Third post in a week to be taken in the garden, but it’s still sunny and there’s not much else going on that offers a change of scene. This tennis ball has been sat pretty much in the same position for weeks now, and both Clare and I have acknowledged that neither of us have the slightest idea where it came from. It offers an opportunity for a still life, nevertheless.
On the basis that it was going to be warm enough to sit outside, colleague Louis stood by the exit out to the courtyard. However, today was about 10º cooler than it’s been lately — so we met inside in any case. I was running a couple of minutes late. But I did see him down there, patiently waiting.
Working at home today. This guy’s working at (a) home too, the one across the road, and decided to wield the stonecutter, or angle-grinder, or whatever particular power tool this is that throws up lots of dust and noise, each time I wanted to sit out on the front step and get some fresh air and a cup of tea. Easier just to stay indoors, even on another fine day.
Until seeing this one close up today I had never realised what a bizarre-looking species the turkey is. Even its feathers look wrong, like it’s actually a giant pinecone with an absurd neck and head arbitrarily stuck on it. And the nose…. or whatever it is. Takes some going to carry this all off with dignity but I guess it manages it. For the next six months or so, anyway.
Hmmm, a Saturday with no football (yes, OK, I’m aware that there was something going on in London along those lines, but you know what I mean). And the sun was shining. And there was work to do in the garden. All these things made a relaxing afternoon picnic, with wine, just the right thing to do. (Those are my feet, yes. Clare is unseen to the left — I didn’t drink the whole bottle myself, you know.)
Another one of those recurrent, annual subjects. Our plum tree definitely has years off — and 2022 was one — but this year there’s going to be a decent crop. Previously I have referred to these as plumlets but for some reason ‘plumlings’ came to mind this time round, which I feel is definitive.
While on one of my random perambulations around northern England, I found myself walking past this establishment, which is one of two factories in the country making Fox’s Biscuits. It’s in Wesham, between Preston and Blackpool. The best thing about this came a minute or so after I took this shot, when I turned a corner and was suddenly downwind of it. I had to stop walking for a while and just breathe in the delicious smell of it. How they live with that all the time in Wesham I have no idea, they must be hungry all the time, feeling like Charlie Bucket.
I wasn’t participating, just documenting. And out celebrating having finished the end of the latest bout of marking.
Having walked around eighteen miles yesterday, I did not leave the house today and got on with necessary work, stuff like online teaching (two of those), marking (lots), etc. Exciting it was not. Playing with some effects on my relatively new camera was as much as I managed. This is a truly naff image, I accept that, but so went the day.
Buxton is the highest town (as opposed to village) in Britain, parts of it being over 1,000 feet up. Which, I know, is not high by (say) Alpine standards, but the latitude is a factor — in June 1975, snowfall was recorded here. Not today though, fortunately. The famous, and now-restored, Crescent has appeared on here before: the dome is that of the Opera House.
Taken from the early stages of a walk that was finished fifteen or so miles to the west, in Macclesfield — more to come later on another blog…
Being 42 