An old man lives at the bottom of my garden. His name is Robert Barkus, or Bakehouse, or Bagust. Nobody is quite sure. But I often sense him around when I’m gardening, and I’ve found out a fair bit ab

Throughout his career, our columnist has relied on the music of poetry to provide grace, wisdom and even a distraction from the sounds of war

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Whether winter-faded ferns, the spindly harvestman or the tyrannical stare of an irate chicken, through-lines from the prehistoric to our modern age are all around us in November, says John Lewis-Stempel

Late stories of a self-styled ‘arguer with the world’

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