John Sharrock Taylor

John Sharrock Taylor

Writer, Genealogist & Patient Choir Basher

Welcome to our home, el Cortijo del Rector, in the hills of Andalusia in southern Spain, where I live with my wife Val and our dogs Biggles, the Aspull Terrier, and Bella the Brat.

This website and the associated Facebook page were begun seven years ago at the prompting of a publisher who insisted that merely writing books and articles wasn't enough, and the aspiring author needed to get out into the marketplace and clamour for attention. Please feel free to find it either an eclectic mix, reflecting a wide range of scholarly interests, or the magpie gleanings of  an untidy mind. Click on a heading in the sidebar to the left of this page to browse a particular item. I welcome your comments and queries via the 'Contact' button.


My visible life began in 1946 about nine months after my father was demobbed from the Royal Corps of Signals and, what with one thing and another, it still goes on to the present day. A former cathedral soloist, I like olives, wine, boats, books and beer and dislike flamenco, potatoes and unfermented fruit. I own a cannon that goes Bang! and a Canon that goes Click! and allows me to record something of the beauty of this delightful country.

For the first thirty-eight years after leaving Lancaster University in 1967 I was a teacher, first of all in my native Lancashire and later as a Headmaster on four continents. 

Twelve years ago I gave all that up to concentrate on some of the things I’d always meant to do but never had time for. One of the results is A Wigan Childhood (Palatine Books 2010) which I describe as a sort of cross between Cider With Rosie and Who Do You Think You Are? No Baboons in India was published by Amazon in 2013 and In and Around Wigan Through Time, based on 90 old and 90 new photos of the borough and its environs was released by Amberley in February 2014. October 2016, sees the publication by JMD Media Ltd of Six Steps from Wigan Pier (And a Bag of Uncle Joe's Mint Balls).

Shortly after our marriage, when we were still living in a rented flat in a Victorian former nunnery, I took Val to see a remote country cottage in the Lune Valley. It was falling down and had no mains water or electricity. When she had recovered from the shock we ‘compromised’ on a perfectly convenient new detached house with views of Morecambe Bay and the Lakeland hills. It was another eleven years before I managed to persuade her  that I’d found our ideal house in the Cambridgeshire fens.  

It was called Rector’s Cottage and it was wonderfully in-convenient, with low oak beams, an inglenook, a secret passage, a staircase as steep as a cliff, a resident ecclesiastical ghost but nowhere the ghost of a right angle. When we asked our surveyor how old he thought it was he said 'Most of what you can see dates from about 1500. What you can't see is a lot older than that. Did you know you'd got a tunnel in your cellar? It runs under the road to the cellar of the Manor House. The Manor House? It used to be owned by the man who shot William Rufus.' 

There is an old cliché about things happening in threes: A new job, a 'new' house...When we had long given up hope of ever becoming parents our first son, Richard was born.


January 16th 1980


A pale brass sun

Slides down a tinplate sky

The level light

Elongates Cambridge fields

Water glitters in the ruts

Like steel

Iron trees stand stark

The hedge is a black mesh


A brown hare darts across

My homeward road

Village lights glow gold

The silent house

Smells of the years and of wood smoke

You are two hours old

My son

In December 2001 while we were on holiday from our jobs in Malaysia we bought a small finca in the north of Málaga Province in southern Spain. The 80 olive and almond trees were wildly overgrown and the rambling old stone house sadly neglected. Half the roof consisted of rusting corrugated iron, the wiring was by Heath-Robinson's Spanish cousin and both the internal and external rendering falling away in chunks.

Eighteen years on, three poky rooms have become one pleasant living area heated by a wood-burning stove. An archway to the extended kitchen opens onto a sunny terrace with a view down the valley through the olive groves to the distant blue mountains of the Torcal de Antequera. 

In memory of our son Richard’s first home, Rector’s Cottage in Cambridgeshire, we have named it el Cortijo del Rector, the Headmaster’s Farm. As TS Eliot put it: ‘In my end is my beginning'.

The stone walls are almost three feet thick, the ceilings low and supported by heavy un-squared beams of olive and poplar, the windows small to keep out the bitter winter cold and the blinding sun of the Andalusian summer. After twenty years of travelling on four continents it is a place to come home to. 

Thirty-odd years of school bells were more than enough for us and here at Cortijo del Rector life is ruled more by the calendar than by the clock. Depending on how late I’ve rolled into it I roll out of bed at some time between five and six o’clock in the morning and, as the coffee perks, proof-read yesterday’s effort before starting to draft today’s thousand or more words. The dogs studiously ignore me until they announce at precisely six o’clock that it’s time for breakfast, followed by a stroll through the olive groves to chase hares and chat with José and María further up the valley. If my five o’clock start sounds spartan to you, let me add that the traditional two hour post-lunch siesta is an honoured custom at el Cortijo del Rector.

A fen tiger like his brother, Will was born in Lincolnshire and now lives in Holland with Mariska and their daughter Jaya.

The game is afoot. And for Biggles every foot is a game.

Bella came to our lunch table outside Bar La Parrilla and gazed at me with those soulful eyes. She is three years old, beautiful, loving and utterly immoral. From the roast, cooling on the hob, to the loose covers on the sofas, nothing is safe. Joss, our Geordie treasure, refers to her and Biggles as The Delinquents.

Twilight at el Cortijo del Rector

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