I’m going to break a small confidence and relate a thing Steve said to me in the privacy of his kitchen.
I was going on about Helen MacDonald, drunk after our detour to the Golden Spur and full of good meat from the Bodio larder. A point at which, in other words, I was babbling.
Steve leveled his gaze and said, “Don’t gush.”
I am a serial gusher. Hop over to Fretmarks and read more like this:
“And as the sun rose and broke the fog, the flat expanses of reeds stretched and glowed into the distance. The air was full of a host of marsh harriers. Everywhere you looked, they sailed over the flat planes of reed, wings set in a characteristic half-raised plane, like a self-willed paper aircraft.”