It’s time once again for the annual series of postings we like to call Shadows and Reflections, in which our contributors and friends look back on the past twelve months. From John Andrews:
The last post of the year, and one for Port Eliot. A year heavy in its passing, almost impossible to chronicle, always remaining out of reach. A year ending in day after day of rain, the Heath transformed into a mad web of springs, a valley of mud, the trees stripped bare, birdsong at night, the church bells muted by day, all our poets abroad, all our favourite saints on retreat. Old books foxing in damp boxes, a bottle of eight pound car boot port to end each night, a good year for the roses. No carp to spot in the mornings, basking as they did in summer under the oaks. Ditches to dig, fires to light, stones to turn, waiting for the auction rooms to open again. In the drawer a few photographs from the many, the oh so many, to remind us of that place where once upon a time the express train stopped and yes, if you remember, it was late July.