Turning

The kitchen light and the washing-up water condensing on the glass hid the dark garden until I switched it off to let the morning glow in, reflected off the translucence of water crystals.
After I closed the front gate I observed the world a moment. Mist hung between the houses, obscuring the view just beyond the end of the close. Each little Christmas light held a halo of vapour in the front gardens.

The car door pulled back slightly as I opened it; ice sticky. The glass looked wet, but a fingertip test revealed cold, texture; water frozen in the moment of running and dripping to a glassy model of itself.
After scraping the outside I sat, engine running, waiting until I could read the number-plate on my neighbour's car through the screen's internal fog.

After five miles I felt some warmth on my feet from the heater; the thermostat must have opened just before. The sky developed a glow where the sun was rising, faint pink, smeared yellow.

As far again and the sun was visible, but still seen through a haze. Misted fields and hedgerows backlit by this spectral star were visible as snapshots between periods of attentiveness to the road ahead; a sequence of Turneresque stills.

Rising up further beyond the river valleys and their fogs, the sun, itself risen, began to cut, to outline and to shadow.

Shortening

Three weeks since was a cold spell that extended over a few days leaving steadily less frost on the morning car as the atmosphere ran out of moisture. Nights skies were a pierced umbrella with Venus brightest and the new moon was earth-lit. Early morning light glittered off frosted surfaces, bearing little enough heat to melt them. Skies stretched between morning and late afternoon greys through all the pale blues, just darker than baby blue at noon.

Then came dampness; pooling in the Forest, misting across the plains and fogging in the shelter of tree-lined avenues. Through occasionally thin cloud, when it could be seen directly at all,  the moon rose to fullness and then set to wane again as its visiting hours were moved to morning.

Last night, Venus was up again until the wispy vapour thickened enough to hide her and our second named storm of winter played amongst the bare boughs of oak and beech, shaking harder the evergreens; fir and holly. Rain fell in sheets that accompanied the night's soundtrack of whispers and vortical moans; windows and gates shook.

The Forest's beauty is muted by the light and cloud; the palette softened and compressed to heavy shades dominated by browns.

The shortest day is upon us.

Autumn, winter transition. Mark!

Crystaline coating.
Car, sky-lit, awaiting the sun.
Winter tests our steel.

Custardy

Much of the canopy has turned brown now and thinning. Last week, when I was passing, I observed that the custard maple was still in a lime jelly trifle stage, despite its taller neighbours being much further advanced toward winter. This morning it was doing the eponymous thing, so I took a couple of terrible snaps on my phone. I'd like to get a better picture when I have more time and when there is better lighting, but I suspect that this afternoon's weather is going to strip most of the remaining foliage.

The same old road trip

The road was better washed today and the sky held on to remnants of water vapour. Clouds in thin slabs like broken paving mixed with smoke and a distant, sun-lit topping of cotton-wool. After I entered the trees the sun broke over the slabs and showed bare boughs, with just a few terminal leaves left on the birches. The thick carpets of discards glittered with wet gold, heaped with rust, sprinkled with crushed cinnamon.

The managed heath, where heather and gorse has been cut this year, lies like a mohair camel blanket. Grass flower stems are the fine whiskers and the autumn sward the fabric. This superficial appearance deceives. In detail the ecosystem is more fractal; giving equal detail at all visible levels of magnification. Amongst the grass: herbs, moss, lichen, the tiny resurgent heathland weeds and critters from mites to small mammals and amphibians roam.

Red deer were the morning's highlight, five crossing, relaxed; a stag and four hinds. The stag stood in the road and regarded me for a few seconds. I returned the favour.

When in Rome

Public transport is cheap and frequent. You will have to guess when it comes to where to buy a ticket; try a bar or a tobacconist.

The famous sites, the set-pieces are excellent and spectacular and likely to be crowded.

Walk if you are able. Between the well-known landmarks you will see an amazing range of ancient/ruined/re-purposed Roman artefacts.

Eat where the locals eat. Pizza, pasta and puddings were good everywhere.
Drink coffee. I found one excellent cup of tea in Rome, Assam, without milk, exquisite; you will probably not be so lucky.

The price of coffee is very simple. As a rough guide: in a back-street bar €1.20 at a table, €0.80 at the bar; On the tourist trail €3; in sight of a famous site €4; close to St Peter's €5.

If you want to see a particular place, say the inside of a museum, figure out whether it is possible to pre-book. There are special visitor tickets that offer museums and local transport inclusive which may save you money.

The large, square romanesque building next to Castel S. Angelo is not in the guidebooks. As far as my Italian will allow, it is the law court and police headquarters. Its frontage and the adjoining Piazza are well worth a look and are empty of tourists. There is a reasonable wine-bar there too.

I stayed near Termini, the main bus and train station. The guide books will suggest that if any area of Rome is rough, it is this one. I had no problems.

At the main tourist attractions there will be hawkers. How it is that the hospitals of Rome do not have to regularly surgically remove selfie-sticks from these people I will never know.

Earthquakes happen. The hotel staff were happy to measure the severity by the distance that the chandelier inside the main door swung in response to the quake.

During my visit, at the end of October, weather was 17-20 degrees (62-68 F) and I wore T-shirt and sandals with jeans, with a scarf after dark. I saw no Romans wearing sandals, my primary school teachers lied to me.

Holy Zarquon singing fish (bird autumn)

No frost today and, unusually, no blackbirds foraged under the apple tree this morning. Just the bobbing motion of a robin searching for invertebrates amongst the pecked-out apples and crinkled brown leaves.

Birds in pairs as I left the village, on the longer route, offering time for reflection. Pigeons first, then magpies. Houses gave way to lawn and ponies in small groups; no more cars and then, just before the second bridge, a grey heron close to the road in the bog.

The bracken has all turned. Every shade of fudge from plain to deepest chocolate.

Recent rain has stuck the autumnal litter to the road and its pattern reflects the sequence of trees: beech, birch, oak, a corner broadly strewn with discarded maple, the dust of needles and clusters of pine cones. Smaller brown birds are swept up before the car, chaffinches, but also gold finches and later, pipits.

I found the missing blackbirds and almost killed one. A heart wrenching moment when a bird disappeared below the line of the front of the car. I watched the mirror, expecting disaster, but this bird must have landed and gone underneath, because in the rear-view I saw it fly back up, apparently hale.

Autumn pigs; the usual herd of cows. From the plain the sky showed baby-blue North in ragged cloud and the Southern horizon was painted in a rough, narrow ribbon with layers of paler cloud hanging over a crack of sunlight just above the distant trees.

visitors

Our eldest came to visit for the second time, over the weekend. The first visit was 19 years but this was just a couple of days.

While he slept off his half term in a familiar bed, we went to visit the boat. No time to sail unfortunately, we just had time to re-inflate the tender's air chambers, check on the mooring and watch the water-world go by for ten minutes. A neap tide was just turning from ebb to flood, water fowl of all sorts were lining the shore. It was one of those slightly mad, cool, breezy and bright mornings that characterise this time of year. Although motor bound, we could feel the power in the passing sails of radical dinghies and enjoy the slight waves that re-doubled the glare of the low sun.

On the boat we had a good sighting of a black swan, following a more usual mute around. I had seen them fly over together from the tender and assumed, while I wrinkled my irises against the light, that the slightly grey bird was a signet that hadn't quite whitened up yet. On the lake it was obviously the different species; very black, very red beak.

An unsailed breeze

I may complain about sleep, but I generally sleep well once I'm in bed (It is getting to that point that seems hard). Last night was an exception that found me wide awake in the dark. I know the period of wakefulnes covered 04:50 because I visited the kitchen at that time; I know it began before that and continued past 06:00 because of the number of trains I heard.

I think the problem was a subliminal rattling sound that early morning prowling established as belonging to one of my son's bedroom door. He has taken to sleeping with a window wide open and the wind direction must have been such that this was the cause. I quietened the door by stuffing a sock in the gap - I'll try and find a better fix tonight, but I have to say that the sock was effective. Once I'd solved that problem there was a heavy rain shower that didn't help my return to nod. Whenever that stopped I must have slept again until I was aware of my 07:00 alarm.

The garden looked rinsed this morning; no use trying to take the green waste to the tip in this damp state. The Forest had a light, contour hugging mist, uniformly eight feet deep. Cows in the road were too busy licking the rain off each others coats to notice cars trying to pass. The gutters were still quite full, even an hour after the rain stopped, but this is generally the state of the forest - it drains poorly and it would be strange to walk the paths here without finding some mud, even during periods that in our English way we describe as drought.

