Pit ponies...

So Formula 1 is getting rid of ‘grid girls’ (AKA ‘pit ponies’): glamorous young women paid to dress well, smile a lot and act as clothes horses for the display of sponsors’ logos.

Sean Bratches, a managing director at commercial operations at Formula One, said: “While the practice of employing grid girls has been a staple of Formula one grands prix for decades, we feel this custom does not resonate with our brand values and clearly is at odds with modern-day societal norms”.

I’m fascinated that Formula 1 has any ‘values’ at all, unless burning fossil fuels in vast quantities can really be called a ‘value’. Apart from that, I’m conflicted. It seems a bit old-fashioned to employ girls to be ogled. On the other hand, I’ve heard women reminiscing, saying that it was one of the best jobs they’d ever had…

Personally, I think they should have kept the women and dispensed with the cars…

My last pic license of the month: springtime in Borrowdale...

Latterbarrow...

Licensed this 'selfie' today (good price too), taken at Latterbarrow, one of the woodland reserves managed by Cumbria Wildlife Trust...

Coventry...

I had a good time in Coventry over the weekend, socialising with Chas, his tenants and chums. There’s a definite springtime vibe in the air, which no doubt presages snow next week…

Radio...

Having found £45 in Scottisn notes at the bottom of my camera bag, I went on a spending spree. I’ve been wanting to upgrade my DAB radio, for better sound quality, though I also wanted one that had a rechargeable battery. There aren’t many radios which operate like this, but Sony do one. The Sony XDR-P1DBP (snappy name!) may be tiny, but it sounds great. Louder too, if I want. Love it...

Thirsk...

Stayed in Thirsk over the weekend: not quite snowed in, but as good a place as any while the roads were icy…

Sad to hear that Jimmy Armfield has died. As well as being a great footballer for Blackpool and England (though injury forced him out of the 1966 World Cup team, being replaced by George Cohen), he worked as a summariser for Radio Five Live. He had the kind of reassuring voice you don’t hear much any more during football commentaries. He knew his stuff, but was unfailingly modest, and seldom had a bad word to say about anybody. He never resorted to mirthless ‘banter’, like so many ex-players going into the media. A real gentleman...

Hawes...

I read an entertaining article in the Guardian, about match-winning (or match-saving) last wicket stands. When recalling the great exploits of my own cricket career, I’m not overwhelmed by choice. But here’s one…

When I started playing for a team in North Leeds, it was called Cardigan Road Methodists (a lot of the teams we played were attached to churches). By the time I left Leeds the name had been condensed to Cardigan Road, because, though we had a Sikh playing for us, we no longer had any Methodists. Most of our cricket was played locally, in North Leeds suburbs or the surrounding villages. We also had a few regular fixtures further afield.

A favourite fixture was Hawes, in Wensleydale. It was a proper day out for all the family, and cricketers enjoyed playing against a backdrop of Pennine hills rather than smoke-blackened mill chimneys. The only downside was that it took an hour and a half to get there. On this particular occasion - it must be forty years ago - we batted first. Disastrously we found ourselves reduced to 23 for 9. After driving all the way up the Dales, it looked like the game would be over in an hour. The only bulwark against utter humiliation was me, walking out to bat at number 11, and my bowling partner batting number 10 (I didn’t used to score many runs; having one eye probably didn’t help. Me going into bat was generally the sign to put the kettle on for tea).

Anyway, to cut a long story short, we put on a record 102 runs for the last wicket, for a total of 125 all out. My batting partner got a half century, I got 35. I opened the bowling, got five wickets and, against all the odds, we won the game. Every dog has his day!

Laptop...

Electrical power - its provision and prioritisation - is a constant preoccupation for a nomad. In winter, when I need power the most, the roof-mounted solar panel is of least help. It’s hard to keep my laptop fully charged, especially since the days are long gone when it might last five hours or more on a single charge. Worse, I’m finding that cold weather can make it lose a charge; I may open it up in the morning and see nothing but the red, blinking, ‘dead battery’ icon. The remedy, on cold nights, is to slip the laptop into my sleeping bag…

Licenced this pic today (the search was for 'brownfield')...

Ollie...

Saw nephew Ben, Hem and baby Ollie, who has changed so much in the few weeks since I last saw him: able to roll over on his own, and no doubt keen to become even more mobile. I was impressed by the little gadget that allowed Ben and Hem to watch and listen to Ollie, in his cot, and even to play the soothing sounds of waves against a shingle beach, to help him fall asleep. They could change the ambient sounds, remotely (which presumably don’t include thunderclaps, or heavy metal music or the 1812 Overture). With snow settling, I stayed the night…

Blue Monday...

Yesterday was ‘Blue Monday’, supposed to be the most depressing day of the year. Christmas and new year are over, but the credit card bills still need paying… and the weather is crap. The concept was first publicised as part of a 2005 press release from holiday company Sky Travel, which claimed to have calculated the date using “an equation”. The idea has caught on, and seems to have found its place in the calendar…

Leighton Moss...

I spent the morning at Leighton Moss. Plenty of wildfowl, particularly ducks: maybe a thousand teal, plus wigeon, mallard, tufted duck, shoveler, pintail, gadwall and goldeneye. Other sightings included little egret, great egret, redshank, lapwing, curlew, snipe, a solitary marsh harrier quartering over the reedbeds and an otter swimming across one of the lakes…

Then watched the football in a pub. Sunday roast, pint of beer, football on the telly and Liverpool clinging on - the last few minutes were rather tense - to beat Manchester City 4-3. Hooray!…

Licensed this shot today, of a pub in Petersfield, Hampshire...

Crosby...

I parked up by the sea in Crosby, to get some writing done. It was intriguing that Anthony Gormley’s figures emerged from the waves as the tide receded… 

Longton Brickcroft ...

