News reached us this afternoon that John Andrews – our frequent contributor, MC, and friend – is currently selling items cleared from F. Clover & Son, a lost tackle shop in a back street of North London which has remained locked for over twenty years.
Photographs of the shop, alongside a short prayer, written by John in homage, will appear in the next issue of Fallon’s Angler magazine, out Friday 31 March.
Items from the clearance are available both online, and on John’s stall at this Sunday’s tackle fair in Romsey.
More information can be found here on John’s blog.
Words and picture by David Stead
As the river Ure loosens its tie, relaxes and spreads itself out a bit after a headlong race through the Dales, countless streams, becks, or brooks join its leisurely march towards the sea. The short drive (or cycle on more clement days) to my studio at Norton Conyers crosses one such body, as it creates its own delta before oozing into the Ure’s slow meander at Nunwick. Though only a tiny beck, the lane crosses it three times in the space of less than half a mile. The land around it is so soft that the road is under constant repair due to subsidence, and a copse of willows borders the stream. They’re not special, I suppose, but more and more I realise that beauty is in the ordinary – that the small pleasures afforded to us by the corner of a field, a path through the woods or a crow hopping off the road as we pass are the things that can change the mood of a day; ok – it’s not the ‘wow factor’ of a mountain top vista in the Alps or a raging sea, but nonetheless they can alter the temper of a day. (more…)
In her first piece for Caught by the River, Nell Frizzell looks back on the London-to-Cornwall overnight train journey she undertook earlier this month
I’m not Philip Larkin, but I know a good train journey when I slide into one.
There’s something near-supernatural about going to bed, tucked up into a top bunk of an old British Rail train, in the bricked up orifice of Paddington Station, only to wake up with the sea in your nose and St Michael’s Mount on the horizon. By dint of living on an island barely the size of a scone, I’ve rarely taken night trains, and never in England. And yet, earlier this month, I found myself walking across the aubergine-coloured moors of the north coast of Cornwall at nine in the morning, less than 12 hours after I stepped off Platform One of Paddington Station and onto a train. (more…)
In 2017, Corbel Stone Press began publishing a series of small, limited edition pamphlets that explore our relationship with the natural world. They are seeking the finest contemporary nature poetry that specifically engages with the themes of language, myth, the sacred, sentience, death, and regeneration.
So far they have published two of the booklets, featuring new work from 32 poets in nine different countries.
I Like The Sun
Mexican Flower Records
I‘ve spent a lot of my life hanging out in record shops. I’ve worked in a fair number as well. Record shops, in some unlanguaged way, have told me who I was. Told me who I wanted to be. I never made much money doing it but I amassed a lot of records. Which I sold. Or lost. Or gave away. Then amassed again. Then bought again. And on it goes. I can’t walk past a record shop without thinking: if I have a family, this is it. No matter where, no matter the time of day. I have to go in and have a peek. They’re my natural habitat, my college, my neighbourhood. They’re familiar, threatened, peripheral, nearly extinct, full of arcane and necessary stuff. Just like me. (more…)