Not sailing for the weekend left time to start on the wilding state of the garden. I find that, although swift-walking fit, I am not pick-axe fit by any means. Removing the largest of the self-sown ash trees was enough for my lower back and using heavy loppers to cut up the wood just began to trouble last year's tennis elbow. I think of fire, or pigs.

Amanitas Muscaria

(Fly Agaric). I guess it is autumn.

By turns

Descending towards the river's flood plain this morning, its trees, mixed oak and beech mostly, showed just their still green crowns in a bubbling sea of mist. Surrounded by steel skies, like nothing so much as a colossal broccoli soup pan, steaming on the hob.

Signs of autumn are touching some species, colouring them softly. I passed a bank full of old-mans-beard (wild clematis), soaked with dew, surmounted by livid Virginia creeper. The horse chestnuts are again ahead of the pack, trying to lose their insect ravaged foliage now its job of ripening the nuts is done.

Pigs are on the common for pannage and I met with sheep today too. Swallows still swooped at the weekend. Last night was almost cold. Mushrooms are in the field.

Nom

I eat my main meal,
then hunt the kitchen cupboards.
October's calling.

autonomous vehicles, wireless technology, anger and boredom

Much about the process of driving a car becomes automatic; the gears, the steering, the brakes. I find in my Golf that operation of the cruise control is fairly autonomous too, as well as the operation of the radio in support of a simple policy of avoiding argument, boredom, advertisements or bad music. My normal radio listening tastes stretch from commercial radio through to BBC radio 3 and radio 4.

In the mornings the commercial radio tends to be OK, except for the sponsored content, radio 4 is generally the Today programme which may suffer poor guests or uninteresting topics and radio 3 may or may not have some music I like. If I'm not engaged in thought, the radio is generally on, but if none of the ususal selection of stations is entertaining me, it may go off. My fingers stab at channel buttons or the Source button more or less of their own volition.

Commercial radio, with its obsession for avoiding dead-air is always easy to filter quickly. I know in under a second whether there is studio chat, news, traffic, music or adverts. For advertising or rap or a selection of artists I choose to avoid getting to know, the decision to click away is swift.

Radio 4's Today programme is largely composed of two to five minute segments on topical subjects which may be reportage, interview or recordings from some event. Rarely there may be short recorded performances; regularly there is news. I find many of the topics interesting, but click away if I've already heard the news, if an interviewee is not answering the questions, if the interviewer is too abrasive or if the topic is of no interest. Unless I revisit a segment I have already decided against, filtering the content can be a slower process than for commercial radio. I may listen to half an item, or two words of an item before 'Click'.

Radio 3 is not normally my first choice. First thing in the morning I am seeking some stimulus, some fresh perspective, something lively; but once I've exhausted the other possibilities my fingers will stab for radio 3 and though I may sometimes find music that doesn't fit my mood, the result is occasionally sublime - such as the moment I journalled about, the simple introduction "Bach" followed by part of the Musical Offering. The interesting contrast to the other possible station choices is the proportion of times I click for radio 3 and hear - nothing. These are not 'silent' nothings, always they are expectant or reflective; they may be the slight pause after a piece before the announcer interrupts our reverie to remind us what we have heard, or just missed in this case. It may be the interval before the first note of an announced piece, rendered more surprising for starting anonymously. It may be a simple musical pause, perhaps between movements. It may just be the prelude to a crecendo, the tail of a diminuendo or a section of bass that is submerged in the road noise. Radio 3 has the slowest tempo of any of the stations, pieces last from 90 seconds to 20 minutes. I like to guess the piece and, if I know it well, the artists. I have been known to click away in anger at the performance, such as this morning's Wagner overture in which the brass was completely submerging the urgency and drama of the strings.

Sailing was poetry, but not on my account.

I spent some time on Tuesday, trying to capture the events of a bit of sailing we did on Monday, but the result had no salt, no sole. Let's take the highlights then.

We set out after 9am in a NW breeze, just enough to give us control to avoid hitting the castle on the way out of the Solent with the tide. The water was smooth, disturbed only by the ebb and an occasional boat until, just on the exit of the race, three standing waves spanned the Northern half of the channel. Crossing these almost stopped us by shaking the weak wind from our sails. Going West we were rocked slowly by a faint swell and, over the land, cloud built. In the clear air and with no waves, the North Head buoy was visible from further than usual; it slid by, followed by the Christchurch Bay buoy, but as we bore away to round Hengistbury the soft breeze died and we bobbed, accompanied by the banging of gear, for an hour.

When the wind returned it was more SW and we initially tacked South before turning to the West when it seemed likely that this new breeze would be enough to get us home if we went further. The wind built to force 4 over an hour, amplifying the swell mildly and providing almost perfect conditions for sailing. Though deciding it would be prudent to turn at 14:00, it was 14:30 before, less than 3 miles from Old Harry Rocks, we did turn to find The Needles almost due East and the tide practically slack.

The journey back was swifter with a following wind, a flood tide building and a slow increase in the amplitude of the swell until, with Bridge (The Needles Easterly mark) in view, we were sliding down the side of waves ready to be lifted gently by the next. Aiming South towards St Catherine's Point to cancel the tide and round the South Shingles buoy, the swell became complex; composed of two main parts which cut the sea into diamonds of sink and heave. All the way up the Needles channel to Totland we were rocked and chased by these waves while our fore-sail swelled and collapsed continuously. Just before Colwell we took a starboard tack towards Warden before tacking out again on port to make for a smoother passage.

On this reverse tide the race was doing more familiar dances, with fields of leaping chop on either side of a smooth central flow. Outside of the race and protected once more in the Solent the sea was calmer and the wind slightly ameliorated. Crossing the flow to use time until our mooring would be deep enough, we still leaned far enough to cause difficulty in the comfortable brewing of tea. After about six traversals of the space just West of the line joining Lymington to Yarmouth, we let the sails looser and dropped the main before entering the river. No sailing to mooring today, with no room to spare, we motored, depth alarm crying up to our buoy and reversed to stop with no room to turn.

Knot

My normal sleep is, to death,
as blinking is to staring.
These hot nights
my thrashing is to repose,
as drowning is to yoga.
Curse the sun,
unwelcome herald.
I am not yet rested.

That old saw

I stop sawing a while; let the perspiration do its work. The English summer is here and its sounds are familiar.

Traffic, always some somewhere, but not obtrusive and the thing that makes me listen is not any one noise, but the soft mixture of them all. In no particular order:

• Small dog yapping, in play I feel.
• Large dog woofing, in greeting I like to think.
• Seagulls.
• Distant DIY.
• A large white butterfly comes close enough to reveal the sound of its wings, a fast beating flutter.
• A bird (I didn't look up) has a softer, slower sound to its flight, only beating twice when in audible range.
• A wasp rasps fibres from an old wooden crate for the new extension.
• Happy children noises.
• The sun creaks the garage roof.
• My stomach calls out for another drink; coffee is made.

Too hot now for the lawnmowers' mating calls; too calm for sirens wail. No car alarms since the traditional one I heard as the Lymington to Yarmouth ferry passed my mooring yesterday afternoon. Summer.

growing tips

The wild verges and hedgerows that have been pushing onto the quieter roads of the Forest have reached a pause where the attrition caused by passing traffic has matched their verdure. Although the warmth of the weather still encourages growth, the rate of rainfall has abated somewhat and so these swelling green borders have been both slowed and also now thinly coated in dust. Summer, already a month and a half old, is beginning to look tired.

Above the traffic level, all is well and green. Huge crops of seeds and fruit are ripening and, in some places, falling. Beech mast paving is a thing. Driving across the Forest this morning my eye was drawn from the road edges to the variety of standard trees I pass. The rowans were glowing with jewelled fruits and on counting them I found eight examples where I would have guessed maybe three previously.

Foals are looking less spindly, although their appearance is still dominated by limbs and joints. Young birds are foraging for themselves and growing into their full-size plumage. Adult birds are giving up their territorial squabbles and returning to fighting over simpler disagreements, such as food items.

Hambling around

Yarmouth to Hamble and back on Saturday. We slipped our schedule gently through the day until we were forced to find Yarmouth again on our return because our own mooring would have been too shallow by the time we got back there. The sloth started in the morning, getting up and out of harbour late. Once in the flood we motored far enough outside that the tide would take us without sweeping us back onto the North shore of the Island. There was no wind.

