I find January and February the gloomiest of all the months. When the days are still short and the weather wet and cold. I become desperate for a pick-me-up, something to lift the spirits, a promise that there are brighter things on the horizon. And then suddenly pushing up from somewhere beneath the sodden soil, the first of the snowdrops appears.
When Richard Rawlinson died in April 1755, he left instructions in his will that his heart ‘be taken out, enclosed in a silver cup with spirits and put into a black marble urn’.
From Wittgenstein to Thom Yorke many remarkable people have resided in the honey stone terraced houses of St John Street in central Oxford, built to accommodate the growing number of…
“A young boy scout once asked me which was my favourite grave,” smiles Dick Richards, a volunteer guide for the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, as he stands amidst the rows…