a window to the soul
Sunday, January 29, 2006
outtakes from minster lovell...
No, I'll not be making excuses. I'm merely making mistakes.
a window to the soul
a window to the soul
I noticed most of the boundary crossings had been given brand new kissing-gates (which must be a better form of access for all). This was a rare conventional stile; simple, cheap and functional. An excuse to portrait the daisies which performed remarkably well seeing as they'd spent the best part of last year neglected in the cupboard.
Despite the unfashionable nature of the things, I do like leather: something to buff and polish, rather than this synthetic stuff - which is okay in its way, but lacks soul. Wandering to me is, in its very nature, all about soul.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
let's make mistakes!
In our creativity, we should endeavour to make mistakes. There is nothing wrong in making mistakes; in fact it should be regarded as a creative virtue.
After all, success is just an accident that occurs while we are making mistakes.
*
So, it's not technically brilliant and I make no excuses for posting this shot. I kept coming across it in my little collection of files and it called to me each time. I can't explain why, perhaps it's because photos are sometimes more than satisfying display of light on a sensitive surface. Every picture tells a story, as Sir Roderick of Stewart once warbled, and I find I concur. Though I have to say I am thinking more of Taxes on the farmer feeds us all;
well, the banker says he's broke
and the merchant stops and smoke
but they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
it would put them to the test
if the farmer took a rest
and they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all
The way it happened was this: On the windrush walk, I was going down this lane with a high dry stone wall on my left and I heard excited voices and much bleating. Peering over the wall I discovered the source to be much further away than I'd imagined; the unusual topography of the landscape making a sort of natural amphitheatre, amplifying the sounds from the hollow. A chance vignette of rural working life played to the audience of one. The farmer, his wife, their two dogs and flock - an urgent discussion about the sheeps' welfare - the dog's look on expectantly, bemused, possibly, that the raised voices are, on this occasion, not directed at them.
It is often cited that prostitution is the oldest profession but I wonder what about farming? Certainly it seems that the one is given a respect equal to the other. Then again, sometimes, contrarily, we will romanticise the life of the farmer: what would we give to leave the rat-race and be our own boss, walking the fields in the morning air, growing our own produce. But I imagine it's a hard business to be in.
After all, success is just an accident that occurs while we are making mistakes.
*
So, it's not technically brilliant and I make no excuses for posting this shot. I kept coming across it in my little collection of files and it called to me each time. I can't explain why, perhaps it's because photos are sometimes more than satisfying display of light on a sensitive surface. Every picture tells a story, as Sir Roderick of Stewart once warbled, and I find I concur. Though I have to say I am thinking more of Taxes on the farmer feeds us all;
well, the banker says he's broke
and the merchant stops and smoke
but they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
it would put them to the test
if the farmer took a rest
and they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all
The way it happened was this: On the windrush walk, I was going down this lane with a high dry stone wall on my left and I heard excited voices and much bleating. Peering over the wall I discovered the source to be much further away than I'd imagined; the unusual topography of the landscape making a sort of natural amphitheatre, amplifying the sounds from the hollow. A chance vignette of rural working life played to the audience of one. The farmer, his wife, their two dogs and flock - an urgent discussion about the sheeps' welfare - the dog's look on expectantly, bemused, possibly, that the raised voices are, on this occasion, not directed at them.
It is often cited that prostitution is the oldest profession but I wonder what about farming? Certainly it seems that the one is given a respect equal to the other. Then again, sometimes, contrarily, we will romanticise the life of the farmer: what would we give to leave the rat-race and be our own boss, walking the fields in the morning air, growing our own produce. But I imagine it's a hard business to be in.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
vive le cinéma international!
Though I endeavour to regain the slender physique of youth there's always those moments when I like nothing better than to slouch in front of the televisual with a drink and nibbles, and watch a good film. 
I also like to tease the old brain with a good read; there's never been an occasion when I haven't had a book or two on the go - at least not since I was 16 and picked up the novel we were assigned to study for O level - selected passages as prescribed - and, for the first time in my life, thought 'what's this all about then? '
It was called The Gun, it was very old, yellow, dog-eared and musty smelling but - and this was a revelation - if you began at the beginning and read the pages in order, it wasn't an altogether bad experience!
Why did they only insist you read certain passages is a question I've never had answered. Mind you, to be fair to the establishment, I've never actually asked. In my school you didn't ask. Not even if you were desperate for the toilet. Maybe if you were on fire, you might. But then it's a bit of a drastic measure just to be excused and you'd have to weigh up the consequences of damp pants against the total and wanton destruction by arson of one perfectly serviceable school uniform. Best wait until break.
Anyway, from that point I devoured much of what I didn't read at school and more besides - and, as the old jazzers might say, it's too late to stop now!
Back to films (or movies as they say across the water): To be honest, I've only recently come back to films. When I was away from home and didn't have a telly, we would often troop off to the cinema in town and catch a film, usually at least one a week. Then I returned home, settled down and forgot about cinema, only catching the odd blockbuster when it was shown on telly. They were okay, but not memorable enough - not like a damn good book.