Other than the 3 knot tide, everything was still. Raising the genoa, it filled from the Eastern side purely because of the apparent wind of the tidal embrace. I hung out a fishing line and, after a few tens of minutes, nothing had taken the bait but the line, at last, indicated that the boat was moving under sail. This breeze increased to about force 2 by the time we passed the East Lepe buoy and the limit of our previous sailing from the West to this point. Sailing round to Calshott was novel and, thanks to this being the first day of Cowes week, interesting. Small and large fleets of racing classes were following each other out from Cowes (where the race starts had been delayed by the calm).

We crossed the main shipping channel at the latitude of the Hill Head buoy and gybed near there up the North side of the North channel, staying in the relative shallows up Southampton Water with the wind increasing to force 3 and finally a flourish of force 4 that encouraged a reduction in sail area while we eyeballed the busy Hamble entrance. Past the starboard sign the wind reduced again and we took to engine to make a safer and swifter passage. Being unfamiliar with Hamble Point Marina entrance we had to turn in the channel and make our way back a few yards before finding our allotted short-stay mooring. Registering in the marina office I noted a familiar line of small shops and concessions across the car-park and this started the dawning realisation that we had been to the same marina from the land side about seven years earlier. The view from the restaurant confirmed the impression, from where we could see the branch of Force-4 that had brought us there on that occasion, as well as the tall dry-stacks.

Lunch took us a good hour beyond our schedule, but was well worth the time. Leaving the mooring and rejoining the river was uneventful. Just past the starboard mark where we had dropped sail on the way in, we raised sail again and so began the relentless process of tacking up-wind in a force 4; avoiding the commercial vessels in the main channel (fortunately rather few), timing our turns to keep out of the racing fleets and shallows. It was a relief some 3.5 hours later to find sanctuary back in Yarmouth harbour. We were however, not alone; being used to the typical off-season business of the harbour we found ourselves rafted out four deep and rather fortunate to be within the harbour at all.

After stowing and tidying and writing logs we only just made it to the pier ice-cream shop as it was closing. It was only by pleading and mentioning the name of the person in the harbour office who had recommended them to us that we were served (by the daughter of the same). The night was quiet after dark and we had time to find coffee for breakfast before a new and slow walk round a field boundary and back to Mill Copse and the dis-used railway route back to town. The forecast wind was blowing as we set out back to our deepening mooring, but blowing with the tidal flood it gave us a smooth ride. Entry to the river required steering around 40 degrees away from the starting-platform, due to the tide. As we crossed beyond the swiftest flow the necessary angle slowly decreased until at the river mouth it was less than 20 degrees. A fleet of tall (approx 50 foot) boats crossed the river mouth as we approached, their port tacks taking them to the edge of the shelving shore line there and away on starboard before we arrived. Our own port tack took us up-river to our lake. The narrowness of the lake at this state of tide necessitated a quick burst of engine after a gybe to reduce the turning circle onto the buoy, which we picked up second attempt.

Flit

As I look out a peacock butterfly visits. Its underwing is so dark and its flight so rapid and random that it is difficult to say whether I see the insect or its shadow.

Gatekeepers and whites. Red admirals were last week.

aspirational

Whether it is just the temperature, or also the fact of driving around with the windows down, this warm weather results in my car sounding like there is a troupe of Irish line-dancers practising under the bonnet. The noise from the valve gear is just annoying. So it was that I chose to buy the higher octane fuel this morning. This is advertised as providing more power and better fuel economy. The first claim is almost without doubt correct, but I never find that the fuel efficiency improves with this fuel; I suspect that the temptation to enjoy the extra power and the lack of feedback about how hard the engine is working negates any expected efficiency improvement.

Whether the EMU actually responds to the temperature to decrease the normally parsimonious ratio of petrol to air, I don't know, but the horrible sound of the pinking engine suggests to me the rattle of an addict, frantic for their next hit of narcotic hydrocarbon. Yesterday's drive home scored 57 miles per gallon, according to what little of the data screen I could read - it fades from the bottom of the display in hot weather. This morning, driving consciously carefully whilst listening for any improvements, albeit in much more humid and cooler air, registered 56 MPG in the carpark. The consumption on the two journeys is not normally exactly comparable in any case, so I can't draw any conclusions except that I noticed some hills which were not so demanding of a gear change this morning and I didn't have to wind up the radio to mask the sound of the engine's DTs.

Buzz outdoors

Paused at a road junction this morning I was buzzed by a fresh, large hawking dragonfly. Its colours were still muted and its flight was gentle and undulating, not the violent sprint and hover of the mature specimens. A banded yellow I think by size and patterning.

The insect season is late this year, but spurred on by the present bout of summer the numbers are increasing. I've seen more butterflies in the last week than I have in the rest of the year to date. Reptiles too are more visible. I saw my first garden slowworm on Friday morning, curled at the base of a tree trunk, waiting for the early rays of the sun to warm it. Saturday I saw a common lizard at the sailing club, vivid green against the grass.

Also out in numbers are youths waving mobile phones. Augmented reality has been on the cards as a rising technology for a while now and a few attempts to launch products have arrived and left again. I wonder how the reception of Google Glass might have been different if such a game had been available at the same time. Unused to the outdoors, the youths will be surprised by how warm it is, little realising how anomalous this sunny spell is, even for what we call summer. I do hope they have put sun-screen on.

End of the tether

Standing on the starboard seat I looked across the boat, up the lake. Oyster catchers probed the silt to my right and beyond them, amongst the purple sea lavender, canada geese browsed the salt marsh. To my left little gulls dabbled and pecked as small prey surfaced.

The wind was at my back, warm, flapping my clothes. A weak front dominated the sky, casting shadow on the boat, stuck in the mud on its mooring.

I watched the flood returning; fingers of salty water probed the mud-flats, creeping up streams that still ran with the dregs of the ebb.

The sun broke through behind me, warming me through my jeans, the back of my shirt, my hair. I stood absorbing the sun's energy in the steady breeze. Where my shadow pointed, Portsmouth was showing off and dozens of sails were out playing, their boats concealed below the level of the marsh at this low state of tide.

Gently we lifted from the mud's embrace; the port-wise cant levelled. Imperceptibly at first, but quickening, we swung on the buoy into the wind. Sun wheeled around and the rig's shadow marked time on the deck.

Now to my right a ferry rumbled by, safety announcements blown in the wind, heading for the Island before me.

The left hand knows what the right hand has been through

Had a blood sample taken for a haemoglobin test yesterday; a pin-prick on the side of the last joint of my right middle finger, soon forgotten.

Picked up a bundle of tongue and grooved boards that had been taken off a boat deck yesterday evening and put a nail through the side of the last joint of my left middle finger. Sucked on that until it stopped leaking.

I noticed this morning that the two injuries look very similar and lie about 7mm away from precise symmetry. Life aspires to art.

I saw mushrooms too

Typical British summer weather continues. Occasional rain, some heavy; temperatures in the mid teens; bit of a gale blowing.

On a brighter note, I broke my reptilian duck today (anyone else thinking platypus?). I found an adder (common European viper) on the road on the way home. sadly it was a road casualty, but still mostly alive.

Round the Island race tomorrow. I may go and watch the start. It isn't going to be one of those years where people run out of time, but I expect there will be some knock-downs.

uncharacteristic outburst (sorry)

The current behaviour of those that we elected to represent us is as shameful now as it was before the fresh wound opened up by the rare exercise of direct democracy. For many years the political classes have avoided all attempts at communication with the populace on the subject of membership of the European Union. For many years they have been confident of the answer, confident that the people that they represented would happily take back control of all of the aspects of our daily lives that had been ceded to Brussels. Only in the last ten years has there been any chance that our leaders could ask us this question and have a hope of receiving the answer they wanted.

I know, though I was too young at the time to take an active part, that an impression has been given that the people of Britain had already been asked the question in 1975. The impression is mistaken because the question that was then asked was about staying in an institution that, not only had we only joined a mere two years earlier, but had only managed to join at the third attempt, thanks to veto powers of the French government. Our own government at the time, though reasonably popular after surviving 1974 and the three-day-week and associated industrial strife, was probably seen as a little weak and in need of the help of our cross-channel cousins. Moreover the club to which we had gained membership was clearly thought of at the time as purely a free trade body; a premium club for the thought-leaders of a Europe that much of the population alive and voting had seen in much worse times.

