...the fort opens out in front of you, this wide grassland expanse on the top of the hill and this lovely weathered lump of oolitic limestone (satisfying to hold and say) really can't be mistaken for anything other than the creature it's named for.
We go left. This is the path I walked so many times, so long ago, with my dog, his tail a plumed marker. Each step is familiar, each tree and hedge. I can anticipate where the path will dip, fall away, regain itself.
Welcome to the first of my dispatches from behind the scenes at the museum. Any museum, frankly. One of those universal truths is just how many biscuits volunteers can get through in a week.
What I am doing. For some time, certain friends have suggested I write a Substack. "Do it! You love writing! People will pay you!" they'd shout in varying stages of inebriation. And for ages, I, in my own varying stages of inebriation, have declined. Resisted. Rolled
This is Old Stones, a brand new site by me, Tonia, that's just getting started. Things will be up and running here shortly, but you can subscribe in the meantime if you'd like to stay up to date and receive emails when new content is published.