Fire, Frost and Dragon's Breath

If I had any doubts about the wisdom of getting up early on a Sunday to read poems to the converted in Wells, my drive across the Downs - all smouldering trees, dragon's breath and frost - dispelled them. Then, as Pameli and I started the descent from the Mendips, I screeched to a halt and jumped out of the car.  No matter that it was a relatively busy single carriageway ...  Glastonbury Tor was adrift in mist.  And how can anyone deny it's magical?

And when we arrived, the City of Wells was morning-dark and misty also.

With such auspicious auguries, the reading of poems in the Oak Room of the Swan Hotel could hardly have not gone well, and so it proved.  For once, we seemed to have an audience that didn't consist entirely of contributing poets, including my friends, Liz and Paul, who had kindly come over from Portishead.  And I sold a couple of copies of my collection, Communion, too - always a bonus.

Before heading back to Bristol, Pameli Benham, Stewart Carswell and I had a little wander around the moat of the Bishop's Palace.  It must be quite sheltered as autumn doesn't seem to have advanced far there yet. 

On the way back to the car park, I managed - finally - to get a photo of Union Street, which was once Grove Lane, and before that Grope Lane, and before that, Gropecunt Lane, for my collection of Gropecunts.  

Which reminds me, whilst on the walk around Bristol yesterday, Mark Steeds mentioned a lane in the bombed mediaeval quarter of Bristol which went by the splendid name of Cock and Bottle Lane.  Must do come googling.