SURELY mine is not the only brain that has gradually turned to mush thanks to this endless lock-down. I sense previously lively little grey cells have coagulated into something resembling sago pudding.  Thus my head is host to an amorphous  splodge of lifeless nothingness. A once active organ languishes listless and lifeless. Bogged and befuddled, it refuses to be provoked into action as I return to flicking through my collection of old postcards. A diversion on an endlessly rainy day made all the more gloomy by seeing the mask free Wimbledon crowd basking in sunshine. The Cornish Riviera holiday haven?… Continue reading
Mullion Cove, Cornwall (courtesy Geograph UK/Wikiwand) TRACING one’s ancestors is akin to joining Poirot as he unravels the threads of an Agatha Christie mystery. Except that the little Belgian detective eventually provides acceptable answers. Not so with family history. So many detours and distractions. So many loose ends. So much… Continue reading

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Postcard from Germany: old wool mill restored and thatched by scouts for their own use Some travels rouse a far greater depth of feeling than others. For example, a gentle meander through the chateaux and vineyards of Normandy and Burgundy could not be compared to visits made to Buchenvald, Auschwitz and Dachau. And being in battle-scarred Santiago at the time of Allende was light years away from the mere doddle of gently touring the Dalmatian coast. Lazing away a week in the balmy Cook Islands was a far cry from being held at gunpoint by the Jordanian Army in a… Continue reading