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Well, here we are at the end of another year, one which has, on balance, sucked ass most egregiously for an exceptionally large number of pe...

A couple of further notes on that Scottish trip, as my memory has now been jogged by looking at the photo gallery , and as I don't seem ...

You will of course remember this post from 2012 and my breathless excitement at having spotted an interesting Google Maps anomaly, somethin...

One Step Behind by Henning Mankell. Meet Inspector Kurt Wallander. Again . Is he still keeping up his gruelling schedule of not playing by ...

Authorial deaths are like buses, you wait nine-and-a-half months for one and then two come along in quick succession. Although to be fair th...

Alison, I know this world is killing you . Or, more specifically, the Curse Of Electric Halibut is killing you. It could not, however, be sa...

Looking For The Possible Dance  by A.L. Kennedy. We're in Scotland. I know, I know, far from ideal, but that's where Margaret was bo...

I will confess (and have done a couple of times before on this very blog ) to a bit of a thing for disused railway lines, industrial archa...

The Velvet Underground 's bass- and viola-wrangler (and, hey, why not, Welshman of the Day ) John Cale  (pictured here in 1967) and abs...

Behind The Waterfall by Georgina Andrewes. Jo Kelly is restless. Sure, she's got some useful qualifications and a nice steady boyfriend...

One further note following the Harvest post: the bit near the end where the hitherto sober, stolid and unadventurous protagonist Walter goe...

Harvest by Jim Crace. Walter Thirsk has got himself into a nice comfortable little rut; in fact so has everyone in his village. Cut off from...

We haven't done a recipe for a while, have we? I can see that I wrote down a very hand-wavey summary of what I did to make some spiced r...