Anyone in Britain will tell you that the weather over the last two days has been extremely pleasant. I’m off work for a while, too. I think the relaxed appearance of these lambs is something I can identify with. Mum? Well, she’s just knackered.
“Lately, the humans have been conspicuous by their absence, don’t you think dear?”
“Indeed. There’s this bloke with the long hair who often hangs out by the riverside. But I think he’s harmless.”
“I agree. That’s why we let him take these close-ups.”
This is not the first time that I have photographed evidence that the fake owls that stand on some of the buildings in Hebden Bridge fail to deter the pigeons in any way. But it is the first time I have caught one with a pigeon actually sat on its head. The humiliation is complete.
Hollingworth Lake is a reservoir, and for 200 years has also been a sort of strange, inland beach resort, where thousands of people once flocked on weekends — something that can still seem as if it’s the case. Even at 9.35 on a Sunday, early morning sunshine had brought lots of people out today, including me (because it’s healthy). The birdlife didn’t really care however. They watch us, just as we watch them, I am sure.
Walking down to the station in the morning I noticed a commotion by the side of the road, heard desperate cawing. I thought at first it was a bird with a broken wing, flapping around, maybe having been hit by a car. Then I saw what it actually was. It will be forever regretted that the focus ended up on the wall and not the hawk; I only got the one shot off before it picked up the starling (I think) in its talons and flew off to enjoy its breakfast. But other than that slight lack of focus I can’t complain too much about this one. Surely there is a detectable look of pride on its face. I am also reminded of this picture: which William Blake/Thomas Harris fans will recognise.
Media rhetoric suggests we should all be grateful that Our Glorious Leaders have announced a ‘roadmap’ out of lockdown but none of that changes the fact that for now, and for weeks yet, there’s nothing to do. The ducks continue to have a far better social life than us, At least the evenings are getting lighter, the days (a little) warmer.
The sun was definitely out this afternoon. Spring feels like it’s in the post, and once it does break out in full I doubt many people will be staying at home, whatever the powers say. I think it is a birch tree at the bottom of the garden that’s broken out this rash of catkins since I was last up there.
“Whaddya mean, in nine and a half years you’ve never had a pig on this blog thing of yours?”
“Nope, never.”
“I wanna be FIRST. (Oink.)”
These are little light bulbs, surely; strung up by Whomever to anticipate of the coming of spring. Will this be one of those years where it arrives and stays, or one where we don’t see it until May? The fun thing is, in Britain, you never can be sure.
Life plods on, with little to do for entertainment except watch the local birdlife. The gulls (you can’t really call them seagulls: here, we’re about as far as you can get from the sea in northern England) seemed this afternoon to be making an intervention, for one side or the other, in the ongoing pigeon-duck war. This one uses a street light as a vantage point, moments before swooping down to pick up some spoils.
Being 42 