Welcome...

Edwin Poots is the favourite to replace Arlene Foster as leader of the Democratic Unionist party (DUP) in Northern Ireland. According to what I’ve read in the Guardian, he is a young Earth creationist who believes the planet is only 6,000 years old (a figure derived from adding up the lifespans of all the patriarchs descended from Adam, to establish the date of creation). “This is no small error”, according to Richard Dawkins. “It is equivalent to someone believing, despite the evidence, that the width of North America from one coast to the other is only seven metres”.

Licenced today: a warm, multilingual and pre-Covid welcome, displayed on an old church door...

Snooker...

The Snooker World Championship is into its final week, with just four players left in the competition. In an attempt to give this most sedate of sports a gladiatorial edge, each player enters the area to his own choice of music. It’s probably written into their contracts that every player must have a nickname. First came ‘Hurricane’ Higgins, then the ‘Whirlwind’, Jimmy White. Now we have ‘Rocket’ Ronnie O’Sullivan, ‘The Jester from Leicester’ and ‘The Wizard of Wishaw’. Ali Carter is ‘The Captain’, because he holds a pilot’s licence; Anthony Hamilton is ‘The Robin Hood of snooker’ (AKA 'The Sheriff of Pottingham')… merely because he hails from Nottingham.

The anomaly is Stuart Bingham, who is playing in one of the semi-finals. His nickname - ‘Ball-run’ Bingham - doesn’t liken him to a force of nature, like a hurricane or whirlwind. The unflattering sobriquet is the only one in the snooker canon which suggests that a player’s success comes not from skill, but just from being lucky! I hope the balls run for him this afternoon. 

A driver, this morning, learning how to cope with rush-hour traffic...

Pen Hill...

Licenced today: Pen Hill overlooking Wensleydale...

Epworth...

Had a haircut this morning - goodbye to the ‘mad professor’ look - and my second jab this afternoon. Hooray! I’m celebrating with bangers & mash, and a bottle of wine.

Yesterday in Epworth: best known as the birthplace of John and Charles Wesley. The brothers were barred from the Red Lion for dancing on the tables...

Cottingham...

I listened to a programme, this morning, on Radio 4, about interpretations of the Bible. One contributor imagined a black Jesus (in contrast to the Jesus of traditional western iconography, who, despite being a Middle Eastern man, is depicted as white… with blue eyes and long, wavy, honey-blond hair). Another contributor had written a book to “give a voice” to the (mostly un-named) women in the Bible. They are few in number and even fewer if you only count women with significant speaking roles. And Giles Fraser, Radio 4’s ‘go-to guy’ for almost any aspect of theology, waffled on about giving more emphasis to the “Jewishness” of Jesus.

They all seemed to be missing the most salient points by a country mile. Jesus is traditionally depicted as a white male because we created God in our image (and not the other way round). Women play subordinate roles in the Bible because all the book’s authors - reckoned to number about forty - were men. And Giles Fraser will say just about anything to claim his appearance fee from the BBC.

The sheer length of the Bible (783,137 words in the King James version) allows anyone, no matter what they believe, to find quotes to support their position. However, the skin-colour of a character from fiction is heroically irrelevant, and no feminist revision can wash the Bible clean of its raging misogyny.

A quiet corner of Cottingham, yesterday...

Thorne...

Wandered into South Yorkshire this morning, to the little town of Thorne. With a couple of new supermarkets on the outskirts, the town seems to have been hollowed out; most of the shops around the Market Square are closed, shuttered and unlikely to open again. The only guy in town making a decent living is Mr Happy. As for ‘Pizza Hat’ - opening soon, to replace Thorne Fried Chicken - I hope the new owners have engaged the services of a reputable copyright lawyer…

Only fools and horses...

I was out taking pix this afternoon when I was stopped by the flashing lights of a police motorcyclist. I got out of the Romahome, fearing the worst. It seems the police were tailing some guys in a van, who were knocking on doors, trying to buy campervans, and the police had seen me waving at them. But, hell, I wave at just about anyone on the road, especially when I’ve had a skinfull.

It was such a relief to find I’d done nothing wrong that I decided, then and there, to trade in the Romahome for a personalised Reliant Robin. No money changed hands; I reckon I got the best of the bargain for once. Look out for me when you see me on the road… and give me a wave…

Cawood...

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way... this evening in Cawood...

Blacktoft church...

I paid a visit this morning, even though God, being omniscient, already knows who I am...

Little Free Library...

Licenced today: the Little Free Library in the Old Forge, in the village of Lund...

Taking the bend...

Riccall...

Walking the dog in Riccall...

Freedom...

The freedom of the open road, this morning...

Reflections...

Reflections in the Stainforth & Keadby Canal...

Mine's a pint...

Licenced this shot today, as the Black Swan in Asselby is opening up for al fresco drinking and dining...

Misogyny..

According to an article in today’s Guardian, and the UN’s annual state of world population report, twenty countries - including Russia, Thailand and Venezuela - still allow rapists to escape criminal prosecution by marrying their victims. Dima Dabbous, whose research is cited in the report, said the laws reflected a culture “that does not think women should have bodily autonomy and that they are the property of the family. It’s a tribal and antiquated approach to sexuality and honour mixed together”. Whenever men want to control women’s freedom, behaviour, aspirations, sexuality or reproductive cycle, they can always find a biblical or koranic verse to support their misogyny.

Licenced today: an exorcist makes house-calls in Poundbury, the heir to the throne's vanity project in Dorset...  

Millington woods...

Millington woods, this morning...

First post-lockdown pint...

