I went up the mountain and found myself

doubles

At┬áRuapehu, taken on our annual whisky escape. That’s Kelvin in the picture with me. Nigel’s taking the photo. We drank single malt and enjoyed poetry, particularly this one by Philip Larkin:

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin, 1964

 

Last year’s whisky escape.