On Wednesday we had to visit the
hospital in Plymouth so that Marcia could have another check-up. You
will be delighted to know that there are no signs that the cancer has
returned.
There is one photograph that I want up
on Dartmoor which requires really good visibility and so, the
forecast suggesting that we would find just that, we set out from
Plymouth to Tavistock for a quick cup of coffee in the Bedford Hotel
before setting off up onto the moor proper - and into low cloud: thin
cloud but cloud all the same. One day I shall get that picture, but
that day was not last Wednesday.
On the way home there was a brief
moment when the sun sent wonderful steaks of light on either side of
a cloud. As so often happens, by the time I had grabbed a camera and
it was ready to shoot, it was really too late: some of these light
effects last for seconds and then they are gone. Anyway, here is how
it was when I finally got myself organised.
Talking about clouds, did you know that
there is a Cloud Appreciation Society? Well, there is and it has over
forty thousand members. I am not one although I suppose I should be.
Clouds are fascinating and here, on the peninsula that is the south
west corner of England, we have a rapidly changing and often
wonderful display of all sorts of cloud formations. Clouds are
ephemeral: according to the Cloud Appreciation Society, the average
lifetime of a cloud is only eleven but my observations suggest it is
about twice as long.
Having said that, I have been known to
watch fascinated as a cumulus cloud begins to appear out of a bright
blue sky, grows and changes until, often quite suddenly, it starts to
disappear and within a few minutes there is the bright blue cloudless
sky once again.
For some reason, I find myself unable
to resist the urge to take cloud pictures and so I have a large store
of photographs taken in various parts of the south west which
demonstrates just how variable they can be. Here are just some of
them. Most, of course, are the result of luck: simply being in the
right place
at the right time but some are planned
– mainly sunsets since you know when they are going to happen and
what the weather is like before you set out.
There is another missing photograph
that has been bugging me for years. Here is the extract from
Hattie's Mill:
James Barrington drove his
second-hand Citroen Dyane jauntily through the narrow Devon lanes.
James, born and raised in Dorset, was no stranger to high hedges,
restricted visibility and inadequate passing places. Nevertheless,
the recently purchased car was very precious to him and, despite the
jauntiness, he kept a wary eye on possible damage to her paintwork.
His mother had advised an introductory visit to Miss Wetherall at the
Mill before he committed himself but refused his offer to come along
for the ride and see for herself. She realised that James felt it
incumbent upon himself to allay her motherly anxieties and, though
she appreciated his offer, she suspected that he would prefer to take
this step alone.
She was right. James was secretly
relieved that she hadn't taken him up on his offer, enjoying this
feeling of being out in the adult world at last; the owner of a car
and a Mirror dinghy, in possession of a job and soon to be a
householder. James, who had also been raised in the Anglican faith
his father being a country parson, sang a tuneful snatch of the Te
Deum and peered at a signpost that was all but obliterated by cow
parsley and convolvulus. Abbot's Mill Creek 2 miles. He swung the
wheel and headed down the narrow lane. The tall grasses and luxuriant
summer growth leaned out to brush the car on each side and, as he
slowed, he was aware of the scent of honeysuckle.
He rounded a bend, caught his
breath and braked abruptly. Far below, the creek lay mysterious and
still, its steep wooded banks clothed in a patchwork of green, the
fields above - golden with standing corn or dotted with grazing sheep
- swelling gently against the misty horizon. A soft haze, diffused
with glowing sunlight, smudged the distant view but he could see a
small sailing boat tacking its way up the river making the most of
the gentle breeze and, his heart beating with a sudden excitement,
James let in the clutch and followed the winding lane down to the
head of the creek.
We know exactly
where James stopped and I have wanted to take a photograph of that
scene for about ten years. Unfortunately, every time we have managed
to get there it is either raining or there is a heavy mist. Now we
are again living much closer I might just have a better chance. We
shall see.
