Books to the Ceiling

As part of a massive clean-up effort, I grabbed a stack of Drood Reviews and headed for the recycling pile (or, recycling mountain, as it soon came to be known). I was half way there before I looked - really looked - at what I had in my hands. And realized what small treasures I was holding.

The Drood Review of Mystery began publishing in 1982 and ceased, in a rather appropriately mysterious manner, in 2005. Many of us devotees of the genre had been clinging to Drood since the demise of The Armchair Detective in 1996. Armchair was a thick, boisterous mag chock full of reviews, author interviews and profiles, media news, and more. It had lots of advertising, but because they were for mystery bookstores, small presses, and various crime fiction titles, these ads were interesting and welcome rather than noxious and disruptive, as is most often the case with that plague of modern capitalism.

Here’s what’s said about Armchair Detective on the Thrilling Detective site:

The one and only. The late and lamented. The standard by which all other non-fiction mags are judged. This quarterly was around forever (or at least since 1967). It began as a mimeographed newsletter by Allen J. Hubin, spent a few years under the sponsorship of the University of California, and eventually found a home with Otto Penzler, as part of his Mysterious Press. The journal of record for the entire genre. A bit stodgy at times, and it was usually out of date by the time it finally came out, but back issues are well worth hunting down. It’s still recommended, and it is still missed.

Drood Review was a very different kettle of fish. It was shorter and carried no advertising. And the writing, IMHO, tended to be more erudite, analytical, and elegant. Its reviewers and commentators assessed the state of the genre and mined its past for overlooked gems. They urged us to read good crime fiction that was not being widely reviewed. They attacked controversial subjects like racism and gender prejudice head-on, with verve and intelligence. They alerted us to reference works on various aspects of our favorite genre.

One of my favorite features in Drood was the yearly “Editors’ Picks.” It’s interesting to look back from the vantage point of several years on and see what was selected back then. For instance, in the May/June 2002 issue, eight novels were selected from a mind boggling nine-hundred-plus titles published that year: Final Copy by Jan Brogan, Echo Burning by Lee Child, Red Hook by Gabriel Cohen, Grandmother Spider by James D. Doss, Six-Pound Walleye by Elizabeth Gunn, Poor Tom Is Cold by Maureen Jennings, The Good German by Joseph Kanon, and The Reaper by Peter Lovesey.

I’m a great fan of Lovesey’s work, and The Reaper is a really delicious little standalone. But I really got a kick out of seeing Red Hook on this list. The annotation begins, “The setting - the Red Hook section of Brooklyn - in this first novel is as evocatively rendered as in any book we’ve read; its history is smoothly integrated into the novel, both atmospherically and plot-wise.” Here here! It took a while for the sequel to appear, but The Graving Dock has more than fulfilled the promise bodied forth in Red Hook.

For a list of “Editor’s Choice” selections from 1989 to 2000, click here.

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I also found the January/February 2001 edition which covered the conclusion of Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse series. There’s a review of the final novel, The Remorseful Day (I’ve read the book but I’ve never been able to watch the film); it’s followed by an intriguing analysis of why the series enjoyed such enormous success:

“Dexter makes Morse attractive for readers by making him attractive to Lewis.Lewis provides a humanizing element, connecting Morse to us as readers. He is Sancho Panza to Morse’s Quixote, Patroclus to Morse’s Achilles….If Morse is a genius, Lewis makes him an approachable one.

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From its inception to its cessation, Drood Review was edited and published by Jim Huang. One look at his bio/resume will show that he has performed yeoman service when it comes to promoting and appreciating crime fiction. Jim’s Crum Creek Press has published two of my all time favorite mystery references:

In 2003, Jim opened The Mystery Company in Indiana, just north of Indianapolis. I strongly recommend the most recent post on Jim’s blog, “The Traditional Marketplace.” A cri de coeur from an independent bookseller - and passionate book lover - trying to hang on to a modest share of the market, it is enough to make you weep.

I wonder if Jim has ever thought of putting together a collection of essays and reviews that have appeared in The Drood Review over the years. I for one would snap it up! Meanwhile, if you look at the website for the magazine, the word “hiatus” is used in a rather tantalizing way. Is there any hope for a revival, I wonder…

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Those devoted to the works of Shakespeare should enjoy this article about Stephen Greenblatt that appeared in the Sunday New York Times’s Arts & Leisure section. Seems that Greenblatt, one of our leading Shakespeare scholars and author of the wonderfully readable Will in the World , has himself written a play!

