Pleasant weather today, which was probably a good thing bearing in mind my need to reacclimatise. The Hebden Water was spilling rather gently over its weir near the centre of town. This is the usual heron-spotting location, but there were none here today.
Despite the various depredations of different kinds of Authority I am trying to affect a state of relaxation, and this gentleman, by the River Ouse in York, seems to be someone I can aspire to right now. I assume he’s not eaing the ‘ice cream for dogs’ though (see sign).
Aberdeen’s debut appearance on this blog was on 24th June 2015 with a picture of a bloke stood in the middle of the River Dee, presumably fishing. Six years and eleven months on, for all I know this is the same bloke, although he’s further downstream than before. Still, I stand by my first impression of that time: that this is a surprisingly attractive city, this river particularly: it’s hard to believe that this is very near the centre of a place with 200,000 inhabitants. The cars on the bridge are the only real hint of urbanity.
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.
To stop the walls closing in any more than they already are I’ve been making a point of sitting out in a spot by the river in the early evenings, when the weather allows. Just to take some air, watch the ducks (my post of a few days ago was taken from this same point), have a couple of beers. Feel human. Clare joined me for this one and so, for 15 minutes or so, did fellow ex-Railway habitué Bernard, who happened to be passing with a bottle of his own. We talked. As much as anything, we just enjoyed the fact we could see someone else’s face, for real.
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.
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.
There continues to just about be enough visual interest around my locality to keep this all going. Who knows how long it will be before Authority deigns to say that we can not just travel to other places, but stay there, and explore. Until then, let’s fake it. The thing I like about this shot is that there’s little sense of scale. This could be a substantial island just off the coast, with cliffs behind that are hundreds of feet high. Or, just a little rock in a stream, well lit. You decide.
More rain. The river is high, although I’ve seen it higher. Shelter seemed a sensible option this afternoon.
The lump in the background is the lower slope of Ben Nevis, highest mountain in Great Britain and something I have decided it is past time I hauled myself up. Thus, it is tomorrow’s target for a walk. Here’s hoping for somewhat better weather than we had this evening — but it is forecast to be… wish me luck.
Being 42 