Books

A house is not a home until love dwells within the old saying goes. I’m going to counter that and say that in truth:

A house is not a home until books dwell within.

Drove Cottage is fast becoming everything I hoped it would, but the arrival of all my books this week has been a piece of the jigsaw that I didn’t even realise I was missing.

With the nights drawing in, temperatures going decidedly south and the world outside my window taking on the brown blanket of autumn it has become time to think about fires, stews, soups and sitting in silence reading old books. Books that in reality I almost know off by heart. Books that are more about holding them than they are reading them, old friends with worn dustjackets and peeling spines.

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In other news, life bumbles along here. It’s actually quite nice to have a period of no drama. No head injuries, divorces or heartbreak. The lovely chaps at www.caughtbytheriver.net continue to publish bits of my writing and I have a set of photos up on the stairs in Salisbury Waterstones until the end of October.

On top of that, it’s pike season now! Opened my account on the Stour this week with a nice fish of 12lb and one of around five. Not a bad opening account.

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