I picked up this lovely book at Tynemouth market for 50p and I’ve been enjoying flicking through the thin paper, reading the poems that I know I already have in later editions, but I take delight from the form and texture and smell of this book. From its age and gilded edges and the noise it makes as I turn the leaves. It’s been the last things I’ve read at night these past few days.
And that name, Quiller Couch, a name that was often mentioned when I studied for my degree. It all blends to make this a deliciously familiar thing.










