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Author / Jon Woolcott
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At the Very End of the Road by Phillip Edwards, an extract
…fine nebulae of plovers high above loose weavings of lapwings above tighter sprays of redshanks…
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Milk by Robert Ashton
A hundred years ago, the Evans family were far from alone in keeping a cow in their backyard.
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The Last of Our Green Space by Jalal Abukhater
Ramallah’s residents have a lingering sense of claustrophobia: it’s not hard to see why.
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This is not the Wasteland by Caroline Beck
The dale is full of dreamers, dry-stone wallers, artists, writers, potters, stargazers and poets all quietly soaking up its rich raw elements.
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Shalimar, an extract, by Davina Quinlivan
Hepworth carved a Burmese Baby from the blackest wood, silent and shining. She conjured him with her own hands.
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Tanera Mor – the Summer Isles by Simon Page
Crayon on paper illustrations of the Summer Isles, by the artist Simon Page.
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Song of the Iris by Nic Wilson
Each bold bottlebrush is tinted a timid pink, so pale it’s almost white, as if their painter lost conviction after the first wash.
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Provenance by Anjana Khatwa
As my fingers stroked the gnarled surface of this ancient branch, I heard its secret whisper.
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Something in the Air by Vron Ware
A few days ago I unearthed an old folder containing material from the road protest movements of the early-mid 1990s.
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Confluence by Jane Lovell
Unlike the birds, we seem to be at odds with the current, the flow, the speed of change.
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Place, Protest and Belonging by Nicola Chester
How do we belong to a place, a landscape, or anywhere? How do we belong to more than one place in the world?
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Sacred Mountain by Ian Grosz
I become only breath; movement; the sound of my feet crunching along the trail, vaguely aware of the dawn chasing behind me.
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