Beverley...

In Beverley yesterday evening (that’s the town, not a romantic assignation), after taking pix on a day of warm sunshine. I had a beer in Nellie’s, one of the great pubs of Yorkshire: a rabbit warren of rooms and snugs, all still lit by gas mantle. The customers disappeared contentedly into a shadowy chiaroscuro; it was very restful.

Back in the van I listened to an approving essay on the radio about Winston Churchill’s habit of bursting into tears, on receipt of both good news and bad. Apparently he became more moist, not less, with the passing of the years. The tears were of defiance, not defeat, and maybe the British people were grateful to be led, through the war years, by a man who was able to show his feelings.

My dad came into my bedroom, on January 24, 1965, woke me up and told me that Churchill had died. He sat on the end of my bed and wept; it was the only time I ever saw him cry.

Just licensed: Salcombe in Devon...