I am fond of the genre that is the Formal Sheep Portrait. They do pose — I mean, I’m not saying they know they’re having their picture taken, but they’re quite happy to stand still and check you out while you formulate the shot. This one is taken on the slopes of Irton Pike, in the west of the Lake District: it’s Muncaster Fell that is in the background, sporting a heavy growth of rhododendrons, hence the dusting of pink.
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.)
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…
This summed up the weather today: some fine spells but the next bout of rain was never very far away. It also sums up the fact that I was at home and am going to remain here for much of the next eight weeks, so get used to photos of Hebden Bridge.
The summit known as Red Screes, with its substantial tarn, sits at 2,541 feet above sea level but is still considerably lower than the Scafells: left to right from the edge of the picture, Scafell, Scafell Pike and Great End. Great Gable pops up to the right. A fine day to be out walking even if the transport arrangements once again…. but what the hell, I expect too much perhaps. Read more on the other blog, if you like.
Seeing as today was Good Friday this seems an entirely appropriate post for the occasion, but I swear that until I came over a rise on Mellor Moor, above Marple, and saw this cross, I had no idea it was there — it wasn’t marked on the map. Apparently it was first erected in 1970. It has a good view of Manchester, you have to say. (Passed on my latest County Top walk — of which there are more pictures on the other blog…)
I think that, by law, and certainly by my own moral code, all aeroplane windows should be kept sparkling clean. The one I had to use on our flight home from Barcelona was noticeably grubby, so apologies for the ensuing blemishes on this shot (I know they’re there). Still, the view was good, at least while we were crossing the barrier between Spain and France, that is, the Pyrenees: mountains I have never visited, but they’re on the list. Named, apparently, after a woman who was raped by Hercules, gave birth to a serpent, and was then torn apart by wild animals. These old myths took no prisoners, did they?
I drive past this house fairly often as it lies on most routes northwards from home. It’s certainly lived in on a permanent basis. I have always admired its glorious isolation, and what it must take to survive in reasonable condition 1,280 feet/380m up in the air in the middle of a peat moor. But would I want to live there myself? Not really. (If you want to check out its position on the Ordnance Survey map it lies at about grid reference SD910286.)
My last full day in Cornwall. Less clement weather as you can see, but all the same, I’d rather have had this than the heavy snow which has hit further north: I’m quite happy to be away from that, thank you very much. A definite ‘sea/beach’ theme has developed, with this being the fifth in a row to feature one or both, but down here, where the island ends, it’s hard to be unaware of the ocean.
Those of you not from Britain might not be immediately aware of the cultural significance of Land’s End, although the very name gives a clue. This is not the southernmost point on the island of Great Britain (that being the Lizard), nor is it the westernmost (Ardnamurchan, in Scotland), but it is the furthest extremity of the long toe that the island sends out into the Atlantic, and the distance of, about, 875 miles in a straight line to John o’Groats in Scotland is the longest distance between any two points on this lump of land off the north-west coast of Europe.
The building you see here, officially known as the “First and Last House”, is a café — with, behind, the Longships lighthouse — and somewhere just to the left is a rather tacky complex of buildings targeted firmly at the very large number of tourists who flock here during the summer months. I consider myself fortunate to have seen it in the off-season. But while at one level it seems very arbitrary to value this point over many others nearby which are far more attractive and interesting (like Porthcurno, yesterday, which is about four miles away [and further south]), there is a sense here that one has come to the end of something, in a quite physical but also a spiritual sense. Which is why people want to come here, I guess. I can’t knock it — I made a point of making it to this spot, and now document it here on the blog. In the grand scheme of things it doesn’t mean anything, but in a small and personal way, perhaps it does.
Being 42 