This is the kind of photo that only really works if I’ve got the pitch truly horizontal; I think I have. There wasn’t much else to this venue apart from this view taken as I was leaving, but it sums it up reasonably well.
A healthily-stocked larder, at least, if you are a spider. It’s like our plums — you keep them for later. Bridge no. 17 is the one at Black Pit Lock on the Rochdale Canal, in Hebden Bridge town centre.
I did follow England’s efforts in this morning’s World Cup Final, but I didn’t go watch it anywhere organised, I don’t like watching football on the TV whomever is playing. But they lost, so in lieu of pictures of any celebrations, here is an indication that August might finally be giving summer a go. I don’t know what these flowers are, sorry, but there are plenty of them blooming down by the market at the moment.
It was still there when I passed it again in the early evening, too. Shocking, what is the world coming to, etc etc.
After yesterday’s smorgasbord of photo opportunities, today was the first photowhack for a while — that is, this was the only picture I took today. But it is representative; the plum tree is needing some serious attention at the moment. Current rates of production are over a kilogram, or 2.5 pounds, every day. If you want some plums, take them off our hands, please.
I established today that over the last two years I have made frequent promises, on both my walking blogs, that I would soon be going back up Helvellyn, which at 3,117 feet above sea level is the third-highest mountain in England, and which first featured on here in December 2011. Today, finally, I made it and it was well worth it. This was the first walk to count as both a Wainwright and County Top walk; so including this picture, three blogs for the price of one. Am I overdoing it? No, I don’t think so.
Is it a happy, friendly sun or is it a grimacing demon, its head sprouting flame? I’m assuming the former. Not sure why I liked this little corner this morning, but I did. To top left, the ’42’ guy pops another tag into the blog, as well.
I said yesterday that grim as it was, the forecast was for improvement, and the sun duly shone on me and 309 other people who spent their Tuesday evening at the ground of Trafford FC, a few miles west of Manchester city centre. Perhaps not the biggest club located in their metropolitan borough (I’m sure most people could name the biggest if they thought about it for a minute): but a friendly one. I chose this shot today because of the excellent rim-light, but also the woman laughing in the middle. At least — I think she’s laughing.
The uneventfulness of today was largely determined by this crap. Really, what’s the point in facing it? It is forecast to improve, so I just got on with stuff indoors.
Clare, on the right, has her membership card ready for action. The movie, as the title of the post indicates, was Oppenheimer: which is a decent movie, I’ll acknowledge that, but I’ve stopped thinking that any film needs to be three hours long. (Though these three hours were definitely better than the three hours of my life that Beau is Afraid is never giving back.)
Being 42 