From back to front: the big monument on Stoodley Pike; Heptonstall church; and the war memorial near Pecket Well, built in obvious mimicry of its bigger brother in the background. Nineteen and a half years I have lived here and until this week, had never been to this spot. Yet as with many days recently, there was a need for some leg-stretching: the guy walking his dog surely concurs.
The last time anyone other than myself or Joe was depicted on the blog was 4th January, the afternoon before Bojo the Clown put us all under house arrest again. Since then, portrait opportunities have been very rare. This can almost be considered a crowd by recent standards. Though even the dog now takes its lead from us and remains apart. Who’s going to actually start to rebuild the bridges? It won’t just happen.
The reason I came to Bath was to bag another of my County Top walks (see my other blog), the morbidly-named Hanging Hill. That was duly collected a few miles after taking this shot, from the ascent of Penn Hill, a slope of mud with a decent view of the city. During this climb I passed this dog walker, and his companion who seemed for some time to have decided that he was ditching his owner in favour of this new and more interesting person. You can’t just tell them you prefer cats, can you?
At the end of all this, how long before we are able to feel comfortable with each other again, physically close? Even the dogs are getting the message.
The evenings are just so long at the moment, at this latitude — the sun still comfortably high enough in the sky to give the flare to the left, even at 7.30. Plenty of light, I like it. I wish it was like this all year but I guess the axial tilt problem will always remain insoluble.
Beautiful morning today but a bloody cold one, with a sharp frost, clearly visible here. Well, that’s winter on the way then.
Slight reservations about posting this if only because there’ve been a lot of Hebden Bridge pictures this last few days. Off to Russia on Sunday however, to give this blog renewed international flavour.
Being 42 