On Not Being a Reader by Kevin Crossley-Holland
Today’s re-blog is a totally fascinating story :-)
Long ago and not so long, I drove over to have a look at the little village of Whiteleaf in the Chiltern Hills where I was born and lived until I was sixteen. A huddle of cottages crouching under a majestic hill, surrounded by beechwoods, magical as all childhood places (or at least our memories of them) are. My climbing tree with my initials cut into it. . . the mysterious trenches deep in the woods, dug by soldiers during...
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