[Stephen Greenblatt, left, with his collaborator Charles Mee]

Here’s a review of Will in the World that appeared recently in the Howard County Library’s blog, “Highly Recommended.”

In February, a feature entitled “50 Crime Writers To Read Before You Die” appeared in the Telegraph, a British newspaper. Not to be outdone, the Times of London announced “The Fifty Greatest Crime Writers” in this past Friday’s edition. The Times article is greatly enriched with essays about the writers and links to other articles and in several cases, audio clips and videos.

Lists like these are of interest as much for their exclusions as for their inclusions. For instance, P.D. James made the Times list, but not the one in the Telegraph. I also encountered several names that were new to me - including one mentioned in the Telegraph piece, Dan Kavanagh. This turned out to be the crime writing pseudonym, employed in the 1980’s, by a writer I very much admire: Julian Barnes. (Shades of John Banville/Benjamin Black!)

And then, of course, there are a number of the “usual suspects” appearing in both lists:

Now: Can you identify this gallery of rogue creators?? (Sorry - I simply couldn’t resist doing this!) To find the answers, click on the “Comments” section below.

I have long appreciated the arts coverage in the Washington Post. In today’s Style section, we learn that Jenny Uglow’s biography of the engraver Thomas Bewick [1753-1828] has won the National Award for Arts Writing. This award that was created last year by the Arts Club of Washington. Until now I was unaware of this group, but I am fervently in favor of any individual or organization that advocates for the arts.

According to one of the judges, Nancy Pearl, the writing in Nature’s Engraver is “down to earth and yet transporting.” Pearl comments further that the book “brings this time period alive in a way that even the best historical fiction sometimes fails to do.”

This observation is right on the money. I read the book last summer and fell completely under its spell. Here is my review of Nature’s Engraver. I’ve included some examples of Thomas Bewick’s enchanting works of art.

Every time a new issue of British Heritage arrives, I make myself put off reading it until I can’t stand it any more. I can be certain that I’m in for a treat once my self-control gives way, but I have to say that the May 2008 issue is really exceptional. For one thing, there are so many fascinating news items in the “Dateline” section at the beginning of the magazine that I have yet to move on to the longer articles at the heart of this splendid publication!

First, there’s the piece on Sherwood Forest, which used to comprise some 100,000 acres. Alas, it has presently shrunk to a mere 450! Think how exposed Robin of Locksley and his Merry Band would have felt amid such reduced acreage. But efforts are underway to renew and reinvigorate this storied place. The forest still contains 997 old-growth oak trees. And when they say old, they’re not kidding; these trees can live 900 years. These oaks are carefully tended. Pride of place among their number goes to the Major Oak.

The Major Oak, as it currently appears

The Major Oak, with supports digitally removed

And before we go on to other things, have a look at the annual Robin Hood Festival.

Next, interesting news from the art world: Sotheby’s auctioned a J.M.W. Turner water-color for a cool $6 million. Formerly owned by various members of the Vanderbilt family, Bamborough Castle had not been seen publicly since 1889. Meanwhile, a Faberge egg containing a clock fetched an even cooler $18.5 million at Christie’s. This exquisite timepiece, commissioned by the Rothschild family in 1905, is now the highest-priced ever Russian objet d’art.

A sensational treasure trove of “Romano-British artifacts” has been found at the bottom of a well at a place called Draper’s Gardens in London. According to Jenny Hall, the curator of Roman London at the Museum of London, “Nothing like this has ever been found in London before, or anywhere else in Britain.”

Now - on to the Royals. Yes - I do interest myself in their doings, I freely admit to it! Queen Elizabeth has a new grandson, the second child born to Prince Edward and Sophie, Countess of Wessex. (He was actually born right before Christmas. We across the pond here are a tad late getting the news - or, at least, I am.) The little tyke will be known as James Windsor, Viscount Severn.