Since the federalising fetish of the EU's leadership has become known, the overall desire of the wider population of Britain has been to leave, or at least to maintain trade links whilst avoiding the other side of the "ever closer union" coin. Populations and their opinions obviously change. The older generation, with their memories of the world wars inevitably gave way to younger generations and, in the case of Britain, there have been powerful demographic shifts resulting from what can only be described as mass migration. Only in these conditions and through a promise made by a party leader who never expected to be in a position to keep his promise, could a referendum be contemplated, and only then in a climate of political fear engendered by the apparently unstoppable popularity of a minor new political party with a European separation agenda.

These thoughts must be borne in mind when we come later to the first major event of the new order of things, the untimely resignation of the minister responsible for the promise and for misjudging the importance of the new party and the mood of the population.

A few more words must be wasted on the appalling campaigns run by both sides of the remarkably bitter divide. I'm sure that there were some moderate voices on both sides of the debate, for example some of the remain side who were against the release of intensely distorted predictions of the personal cost of Brexit (as the desire to leave became known) and those for Brexit who wanted to present the freedoms (particularly financial) and control we could gain from leaving the union. Unfortunately such moderate voices were shouted down by an orchestrated campaign from the remain side (why not Bremain I wonder) whose chosen strategy was a steady torrent of scary predictions from prominent bankers, industrialists, foreign heads of state, etc. and the contrasting indignant cries about levels of uncontrolled immigration and the lack of democratic accountability in Brussels from the Brexiteers.

Worse was the knowledge that the Tory leaders of the two campaigns were engaged in using the vote as a proxy for their own leadership race, along with the pathetic claims of the Labour party to be solidly behind one outcome when it was plain that their leader hadn't got his heart in it. And loudly, ostensibly on the side of Brexit, but I suspect recruiting as much support for remain, was Mr Farage who we can always think of fondly as the thorn that pricked Cameron to his leap in the dark in the first place, but only if he will now shut up, completely.

Whether the Brexit campaign actually had a plan is an open question. They discovered with about three weeks to go that the immigration flag would fly wherever they waved it and just ran with that. I really believe that the more moderate messages I suggested earlier would have been sufficient without the need to imply that all supporters of the leave message were at best, mildly racist.

There were some notable moments leading up to the vote. The regrettable and tragic death of Jo Cox being one. Some pundits had this as a boost to the remain campaign, since the suspect was a member of a right-wing organisation whose views are aligned with the more extreme beliefs of the Brexiteers wishing to halt immigration. The second event, which I haven't heard analysed in great detail as a factor in the outcome, was the very recent celebration of our Queens' official 90th Birthday, with all the attendant flag waving and patriotic singing (and drinking).

As several pundits have pointed out, the fact that the expected outcome by the polsters, financial institutions and bookmakers was a remain vote only goes to show that the banks and betmakers are as far removed from the general populace (to which description we can safely refine to "those outside London") as the politicians. The outcome is entirely this story. I do not believe that the majority of those who voted for exit did so based on the stupid arguments about immigration, neither do I believe they were powerfully influenced by the fantasy finance of remain. The factors that swayed those I spoke to, and many who were interviewed well in the media were certainly swayed by personal factors: Many of those expressing a view for remain were close to someone who worked or lived on the continent, or had jobs that relied on the continued relationship with a European partner. On the leave side there seemed to be a bunch of sceptics, about Cameron's newly negotiated deal (meaningless since it was not supported by legal treaty changes), about the possibility of any future controls on immigration, about the likelihood and effect of the accession of Turkey to the club and, generally, about the trustworthiness of political elites here and on the continent.

There were also concerns expressed about Britain's place in the world. Whether we would have more control over world affairs on our own or as part of Europe; concerns about the state of the EU (its soft bottom, its expansion plans, the wiff of corruption that on occasion drifts across the channel); the cost of club membership and much more.

I did not watch the vote. I went to bed. I did not listen to the radio and so, it was on arriving at my second desk at work that someone finally let me know the outcome. I admit surprise and cheer, though not the elation that some felt. I realise that the vote was just the start of something; possibly something I had wanted for a long time, but not something I ever really expected.

On reflection (see my earlier comments on the subject) I think Cameron's resignation was inevitable. I do wish he had stayed on and begun the process, since he at least represented a fair and calm voice tha the Tory party could unite behind. I am unsuprised to see the ferment in the Labour party's ranks. I was pleasantly surprised by the resilience of the financial markets, with the exception of the banks. I did not anticipate other European stock markets falling further than our own. I am dismayed that there appear to be a number of legal or political attempts to delay or even reverse the process of leaving. I cannot understand why Nicola Sturgeon wants to gain power in Scotland, to separate it from a largely beneficial relationship it has enjoyed for hundreds of years and give the whole to the European project. I am unsurprised to find that we have a new Irish Question.

On the whole, I remain optimistic. I am not scared of change, even if there is some short-term economic shock. I believe that with the right leadership and if we can find the negotiating skills that we need but have recently given up, Britain can gain the benefits of being easier to trade with, from anywhere in the world. I believe that control of our borders will allow us to keep the great advantages of being able to recruit from around the world, but maintain our cultural identity.

Who knows where this will all go? A broken Europe, an increase in protectionism? All unknown, but we live in a different world to the one that spawned the European project in the first place. Globalisation of industry and capital is going to be hard to stop in an Internet age.

Now if only we can get Farage to shut-up....

feet to automatic

After the drive home on the longer route and cooking for all still present (my eldest two) I felt the need for light exercise and to breathe out the week.

I fancied a short stroll, but unbidden my feet set out on the clockwise walk round the village, out on the Westerly unmetalled track. Waving my feet at the road let my mind clear and I consciously breathed a little slowly and deeply until I could feel the tension start to drain away. As I crossed the green, before the track, the clouds to my right were dark stacks with sun-lit peaks above. The foreground was oak, cedar and larch and below, a lawn of yellow flowers and boggy grass dotted with pigeons.

Not many people about; only a couple of walking dogs. The path was dry, but recent rain (heavy on Thursday) had left pools around on the track and the lawns. The cooling air also left moisture behind as it released the vapour of the day.

As my direction turned to North West the sky was clear above me, but had a ribbon of bubbling marsh-mallow pierced from below by conifer crowns on a more distant horizon and compressed from above by a slate of heavy cloud that built to my right, but slowly lightened to the left until it merged with the ribbon's texture.

Before the end of the track, there were few animals in evidence. The last but one visitor was leaving the car-park as I arrived. My attention was drawn to the temporary pool (at the site of that fallen branch, now removed) where a couple of little gulls were dancing in the shallows finding food. I peered in, but couldn't see what they were taking, unless it was the black flies flying just over the surface. I stopped disturbing the gulls as a couple more arrived, circling cautiously until I crossed the road again and headed into the village core.

A few ponies emerged from the trees, coming the other way. I recognised a grey that I've seen in the mornings, with a chestnut that has a foal, but the foal wasn't with the grey this evening. I walked tall on a raised bank, glancing left to watch the evolving sun-set over a hedge, saw the blind windows of an old stable block looking back. More ponies arrived as I entered the gloom under beech and holly trees; insects began to bump my face.

Rather than take a direct route home from the village edge, I turned left along the North West edge to watch the light a while longer. The near clouds were separating, but the slab still hid the sun. Over oak crowns the layered cloud suddenly looked like scalloped edged lace curtain, but another five yards broke the illusion. Finally the sun dropped below the bottom of the slab and I had to look away from the direct glare to watch the orange sky fire each pane of glass in the houses to my right. The foal was there, with its mare, trying to lean against her legs for comfort.

I passed through a space between these buildings to follow the stream into the village. The stream was flowing swiftly with the rain water, washing the weed straight at its banks and almost clear in the centre, but for a little iron stain and silt. The sky still glowed between the houses; orange-pink with purple brown cloud. The light was ebbing, highlighting pale greens and the house, white frames. Muddying the dark greens into the lurking shadows.

some sail

A duller day than forecast, meteorologically speaking at least. Damp overnight, but warm enough to blow envelopes of balmy air across the supermarket carpark at lunch.

Fifteen feet outside the window I work at, a spider had built a model yacht this morning. The hull was a beech leaf stitched underneath its parent branch by strands of sticky rigging. The mast, which was invisible, but evidently attached to the branch straight above, supported a bermudan main sail and either an asymmetric genoa or a spinnaker. This foresail billowed and bulged pleasingly in the breeze, giving a sense of movement that enhanced the mutual rocking of the branches. Sadly, over lunch some time, the ship foundered in a freshening wind.

