I know I am not the only one to whom this has happened, but I have lost all the little things, outside my immediate home, that gave my life pleasure. Except one — and that one thing is walking, experiencing the countryside. I spent the day reading, planning, looking forward. That’s a large part of the fun, in fact.
And yes, I need the reading glasses to do it. So they can take their rightful place on the stage.
I reckon that under these circumstances, everyone is getting to know their immediate local environment better than they might have done last year. Reached through the woods near my house, the meadows on the upper terraces of the valley, near Old Town, are currently a riot of buttercups. Their yellow carpet is a more natural version of those blankets of oil-seed rape that one gets in more arable districts: and more pleasing, somehow.
And so it has come to this after eight weeks of lockdown — abstract shapes in the washing-up bowl. And on a Friday evening too. But they are pleasing shapes, at least to me.
The plum tree in the garden is warming up for one of its summers of abundance. It has hundreds of these little plumlets happily soaking up the sunshine. If you want fresh plums, come see us in August. Hell, you might even be able to travel by then.
Since I paid a visit to Manchester on 21st March, every picture on here has been taken in the county of Yorkshire, but I am not ‘staying at home’ and nor, any longer, am I supposed to be. Garrowby Hill is the highest part of Bishop Wilton Wold, and the trees shown here stand on the highest point of the old East Riding of Yorkshire, meaning this is number 11 of my county top collection. I passed three people all day at no greater risk to my health than I suffer from simply reading the news at the moment.
When I came home after this walk, Clare was upset as an old family friend has committed suicide. Already depressed, lockdown was for him the last straw and he hanged himself. What did ‘Stay Home, Stay Safe’ mean for him? How many more of these hidden tragedies will there be, lost in the chaos but no less real than the ones that make the statistics?
We need to restart our lives and our economy, and right soon. ‘Zero risk’ does not exist.
One could say it’s a paradox that we have chosen to help sustain the good health of the public by closing pretty much all the facilities which exist to help one stay healthy. But it’s not a paradox — it’s simply evidence of how bollixed up everything is at the moment.
Another photowhack — they are coming (relatively) thick and fast under lockdown. I like the random arrangement of rectangles, but perhaps I am reaching.
Under conditions of day-to-day repetition it’s nice to have reasons to select shots. This mirror selfie makes it because I realised it has become the 42nd self-portrait to feature on here — and the number 42 has been highlighted whenever and wherever it appears. So you can now see that I am in sore need of a haircut, like many other people. There are worse consequences of the present farce, of course.
With greatly inferior weather to yesterday, and little else available to bring pleasure to a Sunday, so we turned to another one of the board game stash, stripping a developing country of its natural resources in the pursuit of profit. Simulated, of course. Joe won — what that suggests for the future of the world, I have no idea.
The outdoors is good. The outdoors is healthy. And it always will be.
The white dots that speckle this whole image are not the result of some camera fault. They are dandelion seeds, storms of which blew over Hebden Bridge this evening, as they have for a few days now. The warm, dry weather is bringing them out but also, this year, there are not so many lawns being mowed regularly — not the public ones, anyway. Perfect conditions for them, then. There will be some allergies being born at the moment I can tell you.
Being 42 