Finally, two items about Scotland. First: plans are under way for a gathering of the Scottish clans next year. Called, not unexpectedly, The Gathering, the event will be part of a larger celebration called Homecoming Scotland. Prince Charles will be the royal patron. This exciting series of events has all the makings of a party to end all parties!

The Gathering will feature massed pipe bands, Highland games, live music, Scottish Highland dancing, and much more.

Finally, news of the Helix Project, the purpose of which is to “…fund a new section of the Forth and Clyde Canal connecting the canal to the Firth of Forth.”

The Firth of Forth

In addition, approximately twenty miles of paths for walking and cycling are planned, and some 750,000 trees will be planted. As if all this wasn’t sufficiently exciting, a sculpture consisting of two enormous horse heads is slated to be the crowning glory of the Helix Project. This massive installation, designed by sculptor Andy Scott, will be about one hundred feet high. The inspiration for this work is the kelpie, defined by Mysterious Britain as “…the supernatural shape-shifting water horse that haunts the rivers and streams of Scotland.”

Prototype of The Kelpies

I speak as an outsider who has spent very little time there, but it seems to me that the spirit of Scotland, animated by a justified pride in that country’s distinguished heritage and bright future, is on the rise. My husband and I felt that we were standing at the heart of this resurgence when we visited Edinburgh this past fall. While there, we toured the new Scottish Parliament building and learned the story of its creation, a stirring tale of triumph mixed with tragedy, like something out of a novel.

William F. Buckley was an iconic figure for those of my generation, even if our politics were diametrically opposed to his. That wit, that urbanity, the multisyllabic vocabulary, the faux-British accent - it all added up to a package that was hard to resist.

George F. Will has a nice valedictory piece, “A Life Athwart History,” in today’s Washington Post. In it, he quotes a stanza from “Vit(ae) Summa Brevis Spem nos Incohare Longam” by Ernest Dowson. I have seen this poem before but forgotten its haunting beauty. Here it is in its entirety:

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate;
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream.

Poor Ernest Dowson! He was one of those wayward, sensitive souls doomed to flame out at an early age. Here is a brief, poignant memoir of his life by the poet and critic Arthur Symons.

Some will recognize the phrase “days of wine and roses” as the title of a terrific film from 1962 starring Lee Remick and Jack Lemmon. The film depicted the ravages of alcoholism in a way that has rarely been equalled, before or since. And from another poem by Dowson comes the title of an acclaimed American novel that became an even more acclaimed movie. See line 13 in “Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae.”

Ernest Dowson 1867-1900

There’s an interesting piece by Sara Rimer on the front page of today’s New York Times: “Gatsby’s Green Light Beckons a New Generation of Strivers.” One is always gratified when young people draw inspiration from great literature; on the other hand, but are they getting the whole message? In the article, high school students aspiring to the Good Life American style bubble over with enthusiasm for the book; they want to emulate Jay Gatsby, the Midwestern parvenu “in this mansion, having these lavish parties and really and truly fulfilling the American dream.” But the parties are a hollow sham, and the one thing Gatsby himself desires above all else he can never have. The teachers sound a gentle admonition that The Great Gatsby is, in essence, a cautionary tale, but one wonders if that aspect of the story is making much of an impression.

We can’t say we weren’t warned by Nick Carroway’s parting shot, filled with bitter anguish: “Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning–”

And lest we be galvanized by the thought that the relevance of literature is once again in the ascendant, there’s this dispiriting corrective from Susan Jacoby in today’s Washington Post: “The Dumbing of America.”

I’ve already written about “Living with Geese” by Paul Theroux; now, I’d like to recommend several other pieces that are included in this outstanding anthology. (Where possible, I have linked to the stories that are full text online.)

“Murdering the Impossible” by Caroline Alexander (National Geographic) is a riveting profile of mountaineer Reinhold Messner. Messner was born in northern Italy’s South Tirol, a region that identifies almost as strongly with Austria as it does with Italy. Writes Alexander: “To non-climbers it may be difficult to convey the extent and grandeur of Reinhold Messner’s accomplishments.” He is especially famous for climbing Mount Everest without oxygen, a feat he achieved in 1978 with his longtime partner Peter Habeler. Messner’s life story is studded with similar triumphs - and one terrible tragedy.

[On its website, National Geographic has posted an excerpt of "Murdering the Impossible." I found the full text of the article on the proprietary database Academic ASAP, available through many public and academic libraries.]

