Pix...

Another night of Ashes cricket commentary and fitful sleep; after two days the game is still too close to call. Good news about pic sales on Alamy, in that the search criteria appear to have changed. It means my pix will appear nearer the top of relevant searches… and that will lead to more sales. Hooray… 

Redcar...

Exploring old haunts along the coast I wound up in Redcar, where the steelworks no longer lights up the night sky. Had a quick look around the town’s charity shops (one emporium boasts an entire DVD section devoted to films about serial killers).

I got some pix of the offshore wind turbines, with dramatic clouds behind them, and saw herring gulls dropping shells onto the stone-flagged esplanade from a height, hoping to smash them open. Even though it doesn’t always work, it’s still a clever trick. I saw turnstones too: small wading birds which have more traditional ways of finding food (the clue’s in the name)…

First test...

I was tucked up in bed when the first ball was bowled at the Gabba. Having won the toss, Joe Root decided to bat. My main hope was that England would finish day one of the first test by still being in the game, rather than being blown away by the Aussie bowlers. At 196 for 4, at stumps, the game seems evenly poised. It wasn’t the most exciting day’s cricket, but intriguing enough. And England’s middle order batsmen all got enough runs to leave me hoping that we can get to a first innings total of 400…

The Ashes...

I listened to commentary from the women’s T20 game against the Aussies: a good win even if they couldn’t reclaim the Ashes (and I wish they could inaugurate a new trophy; the Ashes it ain’t!). It put me in the mood for the men’s Ashes, which begins tomorrow night. I’ll be wide awake in some lay-by or market square, listening to the first ball from the Gabba… hopefully drifting in and out of consciousness as England take wickets or pile on the runs...

The Whalebone...

Felt dog rough these past few days. If there was any resale value in mucus, I could go into production. Wound up in Hull, parked next to the marina, and got a lot of writing done. There’s a special satisfaction in getting the words down even when my head is spinning. And I got pix of Hull, as I walked out of the city, keeping as close as possible to the tidal mudbanks of the River Hull. In the middle of this post-industrial wasteland - all graffiti, razor wire and alsatians - I found a wonderfully welcoming pub, the Whalebone. I sat next to a woodburning stove, nursing a pint, feeling that life wasn't so bad after all…

Hebden Bridge...

Back in Hebden Bridge: always a bittersweet experience. When I moved here, years ago, I thought I’d found my place. The good times were very good indeed, but the bad times were horrible… and it’s the bad times that I recall most strongly as I take a stroll. I still have no idea why some people in town accused me of being a paedophile (I’m writing now about the dangers of believing things without good evidence, and this episode was a classic example).

I remember sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, surrounded by broken glass, realising that having a mouth that tasted of ashes was more than a metaphor. I knew the craziness was unlikely to end. It might have died down, after a few months, or years, but there would never be any genuine resolution. I locked myself away, then, a few weeks later, left…

Twilight in Selby...