The second somewhat abstract shot in a row of some part of the country’s transport network — though a quite different one to yesterday’s. And I picked it before remembering that I depicted the Rochdale canal only the other day. Never mind. I like the asymmetrical scene here, as the excess water comes over the lock gates by the end of Holme Street in town.
This is definitely a stock shot, but what the hell. The Rochdale Canal is definitely worth a regular viewing, particularly at the peak of autumn.
Not the Rochdale canal, as is usually depicted on here — today it is the Huddersfield Narrow Canal, which follows its previous appearance (22/3/2015) with a shot that may be equally pleasing to traditionalists. In the depths of August, a small boy (well, OK, about 12-13) casts his line for sport. Get it while it lasts, kid, in a couple of weeks you’ll be back at school. Then again, so will I. (Actually the HNC has been on three times now: the other was 21/9/19.)
Even in Manchester, the Rochdale Canal usually looks a bit more aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps this is an accidental draining — it happens, people sometimes leave locks open. Or there is some big clean-up about to happen. Future archaeologists will love all this crap. Meanwhile, the runner on the left ponders whether a) he will be allowed to proceed more than another few yards and b) whether he is about to step on a pigeon.
15th July is the feast day of St Swithin, and according to the legend, if it rains on St Swithin’s Bridge in Winchester on this day it will rain for another 40 days. Apparently there is a certain basis for this: this is about the time of year when the jet-stream kind of settles in and decides where it is going to sit for the rest of the summer: over Britain (we get wet) or to the north of it (we stay dry)? I don’t know what the weather was like in Winchester today but in Hebden it was chucking it down, the wettest day for months, let alone weeks. If the legend is true let me be the first to come out with that old chestnut, “That’s the summer over.”
Attending to the roof does seem to be his primary task, going on the strip of felt that is either not yet attached to the front, or is partway through being removed. It’s a fairly low-power way to house oneself, I imagine — and maybe in a few years time, once AI eats 95% of all electricity generated, anywhere, many more of us will be having to engage with it. (Note: not one pixel nor letter of this or any other of my blogs has been generated by AI, nor ever will be.)
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.
The wife was doing her latest excessively long bout of exercise, as she trains up for her second marathon in April. 22 miles today I believe. 9 miles in, our paths crossed briefly, then, off she went eastwards.
The last few days have been very cold. Even this morning there was still plenty of snow on the ground. But the temperature rocketed upwards today, to 11º or 12ºC, and it rained quite heavily, thus taking out all the snow and filling all available drainage — including the river and, seen here, the canal — almost to overflowing. Three more hours after this picture was taken and all the remaining snow was gone, as if it had never been.
Clare has just said: “That name really doesn’t suit anything else about that picture, does it?” And this observation doesn’t even account for the way the dog started snapping at the swans a few minutes later. But that’s why I chose the shot.
Being 42 