To Hell in a Hand cart
It had all seemed such a good idea when I suggested it. The major and I were sat before the bothy fire and
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Nature
Barn Owl: The poetry of silence
The Major is plodding ahead of me and I follow him, grateful that I am not carrying his gigantic, army issue sack, crammed
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Bashing for Butterflies
I’m poking sticks into the gaps in an old stone wall. At first you may think that I have finally reverted to childhood
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