"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
They kick you out of Arvon houses on Saturday morning, blinking like a released cult member. I came down slowly, paying my respects to the Brontës in the exceptionally average museum at Haworth, then going to the Ted Hughes Festival in Mytholmroyd and finally to Saltaire, where Salt’s Mill houses an extremely dangerous bookshop. One of the many, many books I bought was the brilliant and inspiring Guerilla Gardening. Guerilla gardeners creep out in the night armed with ‘seed bombs’ and spades, to plant up the nasty little non-spaces around petrol stations, subways or road verges with flowers and vegetables. Richard Reynolds sets out how a few bulbs, lavender seeds or sunflowers can change people’s environment and their attitude to life – from Giggleswick to Guantanamo Bay. Bereft of a garden since I came to boating, I’m quite looking forward to nocturnal horticulture on the roundabouts and verges of Macc.
The eternally reliable Alistair Sawday’s Special Places to Stay (buy the book, which has much more info than the website) located a wonderful B&B with a blistering view and a spread of foodstuffs on the breakfast table that would outface Henry VIII. I’ve come back from my travels feeling distinctly squashy and unfit.
The inevitable little heap of mail includes one from British Waterways asking me if I have noticed any unusual discharges. I would have thought that was between me and my doctor…