I was raised in a small town in Flanders, in a family where bread and butter were put on the table because no one lives forever. My father, you see, was a master mason, a tombstone maker, and I spent part of my childhood happily romping among my fellow townspeople resting in peace at the local cemetery.
Then, after the romping, came the roaming.
And the writing.
Poetry mostly, as I criss-crossed Europe this side of the Iron Curtain, then the States, Canada and Alaska, by train, bus and thumb, on foot, in kayaks and rafts and the odd dogsled. Somehow, in between travels, I also managed to snare a degree in literature.
Then came settled life, a family and a career, and let's not forget the dog, and the writing stopped.
Now, the roaming's back, though mostly in the mind, writing.
Without an audience, the bard is just another madcap tossing words into the void.