For those that don’t know, signs like these on British roads indicate one can drive at the ‘national speed limit’, which is no less than 60mph. Anyone doing so on this road, however, may as well presume to end up in the cemetery to which it leads, visible over there on the sea shore. Perhaps the road traffic planners of Stromness, Orkney, have a morbid sense of humour. Or perhaps my using of this photo suggests that it’s just me.
Ever further northward we travel. Only one shot in the near-14 years of this blog has been taken from further north and still been in the UK — that being the one in Thurso on 13/7/25 — but this is a status it will keep only 24 hours. Who cares anyway, Lybster harbour was a tranquil spot on a beautiful evening. Impossible to believe that 150 years ago the herring industry meant this was one of the busiest ports in the country. It isn’t now, for sure.
This is the fifth photo of one or other of the Forth bridges to appear on here, and all apart from one (17/8/2021) have been taken while moving, usually on a train though the first one was an exception, as I was a passenger in a car on that occasion. Meaning none of them have been of the rail bridge: when on a train, all you get to see of it are some close-up girders. Anyway, I am sure this is a terrible photograph in some ways but in other ways I quite like it. It looks like something ephemeral, maybe three stupendous maypoles lined up over the estuary.
Roadworks on Keighley Road continue to increase in both volume and density. Soon the entire street may disappear, collapsing in on itself to form a kind of roadwork singularity, or possibly a new form of matter, which will, while largely inert, occasionally flare up into frenzied and noisy activity at, like, 7 in the morning. Having thereby woken up any sleepers in the vicinity it will then return to its inactive state for the rest of the day.
Following on from Wednesday, another picture of someone with a less-than-orthodox approach to their housing arrangements. I know of people (hi, Beth & Steve) who live permanently in such a manner but it’ll never be for me, there are too many home comforts of which I am fond and which a mobile home or narrowboat is never going to give me. But on a day when ‘independence’ might be on the minds of some, each to their own.
The picture was taken mainly because of the bright orange water of the Trent and Mersey Canal at this point (Kidsgrove, on the Staffordshire/Cheshire border). Such things are not usually a good sign. The mystery of why this colour is there was not solved until just a short while ago, as I prepared to post this by looking up some information about the Harecastle Tunnel, the north entrance of which is just visible in the background, to the left of the guys on the towpath. There is an old version of this tunnel running parallel to it that has been closed for over a century now, and apparently, leaches iron ore into the water. So it’s always orange — this is not some recent chemical spill. I don’t imagine drinking the water does anyone much good. Unless they’re anaemic I suppose.
OK, it’s not really an aquarium. But it’s more interesting to look at than the side of most delivery trucks, which I’m sure is the point.
It’s time for the annual appearance of the “Person Struggling with Umbrella” sign, and all that entails for traffic up and down the Keighley Road. I haven’t driven a car on this island since last August (the only plae I have been behind the wheel was on Ascension), and I’m just fine with that.
My Easter Saturday trip out found me in the Locomotion museum in Shildon, Co. Durham, at 10.30ish. This snowplough looks almost absurdly macho, like it’s Thor’s snowplough (Marvel Comics version). Look at the light beams that shoot off as it steams along! The watching human simply stands in awe and wonder as it zooms past. “Me? Put ME in a museum!? The impudence!”
I have returned to the UK, but thanks to the inability of the UK rail network to function at any kind of useful level on a Sunday, I still haven’t made it home. A bicycle might even have been faster — not that I can ride one, a skill I never developed. They seem to use a few in Oxford, though.
Being 42 