Once, London was a city of horses. Humans lived cheek by jowl with the 300,000 horses of cabmen, traders, laundrymen, grocers and rag-and-bone men. You can see the traces of that time everywhere: old stone drinking troughs, hidden cobbled mews, mounting blocks, slips and ramps. Advertisements
Bedlam is at the end of the road, but that’s the least of it.
An amateur dabbler goes tree-planting on Knoydart, mending Scotland’s ecological damage one sapling at a time. Souls were nearly bartered for dry socks.
Celebrating new English football, drunken tales of the Tartan Army and looking forward to a football homecoming to Glasgow in 2020.
A republican watches the royal wedding with the ultimate royal watcher, fact checker, sharp-tongued etiquette stickler. It’s all washed down with booze.
It’s outdated, sprawling, industrial and CO2 spewing. Yet there’s also a strange beauty to be found walking by the Grangemouth Refinery.
Submarine commander, sailor, governor of Burma, prisoner of war camp escapee and politician – my grandfather served a fascinating public life yet remains an elusive family figure.
Lennox Castle is an impressive ruin, lost in the woods, gleaming in winter sunshine and overlooked by the snow dusted Campsie Fells.