Last sale of the year...

Licensed this pic today of The Bear in Crickhowell. I failed to match the sales in 2016 (5 pix short), but, looking on the bright side, sales have been good since the autumn...

Portpatrick...

The sun made a rare appearance, so I spent a few hours photographing the little town of Portpatrick, on the Atlantic coast. I saw half a dozen black guillemots in the harbour. It’s hard to imagine any birds better adapted to marine life, and they were so animated: not mating, but dancing - pirouetting - around each other.

On a whim I took the ferry to Bute - it took just half an hour - adding to the list of Scottish Islands I’ve visited. The weather may be grim, but it’s still fun to explore…

Global warming...

The year almost past, 2017, is the first in which the most powerful person on the planet has been an internet troll with a Twitter account. As snow comes to the east coast of the USA, Donald Trump writes that the country “could use a little bit of that good old Global Warming that our Country, but not other countries, was going to pay TRILLIONS OF DOLLARS to protect against”…

Sensitivity

Wise words in my email inbox this morning, from Krishnamurti...

"The so-called saints and sannyasis have contributed to the dullness of mind and to the destruction of sensitivity. Every habit, repetition, rituals strengthened by belief and dogma, sensory responses, can be and are refined, but the alert awareness, sensitivity, is quite another matter. Sensitivity is absolutely essential to look deeply within; this movement of going within is not a reaction to the outer; the outer and the inner are the same movement, they are not separate. The division of this movement as the outer and as the inner breeds insensitivity. Going within is the natural flow of the outer; the movement of the inner has its own action, expressed outwardly but it is not a reaction of the outer. Awareness of this whole movement is sensitivity"...

Stranraer...

Considering the dire weather, I enjoyed my brief exploration of the Rhins of Galloway peninsular, from Stranraer down to the lighthouse at the tip: the Mull of Galloway. I wound up in in a little one-horse town called Drummore, and ventured into the pub. My cricket sweater is proving to be a good starter of conversations, as people wonder why some old geezer appears to be impersonating a cricketer. I tell them that, since England are doing so badly in the Ashes, I’m waiting for that phone-call from the chairman of selectors, asking if I could fly out to Australia and play in the next test. I got into an animated conversation with the locals at the bar, which made for a convivial evening.

This morning I drove to Portpatrick, another little town on the Atlantic coastline, with an attractive harbour, and I’m now back in Stranraer, parked up with a sea view. If the rain relents, I might go back to Portpatrick tomorrow and take some pix. If not, I’ll carry on writing the book… like I did today…

Fairytale of New York...

Christmas has finally arrived, and it feels pointless to wheel out my objections. They’ve all been said before, and sound as drearily predictable as Roy Wood’s probably certifiable request in wishing “it could be Christmas every day”. Most people seem to hold two contradictory ideas in their heads at once. They resent the stress and expense of the festivities, while demanding that Christmas this year is exactly the same as it was last year and the year before that. No wonder Christmas can inflict so much psychic damage.

I feel sorry for those who have been subjected to non-stop Christmas music for the last six weeks. There’s only one Christmas song I enjoy hearing, and I’m happy to hear it at any time of year: "Fairytale Of New York" by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl. I can’t hear this bittersweet lament without wiping away a tear.

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me,
Won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars
Big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old

When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on the corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing 'Galway Bay'
And the bells are ringing
Out for Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead
On a drip in that bed

You scumbag
You maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God
It's our last

The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing 'Galway Bay'
And the bells are ringing
Out for Christmas day

I could have been someone
Well, so could anyone
You took my dreams
From me when I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing 'Galway Bay'
And the bells are ringing
Out for Christmas day…

Here's the story of how the song was written, and here's the song itself (and original video)…

Map...

St Bees...

Drove from Barrow up the Cumbria coast. Tourists don’t come here (why cross the Lake District to visit Workington?), but I rather enjoy the ‘back of beyond’. Stopped last night in St Bees and had a pint in the Oddfellows Arms. They were having a sort of kareoke evening, but without any backing tracks: just pissed blokes ‘singing’ into a microphone. It was as bad as it sounds (yet still not as bad as hearing Noddy Holder yell “It’s Christmaaaaaas” for the millionth time)...

Waterhead again...

Waterhead...

I dusted down the camera for a few hours of mist and sunlight at Waterhead...

Ready...

“Are you ready for Christmas?”, she asked. The correct response is to clap your hands over your face and wail that, no, you’re nowhere near ready, and you’re heading for a festive breakdown. You’re not supposed to say “yes” - too smug - or suggest that you don’t do Christmas at all…

The religious mind...

