Brancaster...

Licensed today: a shot of two guys at Brancaster Staithe, Norfolk, busy 'winterising' their sailing boat with tarpaulin...

William Wilberforce...

Licensed today: the statue of William Wilberforce, anti-slavery campaigner, in Hull. It's amazing to think that the Bible was used to justify the slave trade.

Nowhere in the Bible is slavery condemned, and there are plenty of verses about how masters should treat their slaves. Such as this: “Anyone who beats their male or female slave with a rod must be punished if the slave dies as a direct result, but they are not to be punished if the slave recovers after a day or two, since the slave is their property” (Exodus 21:20-21). Slaves are addressed directly in verses such as this: “Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh” (1 Peter 2:18)...

Alarmed...

The temporary library in Otley is still under a curse. I arrived this morning to find the burglar alarm wailing, and a panicky librarian punching numbers into a keypad, with no discernible effect. Then two hobby bobbies arrived, with a book of key codes, and sorted it out...

Book of Life...

Another excerpt from Krishnamurti's Book of Life, which appeared in my email in-tray this morning.

"A religious man does not seek God. The religious man is concerned with the transformation of society which is himself. The religious man is not the man that does innumerable rituals, follows traditions, lives in a dead, past culture, explaining endlessly the Gita or the Bible, endlessly chanting, or taking sannyasa—that is not a religious man; such a man is escaping from facts. The religious man is concerned totally and completely with the understanding of society which is himself. He is not separate from society. Bringing about in himself a complete, total mutation means complete cessation of greed, envy, ambition; and therefore he is not dependent on circumstances, though he is the result of circumstance—the food he eats, the books he reads, the cinemas he goes to, the religious dogmas, beliefs, rituals, and all that business. He is responsible, and therefore the religious man must understand himself, who is the product of society which he himself has created. Therefore to find reality he must begin here, not in a temple, not in an image—whether the image is graven by the hand or by the mind. Otherwise how can he find something totally new, a new state?"...

Crickhowell...

I’m typing in fingerless gloves, for the authentic ‘old man Steptoe’ look. Licensed this shot today, of the Bear Hotel in Crickhowell, for a price that would barely buy a beer...

Otley...

Back in Otley library, temporarily housed in the civic centre, for a couple of days writing. I can plug in the laptopp and get free wifi, though the heating isn’t working. Does the building need a heating engineer or, given the problems that are plaguing it, an exorcist?…

Snow...

Back in West Yorkshire as the sky turns white and snow begins to fall. Licensed this unremarkable shot today of a Morrisons supermarket in Ramsbottom…

Oakham...

I’ve found another library with everything a nomadic writer needs: close to a car park, nice and warm, with free wifi and electricity, so I can plug in the laptop. It’s in Oakham, the county town of Rutland. Intriguingly, the selection of religious books can be found in a section called ‘Religion and Money’ (a rather strange juxtaposition, considering the problems caused by worshipping mammon rather than God, and the biblical injunction that "the love of money is the root of all evil")…

Don't often get a pic licensed on a Sunday: a birdwatcher at Lakenheath Fen...

Rutland Water...

Called in at Rutland Water for a bit of bird-watching (some rare grebes being the main attraction). Lots of wildfowl: pochard, tufted duck, teal, gadwall, shelduck, shoveler and tufted duck. Happy to see some goldeneye and pintail too, but not a grebe in sight…

Bakewell...

Romance isn’t dead after all. I read on the Guardian website today that Poundland are now selling engagement rings. Drove from Scarborough today, across the Wolds and into the Peak national park. Parked up in Bakewell, AKA Tartsville…

Robin Hood's Bay...

Stayed with Helen at a holiday cottage in Robin Hood’s Bay, though it was actually the loft of the railway station waiting room: surplus to requirements since the last train ran on the Scarborough & Whitby Railway in 1965. The accommodation has been brought up to a high standard - all mod cons - though the efforts to fit a kitchen, sitting room, toilet and two bedrooms into a confined loft space had led to some rather bizarre solutions. The door to my bedroom, for example, was only about four feet high, and triangular, which might have been fine for a small child or a hobbit. Is there some parallel universe where holidaymakers are happy to crawl to bed on all-fours?

