sheep in Cornwall, followed by a magnificent drive (and some light hiking in an even lighter snowfall) through Dartmoor, I’m now having a great deal of fun reading Philip Reeve’s Here Lies Arthur in Oxford. My handsewn leather Zimbabwean boots, soled in tyre rubber, have outlasted any commercial product and still don’t let in a drop of moisture. Despite the insistence of several authors that Oxford is the place to write, give me the high moors any time. No wonder Reeve has made it his home; I’m tempted to follow suit. Only thing is, nobody but a bestselling author can afford a dwelling; someone with a winning lottery ticket. Indie writers like myself will have to be satisfied with a patched tent. Good thing fresh air is so invigorating to the imagination.