It’s the longest night of the year. On my walk to Low Moor station in Bradford tonight, I passed through this industrial zone in which all the factories were still lit, burbling away internally, though no people were in sight. The robots may well now be in full charge. It would explain a lot about current political trends.
Two days in a row for Halifax, and two in a row clamped under an oppressive blanket of mist. In some parts of the town this morning visibility was down to ten yards. In the background of this shot, like some massive memorial, rises Wainhouse Tower, making its second appearance in less than two months and its third overall. (World’s tallest folly, etc. etc.)
The cobbled streets and misty feel give this shot a Victorian look — except perhaps for the Rolex and No Entry signs. But we can ignore them. Would the Victorians have engaged in this much paranoia? Who knows. But Brendan — see his guitar case — doesn’t seem to care, and I’m all for that.
Friday, and the last day of work before Christmas. Spent at home, but it’s all done now, and the views were good in the morning.
Sometimes at this point in the year you wouldn’t even know there was such a thing as sunlight. All the way into campus by 8am and it’s only just getting light, making this a study in blue. While I was away this space at the front of the new Royce building has emerged from under the perpetual building site to acquire seats and tables, but I doubt anyone will be using them for a while.
I haven’t done one of the Hebden housing for a while but it’s always there to catch the eye. So steeply do these dwellings rise from the valley bottom below that I am sure they affect the microclimate. I swear that at times I have seen rain falling on one side of our house — precipatated out by the enforced rise up the walls — but not on the other.
Back home, back to the grey and gloom of a northern December, the everyday of the train journey to Manchester (here at Littleborough). It had to happen. LIke the birds speckled across this shot, let’s just live with it.
I seem to have made it to the last day in St Helena without a Napoleon reference — so here’s one, a vague one anyway. Not that this shot has anything to do with the man himself, for whom, having heard the stories of his time here, I now feel a little sorry. Anyway: there will be more to come of this place. But it’s time to head home.
Friday night — and I’m out! In every sense of the term. So were plenty of other people who were on the flight, ten days ago. The Muleyard pub in Jamestown hosted ex-pats and locals alike, and we all celebrated being part of the land of the living.
As being made by the guy on the “Dosa” stall in St. George’s Square, Hebden Bridge, this lunchtime. I did eat my lunch out today, although not here. Although this is a little out of focus, I like the mixture of colours and textures on this shot.
