This post does not plough untouched furrows of excitement, I know, but then again, nor will January 2021 I suspect. Consider it an abstract; the smoothness of the apples contrasted with the sharp edge of the break. If you like.
Amongst its other functions, this blog serves to record the weather patterns, and neither of the last two winters (2018/19, 19/20) have seen any real snow. The last truly white period, at least where I have been, was in March 2018. Today wasn’t a frozen apocalypse, but it did mean that 2021 has already seen more snow in Hebden Bridge — or, here, Mytholmroyd, just down the road — than the last two calendar years combined. I’m not objecting. It does provide good photography material.
2021 has limped into existence, and whatever else it brings, it will see the 10th anniversary of this blog (on 26th August). I make no predictions for the year, but I have made some resolutions, mainly that I will continue to live my life in the way that I need to in order to sustain my physical and mental health, whatever obstacles are placed in the way. That’s what it’s about isn’t it? Health? So we are being told, anyway.
This is the Strid, near Bolton Abbey in Yorkshire; one of the north of England’s natural wonders although the reason for this is not immediately apparent on this shot. The river is the Wharfe, and it’s fairly sizeable at this point, where it flows through a band of limestone. Above and below this gorge it is over 10 metres wide. So how does it squeeze itself through this defile, so narrow one could almost cross it with a stride — hence the name? The answer lies below: concealed by the water is a fearful chasm, undercut with potholes and very deep. Fall in here and I wouldn’t fancy your chances.
With parties forbidden — by law — there was little to do except go for another walk as a way of trying to see the world. All in all, a fungus-ridden slab of dead wood seems to be a suitable metaphor for the last day of 2020. So be it.
My favourite photo of the year? Well, there have been fewer opportunities, all told, for creativity but I do like the one of the fox I took above Kentmere, Cumbria, on 4th March. I couldn’t believe that when I first saw it, it did not flee from me, but sat down to keep an eye on me (almost certainly because there were cubs nearby). It was certainly a poser, as foxes go.
Without even having to be subtle about it, the moronocracy have ensured not a single pub nor place of entertainment will be open for New Year’s Eve anywhere in the UK, so I don’t feel 2020 is really ending — it will go on to infect our future for years to come. It’s going out cold, too: this was probably the coldest day of the year. This view from the upper reaches of my house has appeared on the blog many times before but it’s a useful mainstay, and on this one I like the addition of the headlights of the car caught heading up Birchcliffe Road.
A slight dusting of snow in the morning, nothing serious but in Britain it’s the kind of thing that leads to everything getting cancelled, meaning I couldn’t attend my planned football match this evening and thus get 11 different places in 11 days. There are still things to see at home, however. Which, looking back on 2020, is just as well, isn’t it?
Our Christmas tiered tour (it’s a Bojo the Clown thing) of central and eastern England continued, and ended, at Southwell in Nottinghamshire. A place to break the homeward journey, thanks to it being a very small town with a very large church, the Minster. These carvings rest on the wall of the bishop’s palace, facing the churchyard. Purely decorative? Or perhaps a warning, the petrified remnants of excommunicated souls? There are only these two. Going monochrome fits their age but also disguises the distracting bright green flash of moss to bottom centre.
Seven new places in seven days — a blog record. (Easton-on-the-Hill, Cromer, Norwich, Beeston Regis, Wells-next-the-Sea, Horsey and Southwell.)
“Oh, hello, Ms Grey. Lovely day for the time of year.”
“Indeed, Ms. Brown. The good weather’s brought the humans out, too.”
“Yes, I hear this is one of the best spots in Norfolk to see humans. Ah well, time for a swim.”
More than the hills and relatively extensive views seen yesterday, this is how I expected the Norfolk coast to look. Maybe the weather wasn’t quite as good as it seems here, but those are the benefits of post-processing.
What ho, it’s Christmas. I try to get out on a walk on this day if possible: seems somehow more respectful (to myself, as much as anything) to do more than just consume. There’s even a Christianity reference here thanks to the well-sited church. Though what the giant cotton bud is doing out in the North Sea I do not know. For more pictures from today see my County Tops blog. And a happy Christmas to you all, whatever you were doing, however you celebrated it, in this particular time.
Being 42 