Solstice gone; tales of Glastonbury already mudding up and thoughts of coming Wimbledon, but I'm yet to see a stag beetle or a slowworm in the garden. One or two days have been warm enough, but the beetles seem to require a week of good heat and drier conditions than of late. Failure to see reptiles may be more indicative of a lack of gardening, but neither did we have amphibians in the ponds.

Sunday we sailed. A drowsy float Eastwards with tide and wind; the tides flood virtually halving the available wind-speed. Onto the first visitors' buoy at Newtown Creek, which we almost caught on sail, but had to run the engine a minute to pass the starboard marks and beat the inflowing tidal race. We pottered on the shingle bank until pub opening time, then took the tender and a walk up to the New Inn at Shalfleet. We ordered a light lunch at noon, ate (paid), walked, took the tender, raised the main, sailed out the river, unfurled the genoa (and then, finding the wind increased, reduced both sails a little). Five nautical miles back to our home mooring buoy and we were tying up by five past two. Quite a change from the morning's conditions. In the lake, the SW wind was just too strong to be balanced by the outflowing tide, so another minute of engine was needed to hold the boat back while we snagged the pick-up buoy.

The voyage back was so soon over that we settled down to another cup of tea before returning to the pontoon. The weather was just turning soft by then and we got home mildly damp.

Summer (official)

Concealed by rain cloud,
The sun tracks it's broadest arc.
Closed by the full moon.

Developing shadows

The may is over, replaced now by buttercup, bramble and foxglove. The rhododendrons have dropped as much flower as they've retained and the early trees are swelling their fruits.

Three weeks ago the blackbird pair were rushing round the lawn, collecting beak-fulls of invertebrates, but then a strange change took place. Instead of having shadows that sat correctly on the ground that moved with the same grace and speed as them, they developed shy shadows that liked to keep to the borders. These shadows would hop two steps behind and slowly, just occasionally catching up to touch beaks as though trying to re-attach themselves. These new, paler shadows slowly spent more and more time out in the open until, last week, I saw one out on its own. Still copying the movements of its original, still slightly hesitant, but looking more and more like the female.

After mowing the lawn last week I noticed a pot of herbs that had been taken over by ants. The soil level was three inches up in the centre and the poor plant was struggling to keep above the surface. This morning I watched the female blackbird take an ant bath in the sun, attacking the mound with her beak and then letting the ants climb her half-open wings to deal with the parasites. She'd knock a few ants off when they tickled too hard and then peck some more to keep a fresh supply coming. In the sun I think I saw she had her proper shadow back.

symmetry should at least be a palindrome.

By the by, I didn't sleep ever so well and woke before my alarm. The tide and guests called us out of bed to gulp breakfast, to collect the necessities of sailing and load the car.

Tender loaded and pausing only briefly to remove a splinter from my wife's hand we set off. The outboard started third attempt as we swung to the centre of the channel and out to our lake, our boat, waiting for us in the soft morning with wisps of mist hiding the detail of the Solent. On the rising tide, off the mooring, up to the harbourmaster's pontoon to collect friends. Wind from the North East pushed us gently onto the boards, starboard to to leave us bow on towards the inrushing flow. A light spring off the stern to depart, during which I raked a finger mildly and drew blood.

Out the river and making good time, up with the flood. A slightly extended drift with the assent of the more nervous of the party. One, two, three tacks and then, becalmed a mile out, the motor to bring us in to anchor for lunch. The flood washed us into the estuary, strong and high enough to drown a starboard mark, but inside was calm, peaceful and full of beauty. We watched birds and fluffed cloud and the mist burning off to reveal mainland features ten miles off.

Up with the anchor, the engine to control the exit with the turned tide and the ebb now caught us and carried us home. Ignoring all forecasts the weather fooled us with a Westerly, which gave us a single tack back to our home. As the cross-tide reduced up the river mouth marks we returned to engine power to the pontoon, where the wind was now softly blowing us away and we moored briefly, port to, into the ebbing flow. Our friends departed and with the main ebb starting we returned to our shrinking lake to moor again, to have a final cup of tea and a rest before, as the mist slowly concealed the Island, we took the tender back. The engine started on the third attempt.

Having enjoyed a lazy afternoon we had the fun of tying up the tender when six feet of mud separated the channel from the pontoon. Soon the car was reloaded for the return and, after some frivolous telly and a light dinner, thoughts return to bed and, a better sleep? Showering, I found a splinter in my knee.

Hear and now

Unsteady on land.
Sea swells infect ear canals.
And voices of gulls.

Vortices thrown West by continental low

Three views of the bay before, having established a safe entry, we decided that the haven would not be comfortable in a Northerly. Even in the morning (forecast 3 to 4) we found ourselves making no progress on a starboard tack to the West; leeway took us South of 270 degrees and close to shingle before we found out and tacked back away from wrecking.

Waiting out the swell in harbour at lunch we ate and walked gently, feeling still the rocking motion of the boat on dry land. In shelter the day was warm and peaceful, but we had to return to the quay's banshee wailing from yacht rigging in wind. No respite on the anemometer and none forecast, so we sailed anyway for home.

Avoiding an incoming vessel, then waiting for the ferry to move off on engine, we swayed and bucked a little in a heady force 5. Second reef in and half the genoa set I aimed North on a starboard tack, knowing that the rising tide would cancel the leeway and allow us to progress back North. We dipped and swung, tasting and feeling spray when waves' slap threw the sea over. Even in the dampness the wind remained warm; at least not cold.

From half way, she turned up in gusts, forcing the tiller up to my ribs to hold off. Wind moved upto 30 degrees with these gusts, making balance difficult. Most of the way across and with the flow of tide reducing we tacked towards the first marks of the river entrance, but the Northerly kept us back; the contents of the saloon table fell off. Closer now, we tacked again, but without the flow were left moving near West and the gusts of six started to look more like seven. Finally a gust veered too far and blew the bow away as we lost speed and heeled. Enough. Letting the canvas go we started engine for the last three quarter mile to the river mouth and back to our lake.

On this Northerly shore the waves were attenuated and close to land the wind ameliorated. None the less mooring at the first attempt was a relief. Most remaining sailers had sails furled, skimming shores to minimise the waves. Maybe half a dozen souls braver (or further from home) than us. Nice to be out on a bank holiday without the usual crowding though.

Candy colour scene

Out, following my feet while the sun was still up, but softening. A road through the parkland of an old estate, fringed by fields with domestic beasts. Ponies (joined by a dozen fallow deer); a tumbling pool of lambs curious at a gate while their Mums munched on rich meadow grass; distant cows chewing in a corner.

Mostly black's and chaffinch in the birdscape and commoners' ponies on the return. The sun was sinking now. Clusters of cloud covered much of the sky but still held onto their individuality, showing strong contrasts from grey and white to blue creeping between.

The sun sank to orange, interfering with a treed horizon, under-lighting the clouds; touching the inverted peaks with a pale orange brush. The far cloud edge thinned towards the sun, pushing out filaments that caught the colour. Edge lit the folds of vapour glowed like translucent marble.

Fading light reduced the colour palette, but highlighted whites; the hedgerow may, the pale garden rhododendrons. Almost back, keeping to roads now to avoid the mud.

Equine in contrast

Stark sun casting strong shadows bounced off the lawn (already growing out of its recent trim), off the pink/white apple blossom coating tree and grass equally, illuminating a bird unevenly on a low bough. Black above apparently and pale below, but, obviously by habit, robin. He/she bobbed, pushed beak skywards, sang.

Further North, driving, that same silhouetting light blackened a heath's beasts and gorse clumps equally, blurring them together at similar heights and morphology. We imagine horses, hungry, nibble gorse for nourishment, but from a quarter mile away, struggling to tell herbivore from herbaceous, I wonder if they don't amuse themselves in the long winters with topiary.

Lightly stretched spring

I stepped out into mizzle on Thursday evening; not remembering, until I opened the front door, that the forecast had been for rain later. I was fully prepared for whichever way the weather might go; dressed up in my scarf, so I barely hesitated to the gate and right.

The moisture in the air was too heavy for mist and, anyway, left the atmosphere mostly transparent. I sucked in a lung-full through my open mouth, hoping to taste it. Whatever flavour there was was too illusive for such an experiment, although I thought much later that I tasted the droplets off my lip, polluted by then by my face I expect.