Had another productive writing day, interrupted by a stroll round Longton Brickcroft nature reserve. Apart from the usual coots and moorhens, in the flooded pits of the old brickworks, there were shoveler, gadwall and a pair of goldeneye. A robin sat on a thorny twig, feathers puffed out against the cold, and, from no more than three feet away, sang a little song just for me…

Aisha...

I’ve read the hadith, which collects together many of the sayings of Mohammed and his companions. While they complement the Koran, they are not deemed by Muslims to be the word of God. It was a long read, made longer by the fact that most of the narrations are repeated, often word-for-word, and not just once but many times. I must have read at least a dozen accounts of how Mohammed’s young wife, Aisha, lost a favourite necklace, only to find, after everyone had helped her search, that her camel had been sitting on it all along. D'oh! Nevertheless, this little story is still more interesting than most of the hadith, 95% of which are resolutely banal and inconsequential (in fact, it’s their very banality which gives them the ring of truth; would anyone have bothered to make this stuff up?).

Mohammed declares that “Allah likes sneezing and dislikes yawning.” There’s advice about removing semen stains from garments (dab it with a damp cloth), and which way to spit while praying (to the left). Who will go to hell, Christians or Muslims (this question is entirely rhetorical, of course)? It’s in the hadith, not the Koran, when Mohammed decides that women must be veiled. When he wants to have sex with one of his many wifes rather than ‘taking turns’, he retreats to his cave and receives a convenient and well-timed ‘revelation’ from Allah to the effect that he can pick whichever wife he wants.

I’m now reading The Heirs of the Prophet Mohammed, by Barnaby Rogerson, which helps to bring some of these characters to life. One chapter is about the Prophet’s wives. Some he married in an attempt to unite local clans, others were taken in battle as part of the ‘war booty’. Sex slaves would be shared around his men, though Mohammed would take first pick. Two of his wives he had widowed in battle. His favourite wife (apart from Khadija, who died before he left Mecca for Medina) was Aisha. He became betrothed to her when she was six years old; she later recalled that she was playing on her see-saw when the Prophet called. Mr Rogerson is entirely uncritical in his description of the wedding night, just three years later, when “the Prophet led Aisha into the bridal hut and she became a woman”. Mohammed, considered by Muslims to be the perfect example of manhood, was 53; Aisha was just nine years old.

Sold this shot - of Glasson Dock, near Lancaster - a day after I was there...

Writing...

A few people have said that I should write a book about my travels. However, unless I put my imagination into overdrive, it would make dull reading. Today I breakfasted, as so often when I’m in the northern counties, at the café in Booths supermarket (I have a Booths card, so the tea is free). Then I parked up and wrote maybe 1,500 words. I staggered out of the van, feeling a bit light-headed and disorientated. That’s a good sign; it means I’d had a productive session, engrossed in the writing.

Then the satnav lady directed me to the swimming pool in Garstang, to get a shower (she seems to know when I need one. I didn’t ask her). The lady at the reception desk squinted at her computer and said “that’ll be £5”. She heard my anguished cry - “I’ve bought cars for less than that!” - and had another look at the computer screen. Even though we both knew that my youthful good looks were deceptive, she put me down for a junior swim. £2.50. Like I say, I don’t think there’s a book in this…

Morecambe Bay...

Back in Ulverston, one of my ‘homes’ (places I gravitate towards, whenever I’m in the area). Breakfast at the café in Booths as soon as they open, read and write some emails, log photo sales… then park up a couple of miles out of town, overlooking Morecambe Bay, to get some writing done…

Out of focus...

Took my Nikon into Wilkinson’s photographic shop in Kendal, because the focusing mechanism isn’t working. It’s being sent off for, first, a diagnosis, then a quote, then, hopefully, a repair. Fingers crossed that it won’t cost too much. Trying to “take positives” from the experience (like the hapless England cricket team, thrashed by Australia in the Ashes... yet trying to convince themselves that the teams were "closely matched"), I'm planning to double down on my book writing. And if there’s one time of the year to be without my camera, maybe it’s the middle of January…

Brighouse...

Took a walk yesterday with Helen, following the towpath of the Calder & Hebble Navigation from Salterhebble to Elland and on to Brighouse. When I used to write walking books, every walk had to have a title: ‘In the footseps of the Brontës’, for example, or ‘Milltown memories’, etc. If the walk to Brighouse had a title, it would be ‘Urban decay’. But we saw a pair of gooseanders in brilliant winter plumage, a gang of long-tailed tits and a grey wagtail. We looked for kingfishers (an angler assured us he’d already seen them), but didn’t find any.

At Brighouse, in search of tea, cake and free wifi, we popped into the Villain Café, which opened recently to meet the town’s long-felt need for a goth-themed eatery. The decor was purple and black, and the walls were lined with pictures of Hannibal Lector, Freddy Krueger and various serial killers. The decor in the upstairs room included a full-sized coffin…

The lighthouse, Portpatrick...

Portpatrick...

The Portpatrick Hotel, on its rocky headland...

York...

Socialising in York for a couple of days, seeing old reprobates Gordon, Bryn and, tonight, John…

The Crown Hotel in Portpatrick, by lamplight...

Bute...

Heading for the Isle of Bute...

Tawny owl...

It was still dark when I drove from Penrith, across the Pennines and into Yorkshire. I was yanked out of my reverie by a loud bang. A tawny owl had flown into my windscreen, where it stayed. A buffeting wind kept the bird’s wings in motion, in a parody of flight, but the eyes that gazed at me, from a heart-shaped face, were sightless: a vision that will haunt my dreams. It was fully ten minutes before I was able to stop and remove the owl…

Moondancer, still at her mooring, on Lake Windermere...