Ahhh. Rubus plicatus, one of the countryside’s great free bounties. They have found evidence in the stomachs of prehistoric peat bog victims that we’ve been eating these beauties for thousands of years. Who am I to go against such tradition.
The 15:35 heads for Ravenglass station, beside the estuary of the river Esk. And then leaves again — without me on it — meaning, I am about to have a first night away from home in Hebden for 135 days, since my trip to Lincoln on March 10th. The walls of the valley were beginning to close in. Here, the vistas are much different. Variety is a good thing. It is good to be on holiday in this mad year.
I was resolved that today’s photo would depict a living person, after ten days of no one at all. And so it does, in part. Those of us still wishing to use the trains are doing so, casually.
Over the last 3,235 days of this attempt to document the rest of my life in pictures there have, of course, been plenty of days where I’ve just stayed at home and not really done much. But there hasn’t been such a concentrated run of such days, day after day after day where there is nothing happening outside. And on a day when it never stopped raining…. this swell of smoke, a bonfire presumably, really was about the most interesting thing seen all day (with apologies to the family).
By the end of this month we may have been able to visit a pub and go away for a few days. If you think either of these things is a bad thing… let’s just say I disagree with you.
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.
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.
I’m still trying to keep the step count up, but the weather turned rather grim. Being up on the moors above the town in squally drizzle made the exercise less pleasant than it might have been. But it kept me moving.
The moor here is a riot of cottongrass. I feel it comes out at the wrong time of year — it looks like it should be a December plant, a proxy for snow.
On Sunday our glorious leader Mr. Johnson will apparently announce, well, something: as eagerly awaited as the (absent) football results, this speech will define our fate for the next few weeks. My prediction — we will be let out to work, but not to play, a conclusion I somehow try to illustrate with these taped-up swings in the nearby playground. But who will admit that play creates work…. one of those ‘non-essential’ elements driving the economy and giving meaning to our lives? You can’t have one without the other.
The UK is now formally — but terribly politely — in a state of lockdown. I will not be leaving Hebden Bridge for a while. If this blog is to keep going, new insights will have to be found in familiar places. The words here are to be found on the stairwell up to Clare’s treatment room, shared with a private tutoring service (temporarily closed).
I had to go into Manchester today to pick up some things. This is the 611th photo on this blog that has been taken in the city — but quite possibly the last for some time, unless things change radically. But as you can see, social distancing was maintained. What my feelings are about the steps currently being taken are not relevant here: like I’ve done for the last 3,130 days, I will just do my best to document what I see.
Being 42 