My late Grandfather had a book called The Garden, Grove and Field that he would thumb through to poems about the different seasons in these locations. He was a writer and if he found himself free of words and away from his study, I would take this blue book of poetry to him and ask to be read to. More often than not he would make me do the reading, then remark about my poor elocution and sloppy verse. Normally resulting in an afternoon of the both of us stomping around in a huff at one another, but secretly I would practice the verses when his waves of literary inspiration returned and hermited his mind into the attic.
In a slightly nomadic fashion, or hipster wannabe, I don't hold onto that much stuff. That book though, The Garden, Grove and Field has remained with me. Sometimes when I'm looking for inspiration, I'll find the pages he had marked and noted his interpretations and favourite lines. If he were here today, surrounded by tailored pieces from his family and headwear classics, I wonder whether he would find inspiration in the images on these pages. Or maybe he'd just negate the cropping and moan about the surplus of bokeh. Probably both, but he'd be more vocal about the latter.