Another day with not much happening. But at least it marks the end of the present stint of work — I am now off until the start of August. I doubt this will lead to any radical changes in the content of this blog, at least not immediately. Although it would be nice to see people feature more — there have been no people at all, even in the background of shots, for ten days now.
From Wednesday this week I am off work for the rest of the month. But until that day is reached, I am like this pen. Just about still functioning but there’s very little left in the tank.
Now the pubs have reopened, dogs are once again obliged to spend their Sundays wondering why their owners are not letting them just clamber over everyone else in the beer garden. This one has given up on it all, and decided just to keep a close eye on the piece of litter: before it dozed off, anyway.
If you’ve ever been to the city of Newcastle, you will be plenty familiar with the River Tyne, which flows through the place like a big fat worm, and is spanned by a multitude of bridges.
This, however, is the baby Tyne: a mere infant in swaddling clothes, pictured a couple of miles south of the village of Garrigill in Cumbria, and as near the middle of nowhere as one tends to get in England. I think it’s rather cute.
When the sun shines, we all deserve to perch on a fern somewhere and stretch out at 5.25pm on a Friday evening. Lockdown or no, it’s been a busy week. And butterflies have a lot still to do.
In Yorkshire parlance a ‘ginnel’ is a narrow, pedestrian alley, and this is a definitive example of the genre. Not in Hebden Bridge, but Sowerby Bridge, where I went today largely for something to do to break the monotony.
The message on the one side is clear enough — but the bin? More proof that others are starting to lose it thanks to lockdown? Or perhaps they have always been the same.
Well into our fourth month of paranoia and I (and this jackdaw) can’t be the only ones looking like this. I remain just about functional in a technical sense, but I’m just pointing my camera at things at the moment rather than being creative. There is so little to appeal about the world right now.
The scarecrow itself is long gone. But its boots remain, like a sort of imprint, or memory. I doubt they’ll scare the birds off much. But then again, nor do scarecrows, particularly.
Plenty of rain over the last few days has swelled Yorkshire’s rivers, including the Wharfe: and high winds last night and today presumably have brought this big chunk of tree down into it somewhere upstream of the weir at Wetherby, which is where this picture is taken. For now, it waits here… doubtless to continue its journey toward the sea once the next swell takes it over the lip.
Being 42 