Step out with me — the rocks and the waves are calling and I have something to show you. Step out with me — the ocean is singing to me, songs of spiral shells, seahorses, anemones and brine. Step out — you’re safe with me. It’s almost midsummer, I know, but...

I My daughter is stretched out on white sand, feeding the ocean. She says she is taming the sea — its wildness nibbles at her fingers. We have seen no dolphins today, nor any stingrays nor whales nor anything bigger than spiky brown coral that has washed up on the...

Rough-cut paper tells you it’s a first edition and the must takes you back — Years spent, nose down. Ink-smudges and fountain nibs, the romance Of Umberto Eco and sharp-edged medieval scores. There’s a deep Connection through time to these communities of...

Long fingers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight Of forefinger down a string; that tap of the fingertips Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over The other and it all disappears but for the music. That slight frown on your brow as your fingers...

His mother painted it, in another life. It is small — less than half a metre across, not quite square. At first glance, it’s nothing but greys, as if it could be Some 19th century industrial cityscape or Soviet town, But closer in, you see touches of white and...