by one foot by three inches thick. Probably the heaviest single thing I owned: I…
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Robert Macfarlane on The South Country
the best way to think of The South Country, in fact, is as a dream-map – by which I mean an act of imaginative cartography, a chart of longing and loss projected onto actual terrain.
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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: November
The hills seem to draw back from the sky, as though they are the curtains and it is the main stage. And today, the sky is a total scene-stealer.
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Anthropocene TV by Adam Scovell
A sense of collapse more than change is at the heart of many of these dramas, perhaps suggesting that the melodramatic turn of such environmental catastrophe has made it seem too big, incomprehensible or unsolvable to avert.
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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: September
The world was alive, rushing and swooping along with the last three swifts of summer like skipping stones across a green and storm-tossed sea.
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A Peck of Dirt by Tim Dee
Paul saw his moment. He pressed the launch button and the net cannoned over the gulls. They lifted as one as soon as it rose above them.
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A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: August
The hottest, driest June on record had simply extended unbroken into July…
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New Poems by Eleanor Rees, Tim Cresswell & Ralph Pite
The stone is not inert / but processing the darkness, turning it back into
light, / light turning back into dark…![]()
A Year in Kingcombe by Anita Roy: May
I walked along the lane leading up to the Wessex Ridgeway, the way I’d come in January. The trees had lost the sharp distinction of winter, and even the crisp pointillism of early spring had given way to a kind of blurring – a soft wash of green.
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Dustsceawung by Ben Egerton
After her mother dies she thinks it good to dig her plot:
nineteen metres by thirteen, and given
over to goosegrass and offcuts of carpet, tucked
in the far corner of the allotments![]()
Entanglement by Christopher Nicholson
There came the point when the secateur blades were within an inch of the antlers, which in the poor light seemed as grey as the honeysuckle. Then the roebuck had had enough. In one convulsive movement it flung itself into the air and broke free. It hurtled away, crashing downhill, disappearing into the darkness of the trees.
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