The only one I have now of all the books I owned prior to leaving home at seventeen and a half, is a book of Walter
Scott’s poems that I picked up at a jumble sale as a child, attracted more by the bindings, the illustrations and the gilding on the edges of the pages than the poems probably. It looks satisfyingly old. There’s an inscription inside indicating that it was given to someone called Madge in 1907. 118 years ago. Frustratingly, there is no publication date in it, but it was illustrated by A.S Forrest, a Scottish artist born in 1869. I’m not and never have been a fan of Scott’s poems but he sits alongside my many other poetry books like the doyen of poets old and new.