Dampness was soaking into the scenery and, slowly, my clothes and hair, but the temperature was mild enough that this caused no discomfort with the light exercise of the walk. Under overhanging trees occasional drips fell. My feet found a common path suited to the conditions and my footwear (not chosen for mud).

Few people showed willing to share the conditions. A half dozen cyclists, cheerfully coupled and heads up, smiling; a couple of dog walkers, retractable leads at full stretch; two cars I think once I returned to a road. At the Southerly extent I thought for a moment that the jackdaws had found me again, but then realised that this black flock in the mist were cawing and not chiming; rooks I suppose. Sparse ponies on the lawns, but no foals in near view. I stopped to look at a fallen beech branch - rotted through, but still with green leaves despite the bubbling fungus on the bark. Wreckage around this branch (all of 35 feet long) showed the efforts used to remove it from the adjacent road to the opposite side from its parent tree.

Against expectation, the precipitation reduced slowly in the three quarter hour I walked. The clearing air revealed 80 percent cloud cover and the moon and a few other heavenly bodies clearly glowing. Unsettled conditions are expected to persist, but the wind from the South-West makes it bearable, even pleasant.

A rumble before the storm.

Friday 13th began with me dragging a clean cup off the shelf of an eye-level kitchen cabinet with a sticking plaster I'd applied to protect my shattered left thumb nail that had caught the inside of the mug's handle as I placed it. I didn't have time to grab for for the mug before its fall was deflected by a stack of silicone baking sheets piled on top of the bread-maker. The mug flipped over one whole turn in the air and landed securely and perpendicular in the centre of a flower pot next to the draining-board. The plant was fine, the mug lightly soiled.

The weather broke today, ending two weeks of warm and largely sunny days. We sailed again, last weekend; Sunday tacking and running with the tides of the Needles Channel in a force 4. Saturday's second cut of the lawn was just in time to smooth the sward ready to catch the first drizzle of apple petals.

mowing on

After an overcast day with brief flashes of sun, another light sprinkle of rain has fallen, greasing the pavements and releasing the odours of damp spring. The thickening crowns of the overhanging trees shade pools of dryness and clinging clouds of perfume from blossoms.

The sky is patched, grey tones of Mrs Havisham's gown with a hint of wrinkled cream silk to the South; not threatening more rain yet, but warning of coming darkness. The people I see about are relaxed, in couples or cycling with smiles. Members of the thrush family call, but fall short of song. On my return path I meet the jackdaw flock again, going the other way.

Eleven boxes of cuttings, including all of the proud dandelions, left just grass, moss and an occasional daisy and speedwell. My lawn has been busy since being cut a week since. Jackdaws and starlings decorate it and blackbirds squabble. A brooding robin visits, neatly picking off insects from the low apple boughs, chiffchaffs inspected all the lentern rose blooms thoroughly. I saw today, flapping and turning above the hill between Romsey and Forest, red kite; first of the year.

First brimstone was a couple of weeks ago, but I saw a smaller pale butterfly several times before that - orange tip perhaps? Two large and dark butterflies overflew the boat at the weekend, probably peacock.

The time of the horse chestnut approaches. Their canopies are near full and fresh green; candles set, but not quite lit yet.

Hardly a tack

Frustration with the weather and illness that has kept us on land since Easter was finally resolved with a couple of balmy sails at the weekend. Only about 25 miles in total, but the winds were too light to get further.

The Solent was variably busy, but never frantic. Just enough other folk around to feel companionable and keep the radio awake with chatter (There seemed to be a strong correlation between calling MayDay and being French on Saturday). Sunday afternoon, just as we were returning to our tidal mooring and the wind was about to get more interesting, things quietened down and from Wight to mainland, wide pools of sea were sailless.

It was a weekend of warm sunshine, and occasional cooler Easterly breeze and extreme spring tides. Seabirds, evicted by rising water from their roosts on the marshes, were taking advantage of any dry spot to rest away from danger. The orange mooring buoys have suffered their attention. Fortunately the boats are less attractive to these gulls and the pipits that roosted on our yacht last year don't seem to have moved in yet.

another proposition

Saturday, at 10pm, I went in search of supper. The last three slices of the morning's fruit-loaf looked good, so I stuck a pair together with butter. The butter was soft; the butter was spreadable. It may only be a couple of weeks into spring, but that is what we call summer.

Emerald and other hues

Each flower-tipped, terminal twig now sports a stand of miniature, pale green folded leaves, on the custard maple. I've observed it closely these past two weeks as the flush of blooms has swept over it, only surpassed by leaves this morning as the weather balmed and calmed.

Further on, curled and fluffed, the first foal lay, too shy yet to greet me. Its mother seemed a little unfussed, munching a few yards distant with her friend. I went back this afternoon to see the foal standing, all knees and nose.

The warmth resolved later to rumble in the Solent, but too distant to shock us.

Make way for exposed teeth

I fancied to see the developing spring this morning so selected the longer route to work. It truely was spring city Arizona, but once on the road, and pushed very gently by a BMW as I left the village, I got into a driving mood and enjoyed the sweep of linked corners through woodland. Everything kept out of the way. No metal, polymer and ceramic composites put their vulcanised tree spit in my way. The feathery things flew away; the fluffy critters were up the trees and the hairy beast kept their chewing to the verges and heaths; not sunbathing in the road. Squirrels I salute you.

Of course I pay the price; 20% on the fuel consumption of a more reflective commute.

Relaxed village life

We took coffee at a little bistro, on a photographic trip around the village Sunday. Leaving the house we were greeted by a half dozen sleepy looking donkeys, gently grazing such as they find on the narrow verges or hanging over the stock-proof garden boundaries. Snaps snapped we completed a circuit, passing ponies of similar alertness; one with a jackdaw picking its winter coat off  its back while it stood unconcerned. Unhurried ourselves, we got back to find the donkeys rather where we left them. The yearlings have fully adopted the low-energy lifestyle of their mothers and will be surprised shortly to find that they are pushed out of their comfort by the new arrivals now fattening those same jennies.

Yellow! Plant, but not heavy.

Monday evening, driving towards a sun that had the horizon as a tangent and a slab of cloud balanced just above, I had to defocus my eyes and let the road information flow in on the reduced visual bandwidth. Half a mile and I was North-bound again. Every blink brought back a band of bright yellow shapes where my retina was touched by sunlight. I blinked quickly, trying to get the afterimage to form into something recognisable; to pollinate my brain with an image. Looking right, sun-kissed billows of blooming gorse stretched along the heath. That was it, splodges of yellow - impressionist gorse.

Once home, the setting sun itself was hidden by roofs and Earth. The sky though was multi-hued up to the now underlit cloud whose condensing base looked afire, melting.

Coiled ready to

The recent virus has moved on, but I'm still struggling to move myself on. I did a spot of gardening today and it hurt. Played badminton for the second time, which hurt less. Gloriously, flavours are returning with my appetite. Food tastes as it should and I am rediscovering the simple pleasures of tea: Twinings Fair-Trade Breakfast, Yorkshire Gold, Camomile; even the tea ordinaire at Waitrose has flavour reminiscent of dried leaves and sunshine.

After two or three really spring-like days, we have a cold North wind again, but even so I had to look carefully at the closing canopy, the shrubs and grasses to decide whether we had reached the million shades of green day that marks the true start of every spring for me. I reckon about three hundred thousand today, so nearly there.

Youngest went shopping for his first suit today; still in spring himself.

Not so sticky

Stand under a deciduous tree, close your eyes and count to 5. Look up - check! the canopy opens. Somewhere someone has pulled the rip-chord of spring.

Living in an area designated as forest, it is usually the oaks that are the unmistakable starting-gun. Certainly they are not unique in cracking buds in the last week and a half; they closely followed the weeping willows and matched the uncurling corrugations of beech and the spreading fingers of chestnut.

For those of you who are shy and watch the ground, the rapid development of arum maculatum has been spectacular in the past week. For those who are too bashful yet for this bold plant, then the sudden burst of primrose leaf that has followed the flowers may be the sign that the seasons continue to turn.

April though. It cannot be certain yet that winter is over, whatever the warming statistics might say.

The airfield, gliding by

The plain's fog had settled this morning, bejeweling every blade of the cropped sward with the maximum quantity of liquid, determined by angle of contact, surface tension and gravity. The lightest brush of hoof or tyre on the verges trickles water into the limpid pools holding yesterday's ample rainfall across the heaths. Streaming sun would soon recreate the earlier mists here.

