Rain...

The BBC weather website seems pretty trustworthy, at least for the following day. I’m staying with my sister in Hartley Wintney, Hampshire, a village with a cricket pitch at its heart. There’s supposed to be a testimonial match this afternoon for Jimmy Adams, captain of Hampshire, but the weather forecast has a grim uniformity. Rain, rain and more rain. Such a shame: the pitch is ready, the marquees are up and the locals have been bagging the best spots around the boundary with their windbreaks and gazebos. No doubt the bar will be open, come what may, but I’ve spent too many days, over the years, watching two sets of stumps being marooned in a pool of water, while some optimist (probably me) insists “I think it’s brightening up”…

South from Coventry...

Had an excellent weekend with my son, including a trip to the Malvern Hills, which I had only ever seen from afar. Then drove south from Coventry, through landscapes of parched wheatfields. Had a few hours in Stratford-upon-Avon, which was chock-full of visitors. I thought I’d get more pictures by the riverside; anyway it was cooler there. Boats glided up and down the river: passenger launches, tiny self-drive motorboats, rowing dinghies and the little chain ferry which - for 50p a head - transfers people from one side of the River Avon to the other. I watched a narrowboat negotiating a lock, which allowed it to carry on down the river beyond a couple of wiers.

The locals were flogging Shakespeare to the visitors, or, rather, they were flogging any old thing by giving it some spurious Shakespearean connection. I wondered what the bard himself would think about the commodification of his plays and his image… and decided he’d probably settle for 10% of the takings. There’s nothing in the town that isn’t up for sale. Anyone wanting to get a better understanding of William Shakespeare could just take a copy of one of his plays, sit down in a comfortable chair… and start reading.

Thumbs-up from Will...

Walkers on the Malvern Hills…

Rights & responsibilities...

While taking a few pictures around Newark today, a guy raced out of his shop to say I wasn’t allowed to take pictures. “Yes, I can”, I said. “No, you can’t”, he shouted, “it’s private”. I told him to phone the police if he thought I was breaking some law (other than the fantasy law that was lodged in his head). I waited, taking pix, while he got his phone out and punched some numbers in.

I’m pretty clued up about the rights and responsibilities of taking pictures in public. I even have a sheet of paper, written by a solicitor, on behalf of an editorial photographers’ collective, who specialises in these matters, which is handy to show to anyone who thinks I’m doing something wrong. No police turned up; I think he rang the speaking clock…

Newark...

In Newark this evening, parked up next to the River Trent and castle. Might get some early morning shots tomorrow…

Wharfedale...

Back in the Dales - and parked up in my favourite campsite - to have a couple of days photography, before heading south on Friday.

Had a burger last night in a local pub. It arrived on a wooden platter, piled so high that it had to be held together by a wooden spike. The chips came in a miniature frying basket, and ketchup was in a tiny pot. It seems like every pub is reading from the same script... creating a meal that looks good, as the waitress delivers it to your table, but which is damn near impossible to eat. I suppose it means they can charge an extra couple of quid 'for presentation', as they try to convince cusomers that they're getting something a bit special; shame the burger was dry and almost tasteless...

A shepherd's hut on the Kirkstone Pass...

Trim...

It’s July, the height of summer, and time for my summer haircut. I keep things simple: one haircut per season. Also, the process takes all morning, even if, as today, there’s a leisure centre and barber shop in close proximity. Step one is a shower at the leisure centre, and new clothes, so the barber doesn’t have to hold his nose while I’m in the chair. “How do you want it?”, he asked. My usual reply is “Let’s pretend I have a hot date tonight, so I just need to look presentable”.

That means step two: an all-over trim with the electric clippers. Grey hair tumbles onto the floor, as an elderly man stares at his own unprepossessing reflection in the mirror for rather longer than he would like. “Would you like to see the back?”, the guy says, and before I can say “No”, holds up a mirror-shaped implement; instead of reflective glass, there’s just a picture of a good haircut.

Step three is to revisit the leisure centre for another shower - for my benefit this time - because I can’t stand having hair trimmings around my collar. So another set of clothes is required. It’s good to feel a soft summer breeze tickling my scalp, and to know that I won’t need to think about another haircut until the middle of October.

Spent the morning on the narrowboat of old chums, who I'd met, purely by chance, in Hebden Bridge...

Townend...

Had an hour photographing the interior of Townend; I wish I’d had more time, but I had to stop when the first tour of the day began. I wasn’t very calm, or composed, having reversed the motorhome into an obstacle while parking. Fortunately, all I broke was the red plastic cover over the back lights; I’ve made a temporary repair with a clear plastic bag and gaffer tape. That will do until I can get it mended next week. Got some exterior shots too, using my new(ish) 20mm wide-angle lens to put the house and bank barn into a landscape context.

A good way to start the day is to go online - like today - and find I’ve licensed a pic or two through the agency. A bad way to start the day is reversing into some immovable object…

Inside...

Outside...