In “Russell and Mary” (The Georgia Review), Michael Donohue literally stumbles on a box of papers belonging to his newly deceased landlady. The papers pertain to her long dead husband, Russell. From these fragments, Donohue reconstructs an entire life. At first, I wasn’t sure why I should care about Russell - there were aspects of his personality that were repugnant and unsavory. But this essay has a cumulative power, and by the end, I found myself immensely moved by Russell’s sad story.

“Inside Scientology” by Janet Reitman (Rolling Stone). I don’t want to say say much about this piece except that Reitman was granted unprecedented access to the inner sanctum of scientology. Her fair-minded report back to the rest of us is a real eye-opener.

On a lighter note, I thoroughly enjoyed “Rhymes with Rich” (The Atlantic Monthly), in which Sandra Tsing Loh takes cheerful aim at well-to-do wives and mothers who bemoan the logistical challenges of their lives, all the while consoling themselves with high-end brand name purchases and other perquisites of the monied classes.

There were two essays that I found immensely provocative and disturbing: “Our Oceans Are Turning into Plastic…Are We?” by Susan Casey (Best Life) and “Prairie Fire” by Eric Konigsberg (The New Yorker). In the first, Casey describes the discovery, in 1997, by California sailor and sportsman Charles Moore of an enormous accretion of junk in an area of ocean called the North Pacific subtropical gyre:

“It began with a line of plastic bags ghosting the surface, followed by an ugly tangle of junk: nets and ropes and bottles, motor-oil jugs and cracked bath toys, a mangled tarp. Tires. A traffic cone. Moore could not believe his eyes. Out here in this desolate place, the water was a stew of plastic crap. It was as though someone had taken the pristine seascape of his youth and swapped it for a landfill.”

This spot in the Pacific, presently called the “Eastern Garbage Patch,” is now roughly twice the size of Texas.

Casey goes on to describe the deleterious effect that an enormous quantity of non-biodegradable plastic is having on other aspects of the environment - and on us, as it insidiously infiltrates our own bodily systems. Very, very scary.

In “Prairie Fire,” Eric Konigsberg writes about the death of child prodigy Brandenn Bremmer. Brandenn, whose IQ was measured at 178, “…liked the musician Yanni, medieval history, making jewelry, baking cheesecake, lifting weights, playing video games (especially SimCity, SimFarm, and the Command and Conquer series) and Late Night with Conan O’Brien. He was intersted in animals, gross-out humor, and science experiments that he could devise at home.”

But that immense vitality was extinguished by a single violent act. Brandenn was fourteen years old when he died. “If you have tears, prepare to shed them now…”

Brandenn Bremmer (1992-2005)

[As with "Murdering the Impossible," only an abstract of "Praire Fire" is posted on the New Yorker site. It too is available full text on Academic ASAP.]

From the depths of sadness engendered by “Prairie Fire” to the exalted heights of artistic brilliance, from one prodigy to another: in “The Storm of Style” (The New Yorker), Alex Ross shares with readers his wonder at the fireworks display of Mozart’s genius. Along the way, he treats us to some verbal pyrotechnics of his own, and more of the same by other Mozart scholars. To wit:

“The scholar Scott Burnham recently observed that Mozart offers the ’sound of the loss of innocence, the ever renewable loss of innocence.’ There is no more potent subject for an artist, and it explains why Mozart remains so vivid a presence. As ever, the slow movement of the Piano Concerto No. 23 sends us into a wistful trance; the finale of the ‘Jupiter’ Symphony wakes us up into a uniquely Mozartean kind of intelligent happiness; and the apocalyptic climax of Don Giovanni stirs our primal fear of being weighed in the balance and found wanting. The loss of innocence was Mozart’s, too. Like the rest of us, he had to live outside the complex paradise that he created in sound.”

[That finale of the Jupiter Symphony is incredibly sublime. Get the recording made by George Szell and the Cleveland Orchestra in the early sixties. By all means, listen to the entire symphony. Then brace yourself for the incandescent conclusion]

Alex Ross seems to have ready just about every book ever written about Mozart. Even more impressive: he has worked his way through virtually all of Mozart’s oeuvre. In 1991, the Philips label issued the complete edition of the composers works on 180 CDs; we are informed that the set has recently been reissued “in a handsome and surprisingly manageable array of seventeen boxes.” Ross transferred all of it to his iPod and informs that “Mozart requires 9.77 gigabytes.”