We wandered down to the beach (can’t really call it a harbour) and had a pint in each of the pubs as we laboured back up the hill. We had a meal in a hotel at the top, and then unwittingly left without paying. Helen avoided all of the moral dilemmas which plague atheists, by calling the hotel, apologising and paying the bill over the phone. I have printed out a second draft of the book, which is the version I’m happy to show to people ‘in the business’. My next job is to find myself an agent…

Northallerton...

In Northallerton today - another handsome town in North Yorkshire with a broad high street. Heading for a campsite shortly (there aren’t many open in January), so I can plug in the printer and print off a couple of copies of draft number two. While there are always minor changes to be made, there’s nothing substantial to add. New ideas will find their way into the next book: an exciting thought in itself.

One idea is a book of twenty questions which should make the righteous reconsider their beliefs (but never do!). Twenty short chapters, in a fairly short book: that sounds like something I could enjoy, and it would take months rather than years…

Gambling...

About ten times in my life I have walked into a bookies and placed a bet, usually when a scoreline has popped into my mind before a big game. But what I’ve never yet done is to return to the shop, with my ticket, to claim my winnings. That must mean I’m about £50 down on the deal, though that seems like a small price to pay. Imagine if I’d won a few quid during that time; I might now be offering unsolicited donations to the Bookmakers’ Benevolent Fund, like so many other old guys of my acquaintance. What I've also learned is that my sudden intuitions - about the result of a football match, or anything else - are not to be trusted.

Pic of the marketplace, Thirsk, licensed today...

Ullapool...

A shot, licensed today, of the CalMac ferry on its way from Ullapool to Stornaway... taken when I still laboured under the misapprehension that Stornoway was a place of excitement and romance...

Book finished...

I didn't think this day would ever come, but the book is - finally - finished! I feel light-headed, like I've written myself to a standstill...

Hand-writing...

I saw a guy in the library taking notes… in an actual notebook… with an actual pen. It made me feel rather nostalgic. My hand-writing, never good, is now awful, like a spider wandering erratically across the page. No one could read it, I can barely read it myself, and the activities of thinking and writing by hand now seem to be disengaged. The action of pushing the point of a pen across paper no longer feels intuitive…

Football mascots...

I see the boys and girls walking out onto football pitches, hand-in-hand with the players. I assumed that parents might have to pay for the privilege, but, until I read an article today on the Guardian website, I had no idea how much. While some clubs, including Liverpool, Arsenal, Chelsea and the two Manchester clubs, make no charge for the privilege of being a mascot, West Ham charge an eye-watering £700. Oh, and parents need to stump up another £80 for the pint-sized replica club kit which the kids wear on their special day…

A marathon... not a sprint...

I’ve often wondered what ‘hobby bobbies’ (Special Constables) actually do, and this morning I found a few of them scrubbing away with cloths and bottles of white spirit at some of the graffiti which disfigures Otley. I’m no fan of graffiti, the artistic equivalent of a dog pissing on a lamp-post.

In assessing where I am with the book, I reckon I’ve run a marathon. Now I’m back in the stadium for a couple more laps. In marathon running, this is so the leading runners can soak up the applause; for me it’s to tie up a few loose ends.

Another unexciting pic, just sold: the Border hotel, in Kirk Yetholm, which maks the end of the Pennine Way...

Greggs...

I read today that Greggs have launched a vegan sausage roll. How very different this will be to their usual sausage roll, which is chock full of meaty goodness. Coincidentally, I licensed this shot today, of an artfully vandalised branch of Greggs…

Resolutions...

I didn’t make any new year’s resolutions, because my main aim is to finish the book and see what happens next. So far it’s been a solo project; now it’s time to get other people involved.

My mental health is better than it’s been for thirty years, I reckon. But physical health? Not so good. So I’m resolved to drink less, lose weight, eat better and exercise more, in the hope of having more energy than I can muster at the moment.

Pub sign licensed today...

Cloisters...

Cloisters at the entrance to St Stephen's Church, in Kirkby Stephen...