Today's insight from Jiddhu Krishnamurti...

"The religious mind is something entirely different from the mind that believes in religion. You cannot be religious and yet be a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Buddhist. A religious mind does not seek at all, it cannot experiment with truth. Truth is not something dictated by your pleasure or pain, or by your conditioning as a Hindu or whatever religion you belong to. The religious mind is a state of mind in which there is no fear and therefore no belief whatsoever but only what is... what actually is"...

A day in Barrow...

I'm lucky to be in Barrow-in-Furness. There seems to be a bit of ‘play’ in the Romahome steering, and I want to get it sorted before I put too many more miles on the clock. I’ve left it at the Citroen Garage in town, where I’ve had work done before. So I have a day in Barrow, with my camera, laptop and radio (England are still ‘holding their own’ in the Perth test match)…

If anyone searches the Alamy database, with the words 'dogshit' + 'windfarm', I'll expect a sale...

Third test...

When days look a bit grim, and winter stretches out so very far ahead, I remind myself that I don’t have to wear a Christmas jumper or negotiate the festive pitfalls of an office party. Full of cold, so an early night beckons. The test match starts in a few hours, so I hope to be listening to Alistair Cook and Joe Root taking the Aussie bowlers to the cleaners. I can dream…

Ulverston...

As a rule of thumb I assume that the interior of the Romahome stays about 5℃ warmer than outside. Woke up this morning to find that, according to my thermometer, the cabin was a chilly -1℃, and the temperature outside was, as anticipated, an arctic -6℃. Thankfully I have a good sleeping bag and duvet. I drove to Ulverston this morning, keeping to the main roads; this is not a good moment to follow the satnav lady’s whimsical choice of ungritted by-ways. Having breakfast in the café at Booths. The cabin is now 20℃, and I plan to get some writing done.

My nomadic existence has at least one unanticipated consequence: I’ve come to realise that mild asceticism helps to keep the mind active. If I was living in a warm, comfortable house I’d just sink into a sofa and never get up…

Hull, Helen & Halifax...

Spent the weekend with Helen in Halifax. Good to be in the warm while the temperatures are plummeting. The weather, though cold, doesn't look too bad, so I'm heading for Cumbria...

Bramhope Tunnel...

Licensed this pic today: the memorial to the 24 men who died while constructing the Bramhope Tunnel, on the Harrogate railway line. The monument, a faithful replica of the tunnel’s northern entrance, with crenellated towers, is in Otley churchyard…

Fine dining...

Stopped for a snack at another lay-by diner; made out of a shipping container, it has an air of permanence. Instead of racist banter they had a baffling menu. I didn’t ask what a ‘Spam Tower’ was, and settled instead for a crispy bacon sandwich and a mug of tea. I’m a big fan of these roadside cafés. They’re cheap, cheerful and serve generous portions; best of all there’s no dress code…

A great little pub, at the scruffy end of town: the Whalebone, Hull...

Kate Rusby...

Had a couple of days in Sunny Halifax, seeing Helen, other chums and Kate Rusby, who was appearing at the Victoria Theatre. None of us were aware that it was a Christmas show… until we saw the life-sized Rudolph the Reindeer on the stage. No problem; Christmas carols represent the acceptable face of the festive season, and Kate - and her band - rattled through a repertoire of (mostly) lesser-known carols and Christmas songs (though three different versions of While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night was probably two versions too many). Some of the songs were augmented by a brass section, which helped to provide a Christmassy ambience. The band came back for an encore, all dressed up for a nativity scene; Kate, with wings and a halo, was the archangel Gabriel.

It was a very enjoyable evening, though I wish she’d just sing the songs and forget about the between-song banter, which isn’t very funny or interesting. She’s long been a purveyor of unamusing anecdotes, which just kill the moods which the songs evoke; it’s a shame that no one told her, years ago, to concentrate on what she does best…

Choir in the Piece Hall, Halifax... raising money for Overgate Hospice...

Breakfast...

Stopped for breakfast at my favourite provider of tea, bacon sandwiches and mildly racist banter, who operates from a van parked in a lay-by between Skipton and Keighley. The flag of St George hanging limply above the van is a code to inform the traveling public that salty language is acceptable - even encouraged - and that no conversational topic, no matter how misogynistic, is off-limits…

The Maritime Experience...

I wasn’t sure if sales in 2017 would match 2016, but November ended well and December started even better. The 16 pix licensed yesterday represents my best haul for one day, and gives me hope for buoyant sales in 2018…

Another shot from Hartlepool...

Session...

In Knaresborough last night. It was good to be in a cosy little pub, while the snow was whipping around outside, and some local musicians were having a session...