Whan Winter hauds the warld in chains, An' snawy wreaths adorn the plains, Whan folk can jimply gang their lanes For fear o' couping […]

Almost everybody's read that book.

The desert storm was riding in its strength; the travellers lay beneath the mastery of the fell simoom. Whirling wreaths and columns of burning wind, rushed around and over them.

With Father Jolliffe cringing under the archidiaconal disapproval it ought to have been a chilling moment and, by Treacher at least, savoured and briefly enjoyed […]