After a productive day taking pix, I claimed my reward: a pint of San Miguel and a packet of cheese & onion crisps. I enjoyed them in the car park of a pub in Hook, where what looked like a Jamaican rum shack had been constructed from scaffolding poles and recycled planks, with sheets of corrugated iron to keep off the rain and sleet and snow. Not quite ‘back to normal’, but, hey, it's a start.

Licenced today: the Edale valley in Derbyshire, the start of the Pennine Way… 

Stainforth & Keadby Canal...

Yesterday on the Stainforth & Keadby Canal in South Yorkshire. If anybody wants a picture of a canal, a narrowboat, a swan and a water tower, they need look no further...

South Newbald...

The weather forecast looks pretty good for the next few days: plenty of opportunities for getting out with my camera. However, my priority for tomorrow is having an actual pint, in the beer garden of an actual pub. Not sure where, exactly, since few village pubs bother to open on a Monday.

The mill dam and Lower Mill Farm, in South Newbald...

Langton...

Symmetry in stone: houses in Langton, overlooking the village green...

The wolds...

Today... in the Yorkshire wolds...

Nesting sights...

Before uploading them to the agency, all my pix have to be examined at 100%, which means I can sometimes spot things I didn't notice when I pressed the shutter. In this shot of Lockington village, I found two birds incubating eggs: a moorhen on the little patch of green in the middle of the bridge, and a mallard on the left-hand bank of the stream...

Crickhowell...

The marquee is up, occupying half of the car park of the Black Swan in Asselby, ready for the pub to re-open - at least for outdoor drinking - next Monday. On my photographic forays I used to finish off a session with a pint in some country pub. I’m now wondering just how many local pubs will re-open next week, and how many have closed their doors for good…

Licenced today: Crickhowell... which often appears in lists of the best places to live...

Clara's Cottage...

Though my sample is small - just the people I meet when I’m out taking pictures - I get the feeling that, with the end of lockdown 3.0 in sight, people are particular friendly, approachable and up for a chat. I march up to people, on the slightest pretext, merely to exchange a few socially-distanced pleasantries. They all reciprocate, even though, with a full beard and 'mad professor' hair, I look like a guy who sleeps under a bridge. I was taking pix in the village of Wheldrake the other day, when a lady in an open-topped sports car pulled up. “Would you like a drink?”, she asked. “No, thank you”, I replied. “Well”, she said, “if you want anything, I’m here”… pointing at the house just behind me. I think I missed a trick there.

Clara's cottage in the village of West Lutton...

Beswick Hall...

Beswick Hall... a grade II listed building... just like my lovely home in Asselby...

Lockington...

Out with my camera today, around the wolds villages. This is a ford - one of many - in Lockington...

Unbidden thoughts...

In the Christian purview, God can read our thoughts. Is there any evidence for this? No. It just says so in verse after biblical verse. “O Lord, you have searched me and known me! You know when I sit down and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from afar. You search out my path and my lying down and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether” (Psalm 139).

I’m very glad my thoughts are private. I have illogical thoughts. I have unkind thoughts. I have envious thoughts. I have lustful thoughts. This doesn’t make me a bad person, of course; it just makes me normal. The point is how we deal with thoughts like these, and whether or not we act on them.

It’s borderline insane, first to imagine that a divine supervisor has unfettered access to our thoughts, and, second, to insist that God is judging us - and probably condemning us - for the content of these thoughts. In Matthew 5:27-28, for example, Jesus warned his disciples that looking lustfully at a woman was just as reprehensible as committing adultery.

We can’t control the content of our thoughts; they bubble up unbidden like water from a spring. We can’t even control what kind of thought will enter our minds in the next few seconds, and yet we are told that we must. Any deity who commands us to attempt the impossible - and then punishes us when we fall short - is not a “loving God” at all… but a psychopath.

Public transport in the village of Wheldrake...

Good Friday...

Today is Good Friday, when millions of people around the world are convinced that Jesus “died for our sins”. The concept of vicarious atonement is complex, intricate and difficult to understand, without being in any sense profound. It is such a vital component of Christian faith that it’s easy to forget how immoral it is. God sent Jesus down to earth, to ‘atone’ for our sins (that is, to pay a debt he did not owe). Paul described the divine transaction that took place when Jesus died on the cross: “God made you alive with Christ, for he forgave all our sins. He cancelled the record of the charges against us and took it away by nailing it to the cross. In this way, he disarmed the spiritual rulers and authorities. He shamed them publicly by his victory over them on the cross” (Colossians 2:13-15). 

Vicarious atonement is more usually known as scapegoating. Our sins and misdemeanours are loaded onto a scapegoat which, literally or figuratively, is driven out into the desert to die of hunger and thirst. In absolving us of culpability, scapegoating first undermines and then demolishes the notion of personal responsibility. What a loathsome idea! If I do you a grievous wrong, it is up to you to decide whether or not to forgive me. Can I honestly claim to have been forgiven already, by a third party who I have not personally wronged?

Licenced yesterday: a detail from the 8th century Anglo-Saxon cross in Ruthwell Kirk, Dumfries and Galloway...

Conversation...

I was wandering around New Earswick yesterday, looking for springtime pix, when I passed a couple of young lads with their bikes. I usually give kids a wide berth, for at least half a dozen different reasons. Given half a chance I imagine they would beat me to a bloody pulp, go though my pockets, steal my camera, throw me into a ditch and urinate on my lifeless and broken body, before pedalling away, laughing. It’s possible that my uncharitable views need to be revised.

One of the lads called out to me: “Do you know how to put a bike chain back on?” Though it’s been at least half a century since I messed with bike chains, I managed to ease it back onto the sprockets. “Wow!”, the boy said. We then chatted about this and that; after months of lockdown, maybe kids appreciate some inconsequential conversation too.

Licenced today: the Black Bull Inn, in Coniston...