Alex Ross is a terrific writer on a subject - music - that is very hard to write about. His book The Rest Is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century made several Best of 2007 lists. I very much look forward to reading it; meanwhile, I’ll continue to enjoy his columns in the New Yorker.

I particularly appreciate what Ross has to say about Don Giovanni: “In a jubilee year, when all the old Mozart myths come rising out of the ground where scholars have tried to bury them, the usefulness of Don Giovanni is that it puts a stake through the heart of the chocolate-box Mozart, the car-radio Mozart, the Mozart-makes-you-smarter Mozart.”

This splendid essay concludes thus: “Don Giovanni, which is many people’s choice for the greatest opera ever written, ends with something like a humble gesture: it dissolves its own aura of greatness.Having marched us to the brink of Heaven and Hell, Mozart abruptly pulls us back, implying that, in the manner of Shakespeare’s epilogues, all is show, a pageant melting into air. ‘I’m just the composer, I don’t have any answers,’ he seems to say. ‘Life goes on!’ And he walks away at a rapid pace, his red coat flapping behind him.”

One of the pieces included in the fine anthology Best American Magazine Writing 2007 is by one of my favorite writers, Paul Theroux. “Living with Geese” originally appeared in the Smithsonian Magazine. In it, Theroux describes his ten years’ experiencing breeding and raising these singular creatures. His powers of observation are astute, as anyone who has read his novels and travel narratives can attest. He does, however, expend what seems to be a rather inordinate amount of energy critiquing E.B. White. I didn’t know this, but White also raised geese, but in Maine, rather than in Hawaii, where Theroux lives. White too wrote on this subject, in an essay that’s apparently held in affectionate esteem by many readers. But not - definitely not - by Theroux.

He complains that”…E.B. White patronizes his geese, invents feelings for them and obfuscates things.” This incessant tendency to anthropomorphize, Theroux contends, gets in the way of understanding the true nature of the animal in question. I can agree with him there. But then he goes on: “E.B. White is never happier that when he is able to depict an animal by humanizing it as a friend. Yet what lies behind the animal’s expression of friendship? It is an eagerness for easy food.”

I sighed deeply upon reading this. Whenever folks want to denigrate us doting pet owners, they trot out this argument. Well, okay, “easy food” is a major benefit for dogs and cats who share their dwelling space with humans. But if you’ve lived with these wonderful creatures for any length of time, it becomes increasingly evident that, at least to some extent, your affection for them is reciprocated in kind. Many little gestures on their part serve to reinforce this conviction. And naturally, at this point, I just have to slip in a picture of a certain cat…

[ Miss Audrey Jane Marple, irrepressible sidekick and beloved friend]

Theroux makes one assertion in this essay that I find even more troubling: “Animal lovers often tend to be misanthropes or loners, and so they transfer their affection to the creature in their control.” The examples he cites are Joy Adamson of Born Free fame,Timothy Treadwell, who was the subject of the documentary film Grizzly Man, and Dian Fossey, who did groundbreaking research on the mountain gorillas of Central Africa. Fossey, Theroux states, was “a drinker and a recluse.”

I remember reading articles about Dian Fossey in the 1980’s, both before and after she was killed in Rwanda in 1985. I did not recall reading that she had a problem with alcohol. Theroux’s remarks brought to mind “The Woman Who Loved Gorillas” by Alex Shoumatoff. This piece first appeared in Vanity Fair, but I read it in African Madness, a collection of four long essays by this author.

I read this book when it came out in 1988. As luck would have it, there are still two copies owned by my beloved Central Library! I brought one home because I was looking for a particular passage that I did recall. Here it is:

“In general, people who are drawn to nature and become animal lovers fall into two groups, which might be described as the Shakespearians and the Thoreauvians. The Shakespearians consider man and his works to be part of nature; while loving animals, they have warm, positive feelings toward people, too. The animal love of the Thoreauvians, however, is inversely proportionate to their compassion for their own kind.”

