"Ah, Mister Bond..."...

On a whim I went to see Spectre at the multiplex in Barrow. It was showing on so many screens that you could see it throughout the evening at half-hour intervals. The film had been feted by the critics, so I was looking forward to thrills and spills and putting my brain into neutral for a couple of hours.

It’s many years since I’ve seen a Bond film. The franchise goes back such a long way; as a late developer I was fast-tracked through puberty by watching Ursula Andress striding out of the surf in her white bikini. I remember Shirley Eaton painted gold from head to toe, Sean Connery’s sauve one-liners and Roger Moore acting with his eyebrows.

The plot of Spectre is paper-thin and preposterous, of course. But it starts at a good lick, with Daniel Craig bringing the house down during Day of the Dead festivities in Mexico. He has a brief dalliance with a woman old enough to be a Bond girl’s mother. Her age is a big deal, apparently, even though, in strict chronological terms, Ian Fleming’s Bond would be about 95 by now. Having changed the course of cinema history, simply by being a women in film who’s past the first flush of youth, she makes no further appearance.

Bond then hooks up with the daughter of a guy he went to kill (though the guy pre-empts the assassination attempt by blowing his own brains out). The girl, Dr Madeleine Swann, is a bit miffed about that, but not for long, and she and Bond remain ‘an item’ for the rest of the film. The sex is entirely off-screen, with an unacceptable nipple count of nil. The girl shows she can dismantle a handgun, shoot a few baddies and keep her clothes on… but she sashays sexily down a train corridor in a silky dress. Daniel Craig’s facial expression may not change from start to finish, but the outfits do. Even in the middle of the Moroccan desert, Bond and Dr Swann can lay their hands on neatly-pressed leisurewear.

The film boasts the usual rosta of chases - cars, speedboats, planes, helicopters - and a surprisingly low-key finale. I had to look away when Bond’s jaw is punctured by remotely controlled drill-bits, and there are three or four moments in the film when I jumped out of my seat. But on the whole it’s ‘business as usual’ for Bond, and my brain was still in neutral as I sat by the fire in the pub in Biggar village, on Walney Island…

Langdale slate...

 “Someone’s happy”, says the guy relieving himself at the far urinal. I hum to myself without even realising it, but at least I’m aware of the urinal etiquette. Men never talk about it; it’s just a behaviour we learn. When confronted by a row of urinals, most men will use the one on the far left or far right, which gives the next guy the opportunity to use the urinal on the other end. With more guys, things get more complicated, as this website indicates…

There is one rule that over-rides all others: don’t invade the invisible ‘buffer zone’. So if there’s just one guy using a urinal, you must never, ever use the one next to him. It can only end badly…

Trying to find pictures in gloomy light: silver birches growing out of the slate quarrying spoil heaps, in Langdale...

The River Brathay...

Windermere...

It’s not so bad getting old (and definitely better than the alternative, as Woody Allen used to say). I meet a lot of people on my travels, and first impressions count. So it’s gratifying to find that people are, on the whole, very friendly. With age I think I’ve reached a plateau. Men don’t find me a threat, so it’s handshakes all round, not raised fists. I can get away with saying a lot of things that might have got me into bother thirty years ago. Women don’t see me as a source of either pleasure or pain, and are happy to chat.

I drove from Cockermouth to Windermere this morning, through heavy rain all the way. There were ‘white horses’ on Thirlmere, and Bassenthwaite Lake looked gloomy; it’s definitely not sailing weather. With poor visibility, the hills disappeared into the mist, but there was still something special about the autumn colours. The weather’s supposed to improve about lunchtime, so I may get some pix. In the meantime I’m parked up, proof-reading…

I made a classic mistake this morning. I read, on the Guardian website, that a 16-year-old schoolboy, Daniel Stroud, is being held by police in connection with the stabbing of fellow pupil, Bailey Gwynne. At the top of the article was an unflattering photograph of a teenager, which I immediately assumed to be Daniel Stroud. “Yes”, I thought, “he looks like a bit of a bully”. Then I read the caption and realised it was the boy who died. How quickly we make baseless assumptions about people…

Candlestick...

Drove to Cockermouth today, having spent the night in Workington. I like Cockermouth (and not just for the enticing proximity of ‘cock’ and ‘mouth’). When it rains, locals must get nervous, because the town was flooded out in 2009. The shops in the broad main street have all re-opened, and many of them look even smarter than they did before the flood.

