A long-awaited visit to my family, unseen since lockdown began. A welcome interruption that highlighted how pointless all this is becoming. Why my sister Vicki was dishing out the whisky samples in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, well, that’s a story hidden beneath the surface of this picture. Particularly as I don’t even like the stuff. (I know whisky is a noble drink with much character and history: I just can’t stand it.)
One of those days where I pointed my camera a lot at nice things, but didn’t manage to come up with many photos that I liked. But these cows will do — they look suitably ruminative and peaceful, a state of mind I am trying to occupy at the moment, even if mostly, I am failing.
I accept that we are not strictly trapped, whether at home or in the Calder valley itself: but with nothing open out there except a few shops (and by no means all), it’s still house arrest in all but name. I agree there are worse places to be stuck but this afternoon and evening I felt like my head was going to pop unless this ends soon. But there are too many people who like this situation — profit from it, even. These are the ones who will drag us all down.
My last picture taken outside England was captured on February 2nd, 137 days ago in Bucharest. That span of time isn’t all that long, I know, but it is nevertheless now the longest period I have spent only in England since I started doing this blog: and I guess it is due to go on for a little while yet.
The nice people who put me up in Indonesia in November (UKSW in Salatiga) did want to hear from me again however, hence the webinar I did this morning — to an audience of 500+, according to the counter of ‘Participants’ at the bottom of the Zoom screen. I, on the other hand, just talked to a computer screen, as I have been doing for the last three months. Like the Premier League footballers who restarted their well-paid activities last night, I made do with a bunch of artificial ‘fans in the stand’, namely Clare’s Russian doll collection.
137 more days from now takes us until the end of October; will sanity have returned to the world by then? I’m not taking bets on it.
This is very Hebden Bridge. Strictly a one-person only library, however — which I guess at the present time is seen as healthy.
I did two things today which I have not done since 21st March — 1) get on a train 2) go to Manchester.
A tabloid headline seen yesterday exhorted me to “SHOP FOR BRITAIN!” and who am I to ignore the clarion call of the redtops? There weren’t many other people who accompanied me, as evident from this shot of the epicentre of the Manchester Arndale Centre, but I guess that’s something we should approve of, at this time of doublethink.
The beetle negotiates the wood crevasse, in its funny little helmet (where are its eyes?) and feeling the way ahead with that unicorn horn, which is so protuberant that here it’s become annoyingly just out of focus. I have no idea what species this is; it’s not a European rhinoceros beetle as it’s the wrong colour and we’re not supposed to have them in the UK anyway. It was about an inch (2.5cm) long.
Sunday. Nominally a day of rest. Time to take in a bit of nature and contemplate the meaning of life, or whatever else takes one’s fancy. Time to bag my first urban county top, hence why I dragged the family to Derby today, making this the city’s third appearance on the blog. But a good day was had. If only the pubs would open.
The redcurrants are getting there. Not that we get more than about two dozen of them annually, these days.
Despite everything, it’s still Friday night, the end of a working week, time to relax. What tattered remnants there are of our social life at this time are up in Old Town, so that’s where we headed, despite it being the wettest day for a long while.
Being 42 