Nice piece in the New York Times today about a poetry fan’s impulsive trip to Luing having read Don Paterson’s poem Landing Light.
…and yet there I was, clawing my way through the wet and lichen-encrusted tangle on a Scottish hillside, with limbs of bracken swatting me in the face and my Wellington boots failing to get a foothold, worried that I was about to face-plant into a pudding of aromatic Hebridean ooze, because of 24 lines of verse.
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