Newsletter
Newsletter
Welcome to the first episode of Pixie-led with Tom Cox.
Writing
Earlier this month a man called Chris sent me a photo of a wire figure nailed to a tree so I immediately asked him for map co-ordinates of its precise location. He said it was in Barleysplat Wood, which is on the steep rocky apron of Bodmin Moor, about half
Writing
I have been getting a decent amount of reading done recently and one of the books I tore most ravenously through was Stet, a memoir by the long-serving and respected editor Diana Athill. Published at the dawn of the 21st century, at more or less the exact time I was
Writing
* It doesn’t take a good detective to know why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling right now but, let's face it, I’ve never been anywhere even close to being a good detective; the nearest I get is owning a couple of unusually long coats.
Writing
Someone turned all the lights out in the sky on my final journey back to The River House. At least, I hoped it would be the final journey, just as I’d hoped every one of the previous three journeys would be the final journey, only to be proved wrong,
Writing
The Black Tree was what everyone in the village called it. Nobody alive remembered a time when it hadn’t been there or hadn’t been black. A perplexing runt amongst its tall confident siblings, it never got bigger, never went into leaf, never died, never withered. It was a
Writing
Melbury Beacon isn’t quite the highest place in Dorset, but, at 263 metres above sea level, it’s one of the big boys and, much like the man I walked to it with this time last year, probably has no trouble seeing when it stands at the back at
Writing
* A lot is happening locally and it’s not always easy to keep up. Some rescue hedgehogs were released and have been breeding industriously. A lady in the village up the hill witnessed a large aggressive rescue hedgehog push a smaller, more diffident rescue hedgehog into her garden pond, in
Writing
The cattle are in the field across the river again. Larger, more diverse characters than last year’s lot. They can pick out the sound of the farmer’s jeep and they moo rowdily, impatiently, as soon as they hear it progressing down the lane with their dinner. The uncontainability