Years ago I photographed the ‘Candlestick’, overlooking Whitehaven harbour. I put the camera on the tripod as the light fell, and took a series of pix, every few minutes, for about an hour… until the ambient light was a deep royal blue, almost black. Though the illumination from the floodlights didn’t change, it seemed to get brighter as the ambient light receded. I re-did the shot last night. Not everyone would enjoy standing around, taking pictures in the gathering gloom, but it suits me…

Carlisle Castle...

Encounters...

Encounters tend to be brief, as I go from place to place, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re trivial. Met a guy this morning, in Bitts Park, Carlisle, who was walking two lively spaniel dogs. He got the dog when he lost his job, he said, and walks it every day. Today he was walking his neighbour’s dog too, and trying to keep their leads untangled. He had to hold both leads in one hand; he held out the other hand, which had stitches from the palm almost to the elbow. “Tendonitis”, he said, and hoped we’d meet again.

Ten minutes later, a man approached me, very hesitantly, on the street. “Could you…”, he said, and his voice trailed away. I gave him a pound, and he burst into tears. “I just wanted 60p”, he said. “I need to phone my dad, and I don’t have a mobile. It costs 60p to make the call, and everybody I’ve asked has just walked away”. He collapsed against the wall, and sobbed. I stayed there, in case he wanted to talk, but, after a minute, I shook his hand and walked away…

Moral dilemmas...

The nomadic life is full of moral dilemmas. When I filled up the Romahome this morning, I saw that by buying a copy of the Mail on Sunday, I could get a reduction on my fuel of 5p per litre. 50 litres @ 5p = £2.50. So I bought the newspaper, and came out of the deal about £1 ahead… though the transaction was so confusing to the lady behind the counter (and to me) that she needed to use her pocket calculator. It was rather too early on a Sunday morning for such high finance.

So far, so good… except I was now the owner of a copy of Britain’s worst newspaper. I couldn’t even give it away to another customer - and I tried - so I put it back in the rack with all the other papers. Owning a copy of the Daily Mail, even just for five minutes, made me feel a bit grubby.
  
Buying books from charity shops doesn’t usually create much moral conflict. Except for last week when I bought a book about birds from a charity shop run by the Cat Protection League. I also bought a book by Christopher Hitchins (with one of the all-time great titles: God is not Great) from a Christian charity bookshop. I’m conflicted. I wouldn’t normally give money to Cats or Christians if someone was shaking a tin…

The church at Greystoke is very big, but the congregation, these days, is very small. Small... and cold. So the vicar has installed a small marquee, in the south aisle, which can be kept toasty warm, throughout the winter months, with a couple of electric fan heaters at either end. The marquee will stay until the weather warms up next spring.

There are, I think, about 13,000 parish churches in the country, with most of them facing similar problems. I love old churches - the smaller the better - but, on the whole, they're surplus to requirements. I wonder how many churches will still be 'open for business' in fifty years time?

Clive James...

There’s a wintry feel to Penrith on a Saturday morning in the rain. With breakfast (and free wifi) provided by Oliver’s Tasty Bites, I read a short article, by Clive James, on the Guardian website. He has leukemia, so his writings these days have an elegaic air. When the future is curtailed, memories come to the fore; he looks out of the window, into the garden, where his Japanese maple tree is “in flame”. The bright red leaves conjure up a pleasant memory from fifty years ago. They also give him hope. “Last year”, he writes. “I saw the transformation as a sign of the end. Now I prefer to see it as a portent of spring”.

In the meantime he sees more acutely, and listens more intently; he sees things he probably wouldn’t have noticed in years gone by, when he was busy trying to make a name for himself.

This abilty to enjoy the ‘here and now’ is something we’re accustomed to hearing from people diagnosed with a terminal illness or who expected to die but were reprieved. The proximity to death makes them appreciate what they are about to lose (or what they nearly lost). We seem to accept that these feelings are conjured up only in exceptional circumstance, towards the end of life, when, in fact, they are available to anyone, anytime.

We have to want to see (that’s the easiest bit… and the hardest), and we have to be aware of what stops us seeing: hopes, dreams, memories, opinions, beliefs, convictions, certainties, the yearning for social status, to ‘be somebody’, to make our mark, etc. That’s the hardest bit… and also the easiest, since we keep these impediments in front of our eyes by an act of will. The moment we see them for what they are, gravity takes over… and they fall away, out of our line of sight. Are we willing to do without the beliefs and ideas that seem to make us what we are, even for just a short period of time? What will happen if we let go of them? Are we willing to find out?…

Booths...