(The description of the Shakespearians put me in mind of these lines from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage by Lord Byron:

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar;
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. )

Shoumatoff goes on to theorize that Throeauvians, who often have “extraordinary empathy with animals,” are often the product of a lonely, isolated upbringing. Such indeed was the case with Dian Fossey.

Although I obtained a copy of African Madness so that I could find that passage, I found myself reading “The Woman Who Loved Gorillas” in its entirety. Once again, I was riveted by this sad, compelling story. Fossey was a difficult, complicated woman; as the years passed, her relations with the students at Karisoke, the research station she had established, became increasingly strained. Relations with the native population went from bad to worse. She became a fanatic where poaching was concerned, and some of the actions she took against those she suspected of this crime are, in retrospect, pretty shocking. One gets the picture of a woman going off the rails. And yes, she was drinking.

But, as with so many complicated situations involving complex personalities, ambition, and bruised egos, there is more to this story. There is Dian Fossey’s tremendous contribution to our knowledge and understanding of those magnificent creatures, the mountain gorillas. There was her Herculean effort to preserve their habitat and their lives, work which one desperately hopes will not prove to be all for nought.

The government of Rwanda eventually charged the man who discovered Dian’s body, American primatologist Wayne McGuire, with her murder. Most observers considered the charge baseless. Although McGuire needed more time to collect data for his doctoral thesis, he left Rwanda on the advice of the American consul. The murder has never been solved.

Shoumatoff’s piece concludes with a visit to Dian’s grave in Africa. She is buried at Karisoke, near her cabin, among the gorillas who died before her.

“Hers was a pure, selfless love, forged in the pain of loneliness, like an artist’s love, which doesn’t feed or heal your soul, and takes a lot out of you. A damaged, driven person, herself a victim of unlove, she had this extraordinary love, without which there would probably be no gorillas in the Virungas. It was her love that she will be remembered for.”

Oh - and by the way, “Living with Geese” concludes with Theroux moving Heaven and Earth to aid and comfort an aging gander in his flock. Having in recent memory endured the pain - always so much greater than you think it will be - of losing an animal companion, I understood why he was going to such lengths. When his efforts proved successful, I was happy for him.

One of the indulgences I’ve allowed myself since my Anglophilia kicked into high gear three years ago is a subscription to Country Life Magazine. (It’s a weekly; I actually receive just one issue a month.) On its website, Country Life declares itself to be “…the essential weekly read for those who are passionate about the British countryside, fine art, gardening and property.” Property may come last in that statement of purpose, but it comes first in the actual magazine and takes up most of the space on the website. That’s okay, really: the real estate ads are great fodder for daydreams. For instance, there’s this:

Described as a “Magnificent Elizabethan Manor” in Colehurst, North Shropshire, this splendid domincile can be yours for a cool 1.75 million pounds - that’s pounds, not dollars. The exchange rate is currently about two dollars to the pound. Do the math and weep!

There’s always something in Country Life that mesmerizes me. In the latest issue, two feature stories stood out. The first is on the gardens of Stobo Castle, which is located near Peebles, in the Scottish Borders. The gardens have a distinctly Japanese feel to them, consisting primarily of variegated trees and shrubs and making extremely cunning and prolific use of aquatic features. It may be the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen.

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Soundtrack suggestion: “The Walk to the Paradise Garden” from A Village Romeo and Juliet by Frederick Delius

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The cover story of this issue is “Britain’s Favourite Walks.” One of the suggested routes is through Hambleton Hills in North Yorkshire. It takes in the ruins of Byland Abbey, founded by the Cistercians in 1177. As you complete your circuit, author David Hancock informs us, “…you pass the remains of the monks’ fishponds, now merely lumps and bumps in the fields.”

Music for a medieval mood: Sarum Chant by the Tallis Scholars;

A Feather on the Breath of God: sequences and hymns by Abbess Hildegard of Bingen, by Gothic Voices with Emma Kirkby (I just listened to this for the first time in several years; goosebumps were instantaneous!)

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And so, Yorkshire calls again. The soundtrack for this yearning to return is In Praise of Yorkshire, a selection of music and readings compiled and produced by Claire Bostel of Duchy Travel By Design, Ltd.

It was Claire who first introduced me to the magic that is Yorkshire.