So, imagine my delight to discover foreign cinema! Here's a medium by which you can watch a movie and read a story simultaneously, at the same time, together. And the stories are usually good too - much greater profundity than the usual hollywood fodder which, after all, put the business in the film business and seems to care less for the plot. Of course, we - by that I mean the Brits - don't even have a film industry now! We knock out the odd gem now and then but mostly I feel it's just big telly - not cinema!
But foreign cinema is just beautiful. And I've even managed to stop the wife saying oh no, not another of your bloody sub-title ones again. Not so often now anyway.
The above, while true, is just an excuse to show what I got up to today, messing with Paintshop. I hope Richard Ebbs doesn't mind me nicking his pics - he's a scouser after all, I'm told. I think he's exceptionally good and I don't know why he doesn't blog. I guess he's got his reasons which I respect. Anyway, I like the portraits I found and the main one put me in mind of une femme fatale, a poster shot for a french film. I enjoyed playing around with it - well, I didn't have much on and it's all good practice.
I also like to tease the old brain with a good read; there's never been an occasion when I haven't had a book or two on the go - at least not since I was 16 and picked up the novel we were assigned to study for O level - selected passages as prescribed - and, for the first time in my life, thought 'what's this all about then? '
It was called The Gun, it was very old, yellow, dog-eared and musty smelling but - and this was a revelation - if you began at the beginning and read the pages in order, it wasn't an altogether bad experience!
Why did they only insist you read certain passages is a question I've never had answered. Mind you, to be fair to the establishment, I've never actually asked. In my school you didn't ask. Not even if you were desperate for the toilet. Maybe if you were on fire, you might. But then it's a bit of a drastic measure just to be excused and you'd have to weigh up the consequences of damp pants against the total and wanton destruction by arson of one perfectly serviceable school uniform. Best wait until break.
Anyway, from that point I devoured much of what I didn't read at school and more besides - and, as the old jazzers might say, it's too late to stop now!
Back to films (or movies as they say across the water): To be honest, I've only recently come back to films. When I was away from home and didn't have a telly, we would often troop off to the cinema in town and catch a film, usually at least one a week. Then I returned home, settled down and forgot about cinema, only catching the odd blockbuster when it was shown on telly. They were okay, but not memorable enough - not like a damn good book.
So, imagine my delight to discover foreign cinema! Here's a medium by which you can watch a movie and read a story simultaneously, at the same time, together. And the stories are usually good too - much greater profundity than the usual hollywood fodder which, after all, put the business in the film business and seems to care less for the plot. Of course, we - by that I mean the Brits - don't even have a film industry now! We knock out the odd gem now and then but mostly I feel it's just big telly - not cinema!
But foreign cinema is just beautiful. And I've even managed to stop the wife saying oh no, not another of your bloody sub-title ones again. Not so often now anyway.
The above, while true, is just an excuse to show what I got up to today, messing with Paintshop. I hope Richard Ebbs doesn't mind me nicking his pics - he's a scouser after all, I'm told. I think he's exceptionally good and I don't know why he doesn't blog. I guess he's got his reasons which I respect. Anyway, I like the portraits I found and the main one put me in mind of une femme fatale, a poster shot for a french film. I enjoyed playing around with it - well, I didn't have much on and it's all good practice.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
minster lovell and the windrush
At last, at last; a fine weekend was forecast! I took the opportunity to get the old boots out again and go off wandering - with camera.
I had this wandering book for christmas: a pathfinders guide to 28 walks within the cotswolds - of course, I thought I'd begin with page 1, walk 1 (3.5miles - est. time 2 hours: effort: easy) well, what better place to start...
The first thing I come across after leaving the car is yet another critter!
The Windrush is a sprightly little river; the swan's graceful demeanor belies the fact that it's legs are going ninteen to the dozen just to stay in the same place. As long as they don't kid themselves they can actually fly, swans are the epitome of avian cool.
another critter. a very big critter (actually, two very big critters but the other insisted on showing her bad side, which was her backside).
Familiar readers will be forgiven for thinking that I was attempting to be arty with the old photoshop cropping tool again, but you'd be wrong! Usually I can't get close enough to the animal to get a half decent compo but, in this case, I couldn't get far enough away from the amorous beast! The reason: velcro on the camera case. It makes an enticing noise when pulled apart, and in the equine world means something like; ''dinner is now being served''...
ian russell's unreliable potted history of old England: church, originally part of a 'daughter house' belonging to a Normandy priory, confiscated by Henry V during the 100 years war and who later starred in the Shakespeare play.
Hall built by William Lovell in 1414 and while he had his sleeves rolled up, he rebuilt the church. 1747, the family moved oop north and the squatters moved in straight after. DIY stores and the UK Home channel had yet to be invented so the hall gradually fell apart through want and ignorance.
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