After many years absence, breakfast seems to be back on the menu. I’m in Booths, in Ulverston, where, thanks to my Booths loyalty card, I can get a free cup of tea. That used to be the deal, but, apparently, people were going into the café for free tea and free wifi: hardly credible, I know. So now you have to buy something to eat before you get the free hot beverage. The next job, after scoffing my bacon sandwich, is to select the pix to go with this month’s articles, and send them off…

The inside of my head on a wet Friday morning...

Ticket...

A good way to start the day - like yesterday - is to make some picture sales. A bad way to start the day - like today - is to oversleep, in a car park in Ulverston, and get a parking ticket. I saw the traffic warden, goose-stepping around the car park, but too late…

I called in at the Leisure Centre, to see if any progress had been made on selling the concept of walking football to the locals. Apparently not. The guy said that only one guy had ever turned up - “a holidaymaker (ie me!) - and that the slot had been offered to a group of people with disabilities, who, with their carers, were now playing 5-a-side games.

I drove out of Ulverston and along the Coast Road, to a pull-in with a panoramic view across Morecambe Bay. The view isn’t strictly necessary, when I’m writing, but it’s calming to hear the sea and sea-birds. Also there’s a little café there - just a wooden shack - for take-away tea in paper cups...

Ulverston...

Ulverston, this evening...

Busy...

Busy writing articles, while the weather's poor, with a meal out in Halifax this evening. Then off to the Lakes for a few days, to get some autumnal pix...

Bedale...

Still in Bedale, while I finish off some articles. I find myself drawn to these little market towns, with their ginnels, alleyways, wide main streets and plentiful pubs. The pubs have a lot of character (the Wetherspooons corporation has yet to hoover up all the business) and, at 6pm on a Thursday, a cast of characters - mostly male - who seem to have nothing better to do than sit at the bar exchanging insults and pleasantries.

The women - in the Black Swan, at least - are busy putting up halloween decorations. Halloweeen is a event that’s passed me by: just another American import we’ve been sold. But everyone’s having such a good time, and the enthusiasm is infectious. Soon the pub is full of spiders, cobwebs, ghouls, ghosts, skulls, witches, broomsticks, other spooky stuff, and signs - Happy Halloween. Does anyone ever say that? The landlady’s son and daughter appear: the boy is dressed up, convincingly, as Count Dracula, with a cape, though he’s having trouble with the teeth. The girl has wings; maybe she’s a fairy. They’re both going to an early evening Halloween disco…

Harlow Carr...

Spent a productive morning at Harlow Carr, the RHS gardens near Harrogate, trying to capture some autumn colours. When I sat down, a robin flew onto the arm of the bench and started singing a tiny little song. The melody seemed to be for my benefit alone, because it seemed too quiet for any other creature to hear.

In Bedale now, uploading all the pix. A small market town is probably the best place to stay the night: easy to find a parking spot, free wifi and a bite to eat…

A close shave...

I drove away from my favourite Dales campsite this afternoon, and nearly caused an accident. I waited at the main road, near Grassington, while three caravans went by, right to left. When they slowed to a crawl, I looked right and left, saw nothing moving and moved out. I missed a car coming from the left… by inches. He didn’t brake. I didn’t brake. There were no skidmarks on the road. It was just luck that there wasn’t a collision… and it would have been all my fault. It was undramatic too. He didn’t hoot or stop; he just carried on as if nothing had happened.

By the time I reached Ilkley I didn’t feel like driving any further. So I parked up in the big car park in the middle of town, and I won’t be going anywhere till tomorrow morning. Just having a beer in Wetherspoons, to calm me down a bit. And count my blessings. An email just dropped in: I’m a grandad again. Another boy. That’s enough excitement for one day…

The canal basin at Sowerby Bridge...

Dog...

Met a couple at the Puzzle Hall Inn last night. They had a guide dog with them - a black labrador - though neither of them semed to be visually impaired. It turned out that they train guide dogs, one at a time. The training might take as much as two years, they said, before a dog was ready to be matched up with a blind person. I knew guide dogs had to be trained, but I never really thought about how it was done. And I had no idea how time-consuming it was. An interesting conversation (and a lovely dog)…

Puzzle Hall...

I was taking some pictures this morning, on the Rochdale Canal in Sowerby Bridge. The boss of the company that hires out the narrowboats passed me and said “Could send us some of the photos you take”. I said “What… for free?” He said “Yes… a lot of people send us photos. We always give them a credit if we use them”. I said “Well, my car’s over there. Maybe you’d like to wash it for me. And then I’ll tell people what a good job you did”.