Lower down, back in woodland, mist still clung. Driving gave the impression of rushing toward an unfinished horizon which was rapidly completed and rendered as the front bumper pushed into the scenery. Here the sun caused a glow with some sense of its source, but no power over shadows.

My quiet

Too snotty, too sore, for a couple of weeks, but a short two miles in the dusk light this evening. On foot round the village. I was joined, for the first half, by a cloud of nervous jackdaws seeking a roost. They descended onto still bare tree crowns like goth confetti, then rose again to call and flock to the next.

Such a poor year for camellias, but with the compensation of an unbroken progression of daffodils for six weeks running into the flush of tulip magnolias.

Further progress will require sea and sails.

Black and white icon

Day met night, coming the other way. Thoroughly overcast, still cooled by the Easterly, we went to see the boat, but from the shore. She is moored amongst friends again; five masts together.

We turned home. Revisiting the brave godwit on the way. Further on, a very pale swimming bird. It reached mud and rose steadily onto legs that could only belong to an avocet. We could just discern the light shining on the upturned, black beak. Of course, decent cameras and binoculars had been left at home.

After we watched a while (and borrowed some binoculars, thankyou), we climbed up onto the sea-wall and turned for a last look towards the boat. Sunshine had finally broken through over Portsmouth and the Spinnaker tower did what it was designed to do and glowed orange, pointing at the sky, marking this historic landmark on the shore of the Solent.

Driving home, the dark cloud receded to the West, finally allowing the setting sun to light its edge with a fire. The three quarter moon was revealed.

North Sea moderating

Come gentle cyclone,
still the East wind's bitterness;
slowing buds' breaking.

eekology

Ground hugging cloud and night frosts not-with-standing, spring is coming. I hesitate to describe its progress in detail lest my account be used to fuel the global warming debate, on either side. Suffice to mention that we have primroses, celandines, grape-hyacinth all joining in with the daffodils. Black-birds are nesting, doves are flirting and I watched, this morning, a starling have a particularly good wash in one of our lilly ponds, hoping I felt, to get lucky soon.

It was during the process of fetching tools to contrive a prosthetic foot for one of our over-bath drying racks, that I had a close encounter with a remarkably bold brown mouse who was engaged in stealing the content of my bird food bag to line a nest built somewhere under the summer junk in the conservatory. With all of the windows closed, mice can only gain entrance (as far as I know) when the back door is left ajar by garden visitors, or more likely my youngest extracting his bicycle from the garage.

I set my home-made trap, with little expectation that it might operate correctly and I was unsurprised to find that, on Monday evening, the peanut-butter bait was gone, the door to the trap was closed but not locked and the mouse, was absent. As I've mentioned on another occasion, I had lost the humane mouse-trap that was purchased for another mouse in another home many years before; strangely and unbidden I conjured a vision of where this trap was stored and it took only a couple of minutes to find it, set it and bait it.

No mouse was foolish before I went to bed around midnight, but at 7am there was a rather subdued rodent fretting in the bought box. He was glad to find the shrubbery when I opened the lid, poor thing, evicted to fend with the rest of is kind.

The unfamiliar sighted in the midst

Early fog, Saturday, restricted our view of the estuary to around a hundred yards at the start of a short walk round the ancient salt-pan ponds. Only a couple of sleeping boats were in sight when we parked against the sea-wall.

The Needles lighthouse fog horn called regularly, with an occasional chorus sung by some vessel around Yarmouth, although all this was just part of a soundscape that augmented our restricted visual senses to remind us that the world was larger than we could see.

On the landward side of the marshes the straight path took us East, at an elevation low enough that most of the marsh life was hidden by bramble and overgrown thorn hedges festooned in lichens. Scanning with light binoculars I found a red doe; sitting very calmly, aware of us but untroubled.

At half way, we walked towards the beach again and the fog began to clear in patches. Lymington and its ferry emerged. A couple of small boats including a kayaker who appeared to be paddling the sky, just above a finger of marsh that jutted North at the river entrance.

The water was immensely still, only moving sluggishly and only washing at all with boat wakes. The tide was climbing, but so slowly that the dust on the water's surface mapped out the last hour of gentle gyres and currents. Spiral pools of dust, decorated by smudged lines.

Mostly the usual bird-life, always welcome, but familiar. A good view of skylark and reed bunting. The Hurst lighthouse poked through the shroud, followed shortly by the castle. The tops of the Isle's hills began to define themselves against a brightening sky. (Though the ferry vanished slowly as it crossed, meeting the bridge of its twin before leaving entirely)

The quiet mood seemed to infect those we met; we talked in hushed tones. Runners and cyclists were taking their time. A surprise splash from a dog, belly-flopping in after a stick.

On the largest of the ponds, behind the sea-wall path we followed, was a sleepy spoon-bill. Only obviously not an egret when it untucked its feeding machine from between its wings to preen.

Hair today

Sheep have been let out and left snags of winter coat on the lowest brambles of the hedges. Wisely, the ponies are holding on to their long manes, at least until the agisters.

Almost still life

Sunday, though close to the fallow deer of last week, we saw no more. Unexpectedly little birdsong in the woods too, leaving me thinking that the colder air might have surpressed some of the earlier enthusiasm. We walked well-made paths; initially downwards on fine gravel, sorted by the passage of waters that had left streaks of sorted stones from chips to sand grains. On the valley floor, undulated only by the necessity to keep most of the moving water in a single channel, the paths were more serious aggregate, stones and clay mud, to support forestry vehicles and the trickle of cycles.

The corners of the paths greeted us either with new draughts or with beams of sunlight to bask in briefly and restore circulations. I watched a disturbed wood-ants' nest for long enough to see a few ants move; laborious.

These paths have echoes of our young children. Here they stood to listen to woodpeckers, on this bridge stood for pooh-sticks; we saw a wide bodied darter or a pond skater. Alone, the walk is more rhythmic, but less endowed with memory or laughter. Some trees they knew are now fallen; the fallen they clambered are now dust. The cool, still pools are the same, but the molecules they paddled are now scattered to the four corners

Run in

Ditches were running fast and the lawns presenting as water meadows this morning. Verges held a continuous ribbon of water in the gutters, sometimes flowing or pooling, ready to be thrown by a tyre.

I admired the waters, mentally measuring the spates large enough to accommodate a kayak. Mostly though my attention was on the budding of deciduous woods. The copper beeches have joined the brushed-by-purple club, whose early membership, the silver birches now top the apparent alien charts.

The greening of other varieties is still concealed by the camouflage of the persistent lichen that clothes them in the Forest. Occasional ornamentals already show blossom. Camellias have put out a first desultory flush, keeping back the main show for more reliable warmth; tulip magnolias are half open in sheltered spots. Hedgerow fruits are promised too, if the insects get out in time.

All, of course, waving this morning in the breeze that is denying the frost.

Little boat trip

On Saturday afternoon the North Easterly wind opposed the sun and the clouds decided who was running the weather. We sat outside on the boat, returned to its summer mooring, and watched the wind push rainstorms East of us, out over the coast, across the Solent and onto the Isle of Wight, where, once the sun returned, the Isle glistened enticingly.

Lines and bilges checked and a quick run of the engine, we ate our buns, waved au revoir to the oyster catchers and took the tender home. Our winter spot was still empty yet. At 4pm I declared the wind the winner, but kept my cold hands pocketed rather than shake a fist at it.

morning going soft

a bright star woke me.
my planet rolled underneath.
but now, mists hide it.

Imposters alike

Changes. Under the usual arrangement, warm moist air is drawn off the Gulf Stream and deposited around us. The Forest is like living in the Atlantic, but shallower, and muddier and with more ponies. The weekend's Northerly blast, though only a couple of degrees cooler felt like a harbinger of change, like the "sly North wind" from "Chocolat".

The clouds are back to their common habits; the trees wave in their proper orientations. We smell the sea (we feel the rain).

Strand stroll

Sheltered, uncharacteristically, on the seaward side of the shingle spit Saturday. No sails, no bow waves at all and the breakers were flopping up and down in the lee.

The North Easterly blew all weekend, chilling when the cancelling effects of the sun were hidden, as they often were.

With more frequent sunny intervals and using the Forest's wind baffles I walked in the afternoon. Two dozen does and, chewing the cud and in repose, three bucks, their obsolete headgear like kelp arms faded to the colour of the trees they lay amongst.

