Mark Charan Newton

A dark valley that retains a near perfect stillness against the quick-moving clouds.
Winter has stripped the land of any dignity.
A lattice of dry-stone wall across the hills.
Drizzle, gathering in huge drops; poised beneath strips of fencing, and from the tips of trees.
Disused barns, or sheds, or storehouses, their roof tiles blighted by lichens, nature reclaiming [...]

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Savernake Forest, just outside of Marlborough. November. The colour becomes intense, the light always more hazy because of the height of the sun. What a combination.
Wind runs through channels here, along the straight paths, gathering momentum, and it dominates your stride. Surprisingly, there is next to no one around; you would have thought better of [...]

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Another reason that DeLillo is the finest writer alive. I might do more of these.
They wrote for roughly twenty minutes and then each, in turn, read aloud what he or she had written. Sometimes it scared her, the first signs of halting response, the losses and failings, the grim prefigurings that issued now and then [...]

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5am. It always amazes you just how many people are up, which is a clear sign you’re not used to early mornings. They’re not even bleary eyed. They walk with an disarming purpose.
Then the train out into the country—a sheen of fog mixes with the haze of the rising sun, creating an uncertainty on the [...]

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Matlock.
A strange mixture of old and new. Chrome, brass and leather-trimmed bistro bars stand alongside shabby collectible shops. Old ladies prefer the company of old ladies in tea rooms with steamed up windows, and that haven’t been decorated in years. Walkers stride through traffic with a nonchalance and purpose of street kids in Delhi [...]

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