A lovely day, though I didn’t take as many pix as I should have done. People were sitting out in their gardens, and butterflies were flitting from flower to flower. It’s October masquerading as August.

I took the opportunity, when staying at my favourite Yorkshire Dales campsite, to upgrade the software on my iMac and laptop, and now I can’t send emails. They’re coming in… but when I try to send an email, I’m asked for the password… which is then rejected… leaving my emails pinioned and resolutely earthbound. So if you emailed me, and are awaiting a reply, my apologies. I Googled the problem and it seems I’m not alone. That’s vaguely reassuring. If it’s a known issue, then Apple will presumably be working on a patch for OS 10.11.2 .

Off, now, to one of my favourite pubs - the Puzzle Hall Inn - hoping there might be a bit of live music. There seem to be a lot of smart new pubs in the town, so hopefully the Puzzle will still be a grubby, aspiration-free zone serving a decent pint of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord…

Success… There’ll be music later on. ‘Swamp rock”, I’m told. Can’t wait…

Bridge on the Rochdale Canal...

Campsite...

Staying in my ‘go to’ campsite in Wharfedale. They know me, seem tolerably pleased to see me and I get the special ‘old geezer’ rate. I’ve upgraded computer software and uploaded loads of pix - it’s handy having a few hours of dependable wifi - and my clothes are in the on-site washing machine.

I recall staying in a campsite in Hampshire: really just a farmer’s field, with few facilities. The farmer came by to collect my pitch fee. “Do you think you’ll ever stay here again?, he asked. “Definitely”, I said. “Then I’ll just charge you the ‘regulars’ rate"…

Posters in Redcar...

Thirsk...

Parked up in the cobbled square, Thirsk. I watch as one more small town wakes up. Shops are opening up, starting with the greengrocer. Guys are round to empty the bins and sweep the streets; they wear flourescent tabards - green and orange - which, ironically, make them almost invisible. I’ve often wondered if I should buy a day-glo tabard. It might have the same effect on me - like an invisibility cloak - which would be very useful when I'm taking 'people pix'…

Hull Marina...

Guisborough...

I popped into the parish church at Guisborough yesterday, just to have a look round. There were some mothers and kids there - it looked like a play session - so I walked past them down the nave of the church. A couple of elderly ladies smiled, but a third lady looked horrified, like I’d walked into the church bollock naked. She rushed up to me and started jabbering about CRB checks, etc. She said she’d have to go and find someone “to accompany me” if I wanted to look around the church. I can’t remember what I said; I know what I would have liked to have said… but I’ve never sworn in church, and I hope I never will. I just turned around and walked out. What the hell is wrong with us?…

Just noticed that I've passed last year's stock pic sales, both in terms of number of licenses and total revenue. So, after a couple of years of falling prices, the price-per license seems to have stabilised. Thank goodness...

Redcar...

Wound up in Redcar today: about as far north as I'll be going, 'cos I'm seeing friends in Scarborough tomorrow. I was lucky with the light on Redcar beach, and with this horse and trap racing through the shallows...

I bought a whippy cornet from a lady in an ice cream van on the promenade. She seemed very cheerful. “It’s the beautiful view”, she said, gazing out to see. “But I don’t like the wind turbines”. The turbines looked fantastic, I thought; the odd light made them seem very close. “Would you like raspberry sauce?”, she asked. Of course.

It reminded me of my days in a Mr Whippy van, doing the rounds in Leeds. The Guiseppe brothers, Mario and Johnny, used to give every driver a waxed paper cup (they kind they served sundaes in) filled with Martini before we toook our van out. Maybe it was to wake us up and get us going. My patch was a big estate in Seacroft, and, to make any money, I had to get round before any of my competitors.

The kids used to call me Chucky Man (not sure why). The cry would go up - “Chucky Man’s ‘ere” - and the kids would gather round. I gave them free ice cream on their birthday, though birthdays seemed to come round remarkably quickly. I’d answer their questions. “Eh, Chucky Man”, they’d say, “why are you always eating ice cream?” Because it was so damn good, that’s why, especially after a joint. “Chucky Man, how much is a fourpenny cornet?” “Can I have some broken wafers for ’t baby?”…

Flood barrier...

A cloudy morning in Whitby, so I’m busy editing pix…

The flood barrier in Hull...

Hull again...

Over the Humber Bridge and back in Hull. I’m revising my opinion of the place, having explored the old parts of town, where there are some great pubs, full of character…