A Winter Ride

Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.
So with the stretch of the white road before me,
Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.


(Amy Lowell)


Your humble host has been further humbled by some sort of cold virus, and thinking has become rather difficult. Sleep, less difficult. So at this point I shall be shutting down my poor head for a while, and hope to get back into a more useful way tomorrow. My apologies.


There are drinks with rich and lavish histories, which tempt me to become one of those food/drink-historian bloggers I enjoy so much. The Bishop would surely feature prominently in a chapter on mulled drinks, for example, and the interrelated beverages which would populate that chapter are both intriguing and difficult to untangle without jumping from recipe-based blog post to actual book chapter – or at least an extended essay masquerading as a blog post! I shall, as ever, try to restrain myself.

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