OK, it’s another beach (after Monday), but Scotland is a country that does very good beaches — they’re just not very warm. This becomes the northernmost picture so far taken in the UK, a position it will retain until I finally make it to Shetland or Orkney. It will probably forever remain the northernmost picture taken on the mainland of Great Britain, at around 58º 36′ N.
A bit of a cheap shot perhaps, but when one spends most of the day on a motorway, there aren’t always many opportunities. This does give a reasonable impression of the weather conditions in which the drive was done. Abington has become a ‘service station of choice’, purely because of timing: by the time we reach there, somewhere in the wilds of South Lanarkshire, there always seems to be the need for a drink, or lunch, or a pee. Sometimes all three.
Off it goes across the Irish Sea, from Heysham, the sea wall of which I was stood on as I took this shot. The Isle of Man has not yet featured on this blog although I am due a visit at some point, to bag its County Top. Maybe next year… there is still time in my life, I feel.
Had things turned out differently I might have been in the Balkans today, but even though they did not, I am not bothered by this — which would not have been the case ten years ago. I guess I am more attuned to the enjoyment that can be had from the local area these days. Yes, even Rochdale railway station — like the rest of the region, bathed in cold but magnificent weather.
Today I, and around 250 other people, walked from Arnside to Grange-over-Sands — an easy, flat walk of about 5.5 miles. The complication is that between these two places lies the northern reach of Morecambe Bay, the largest expanse of intertidal land in Great Britain. But in that also lay the fun of the day — the chance to (safely) get a couple of miles away from permanently dry land, into a space that is neither one thing nor the other, a limbo state between land and sea — with a healthy dose of sky, too.
I deliberately cranked up the contrast on this shot because I like the way that all the people look like dashes of paint descending from a horizon that is insubstantial but definitely there. As if we are trapped within a sheet of glass, aware of the heavens above us but unable to reach them.
A glorious day today, spent entirely outside, getting healthy exercise. Work, in a formal sense, was just something other people were doing, and the day was all the better for it. I do not apologise for the Jesus & Mary Chain reference either, as no one should for referring to such a seminal musical beat combo.
The community of pigeons that live in Hebden Bridge town centre sometimes act as one, particularly when it comes to their group callisthenics. They take off en masse, circle round for a while, then all land again. This flock was so large that here you see both the ones nearby, and those in the distance, already further round the circuit. Military exercises spring to mind — the ducks must be worried.
More an abstract than anything else, today. Although the swallow (if that is what it was — it was certainly flying like one) gives it focus. I felt like putting up an evening shot, anyway: there have been very few of these in the last eighteen months. Nights out are a thing of the past. Mind you, 40,000 people could be accommodated in Wembley yesterday afternoon — but apparently, going out to the Trades Club is still considered ‘unhealthy’. Enough of this bullshit.
Now that’s a mackerel sky if ever there was one. A change in the weather is on the way…
This being a British summer, the balmy heat of Wednesday and Thursday has gone, and it’s raining again. It will do this until it feels like being different.
Old Town sits on the hills to the north of Hebden Bridge. In Christopher Saxton’s atlas of 1579, the first atlas of England and Wales ever published, it’s called The Old towne…. so it’s been around for a while.
Being 42 