It’s strange, but, as soon as I let go of my old home online, my vision for a new home became clear.
There will be books, there will be knitting, there will be music, there will be art, and of course there will be a border terrier.
There will be just the one project – I couldn’t let go of my 100 Years of Books Project – but there will be nothing else like that – no grand plans, no lists, no targets. I found them difficult to resist in the past, but I took on too much, and I tried to be too many things to too many people.
So now it will be simply what I want to write about, what I want to share, at any particular point in time.
I don’t know how often, or how regular, that will be – time will tell.
What I really want to to catch the interesting things on life without losing my closeness to those things
I’d love company – and one of the main reasons why I’m still here is that are so many people out there I’ve never met, and may never meet, but want to keep in my life.
Thank you for that.
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You may be wondering where my new name came from.
It came from a lovely poem by the Cornish poet Charles Causely, and when I read it for the first time in a long time, a few months ago, I knew that it was right.
I hope that you’ll think so too.
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, ‘See where the stream-path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think.’
I had not thought that it would be like this.
Eden Rock, by Charles Causely (1917 to 2003)
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