Today is a celebration of all things bookish, and a time for us to celebrate their impact on the world. Indeed, were it up to me, I would bestow a sainthood on William Caxton, the father of printing, for without the published word we would still be reading things scratched onto rocks and stones – which would have made tomes such as War and Peace, decidedly hard to read and write. Tolstoy would probably have required a mountain range at the very least. Then again, I imagine it would have been handy for outdoor types, who could have combined their love of climbing with a good read.
As a book addict, for me there is no greater delight than browsing a book shop. The combination of images, smells and the anticipation of a gripping new novel transport me to a kind of paradise. But of equal appeal is the second hand book emporium. Here one may wander through multi -coloured, towering stacks of books from bygone eras, and while they might not boast the enticing dust jacket designs of today, inside them the curious reader may discover a festival of fiction, fact and poetry.
So, to this end I was inspired to write the following:
Book Lives
The book looks so tattered,
So ancient and tired;
In a second hand shop,
On a shelf, unadmired:
But inside its grey pages
What gems I uncover!
Which shows you must not
Judge a book by its cover.
The Woebegone Words of Aunt Grizelda 
Have you been to barter books at Alnwick in the old station building? Aunt grizelda would be very at home x
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I have indeed, Janet. It is the quintessential second hand and antiquarian book emporium!
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