In the forest we use familiar paths, pass familiar trees and waters. Some are points of pilgrimage. A sequoia which buzzed with hornets one summer (at least a dozen years since), a fallen tree whose roots are now so bony that they cast a lace pattern on the path, streams that hide fish and dragonflies by summer and run alternate crystal and mud in winter.

The car parks are weekend busy, but two hundred yards away the forest birds are beginning to find voice.

Stars, like grains

Freezing, and I expected a clearer sky. Stars though are glass chips, not diamonds. Mars is rose quartz and the moon an oblate crystal ball, still clouded; hidden future.

Still, quiet.

My Grain

A sand grain *.
A crystal shard.
Striated, revolving,
Just left of centre and sharper than my uncorrected vision can manage at that apparent distance,
Forward diagonals surmounted by gliding black triangles.
An etch-a-sketch beagle with big eyes looking left.
A flock of geometric birds takes off.
A glider from Conway's game of life.
A pile of glittering, flapping, open boxes.
A paint-by-numbers diesel electric engine.
Elmer the elephant in triangular patchwork.
The top half of a head, spiky hair down to flashing eyes.
A puffer fish (puffing)!
Fractal jelly-fish seen through rippled water?
Blurred, fringed centre with throbbing peripherals.

Two years since the previous attack of this painless visual disturbance which comes, never-the-less, from the seat of all migraines, the stomach. I can attribute this episode fairly directly to some luncheon falafels - I had the same meal on Monday and it stopped my digestion from working for the afternoon.

Outside; darkening and around 4 Celsius. Half a mile relaxed walk banishes the remains.

Casserole ending

Night fell; a shadowy lid on the day. The retreating sun painted a narrow orange ribbon across the Western horizon. Like the moment of being shut in Le Creuset oven-ware.

Not feeling it

Pigeons. Of the flighted birds amongst those least suited to that vocation. They've been trying to neaten my lawn of late, but no good has visited them of it. Not normally known for being two feet in diameter (unless we consider the dodo of course). This individual had met a swift and strangely beautiful end at the beak and claws of a sparrow-hawk. I expect the bones will be removed by fox or cat if I leave them to it.

I had a number of things to do before leaving for work yesterday morning, little things that had begun to build up and nag since, despite advancing dawn, I've not been leaping from the sheets with any urgency for a couple of weeks. During these tasks I was standing at the kitchen sink when a particularly plaintiff look from a sparrow caught my eye. It looked at the empty bird feeder and then at me, and back at the feeder again. Putting out food for the birds had slipped off my list during this spell of laziness. Wearing my dressing gown still, I slipped on some flip-flops and crunched across the spiky frozen grass. All the garden's moisture lay about me, at my feet, leaving none to steal my warmth away.

Three-phase games

Light-a-plenty from the sun today, but still needing a sheltered spot to keep off the keen edge left over from the clear night. By evening the few random patches of condensate had started to form patterns. There was no agreement about what sort of cloud to be and a scuffle ensued. Hardly enough atmospheric energy to power a game of rock, paper scissors and, as dusk shuffled in from the East there were still rags of fluff overhead as well as distant slabs with ill-formed bubbles on top. A single jet left an orange arrow above it all.

Later, the cover filled in somewhat, making the three quarter moon resemble a WiFi tablet hidden under a duvet. Wide gaps held stars; Orion striding, hunting Mars tonight.

Yellow and cool this morning, expecting heavy foals later

For this season the ponies of The Forest wear their thickest coats. Far, far from the clipped, curried finery of fully domestic horses, these coats are multi-layered and beautiful in any of the wide colour variants seen. My favourite view of these beast is on a damp and windy morning as the sun rises behind, creating a haloed silhouette showing the full range of colour, depth and fineness of the hairs. The wind plays through the coats as they turn, leaving tousled furrows that water holds in place.

On frosty mornings this weather protection can hold a layer of ice or even snow, but this morning, cool, overcast with the same clouds that looked like irregular waffles hovering above in the previous sunset, the coats look like warm, shaggy hearth mats, asking to have fingers run through.

It was not the coats that caught my attention this morning so much as the way that the mares are filling them. Broadening bellies suggest the curled life growing there; all head and legs and dizziness for April. A calm melanistic fallow doe joined their steady chewing, at the half way point of my journey. I'd judge in that same state.

It was the steady browsing of these beast that also led me to notice the gorse (not much else is still green except thin grass). Yellow buds cover the tops of the bushes, ready to burst out if the sun should kiss them. Along the more cultivated verges I saw that the daffodils were looking happy again. Heads bobbing where yesterday's frost had them bowing.

Projections

Vertical blind, squinting, allows sun-fingers access. Sharp brightness by the sill, tigering the desk and my shirt. Behind, on the floor, the penumbras merge until the shadows reflect the slats' separation. Light pattern of fanned quills, banded by window bars, like a tall head-dress.

Roman, Venetian and roller blinds all work. The inventor of vertical blinds perhaps did not enjoy dusting, but equally, they did not have a South facing office.

Clearly still

Unruffled sugar dust decorates the garden, briefly forming diamond-pearl strings with the rising radiation of the sun. On damper, still mornings a fog would boil off as ice sublimed, but today the aircraft fly as darts, not as arrows pulling feather tipped shafts behind. The condensation trails vanish as quickly as they form leaving the sky unmarked.

How low can you go?

We are promised cold and at 6pm the sky was a clear, graduated blue all the way overhead, except for a touch of fading yellow highlighting a stack of flying pancakes.

The sky now is stars, planets, galaxies and a bright near-half moon.

Vane attitude

Our prevailing winds are from the South West, the Azores, and often arrive with violence, tempered however by a mildness. This weekend though we have suffered North Easterlies, via the Home Counties, and these deliver a degree of malice and a keen edge.

Changeable

Cool morning, light with light showers, to my right fading stratus.

Forward, brightening. Hope about to break?

Brooding, over the house; Portentious darkness with biblical pretentions.
New weather delivery; sinister.

January, February, March

Easter is soon to be tethered, like a telegraph pole on the year's wire or a pin on a musical-box cylinder where once it was a bird that sat where it would, or a child's trumpet. Other religions of course have their own celebrations still governed by the wax of the moon, but the Westernised Christian calendar will soon be like simple clockwork; nothing will precess, nothing will leap (except the four yearly 29th of February).

Why do we tie things down so? Our birth-dates we celebrate regularly, despite the apparent time between each party diminishing through life. Christmas has its annual blast and while I appreciate the importance of its timing precision from an accounting point of view, I see no reason to tether the birth of someone two millennia ago to a single date of convenience.

Our annual measure is not even alligned with anything of meaning. The soltices occur on the 21st or 22nd and, with exceptions, those are not even marked. Our seasons are a moveable feast of their own, and increasingly so. Out the window the advancing signs of spring ignore that we are only just past the "depths" of winter, and what is more, may soon be swiftly erased by the cold season's resurgence. Camelias are flowering madly. Daffodils, primroses and snowdrops overlap. My lawn grass has not paused.

When early man first erected a sighting stone to prompt his sowing he began all of this. We should live more by the signs; declare holidays when the flowers bloom and the skies are blue, rather than suffer these false rhythms. Work, by all means, indoors when the winds blow cold.

Who to blame? Not the man with his sentinel. Either the priest or the accountant (who is only a priest of the money cult in any case).

The ponies look up

Under a still light blue sky with gauzy grey clouds I turned briefly East across an undulating heath. Sparse with trees and empty of buildings this is an ideal spot to look far into the distance, to try to measure the Earth by her horizon.

Today dark shapes loomed. Cumulus, like an implacable herd, gathered South. Each head growing, the shoulders crowding in until they became the horizon itself.

Now night, their rain falls straight in wet-hair curtains. Scattered to soak the ground by gusts of wind torn off the Westerly Channel flow.

Blow by blow

Once the rain began, no-one else fancied the walk, so I chose the coast. Where could be more beautiful on a damp and windy February? I drove to the sailing club, to walk the estuary there.

Low tide I was expecting, but there was more mud than I had thought and the boats, although all pointing to windward, were not playing in the wind but nestling in the soft ooze, curlews and oyster-catchers at their rails.

The flooded meadow's flock had made inland to escape the blow, but the next field up held a thousand or two of huddled geese, slowly beaking away at the rough grass that appeared to be their only shelter. A few folk were out braving the elements and as is the way in such weather, we all exchanged mad grins.

Across the stream by bridge and over the spit to meet the full force of the South-Westerly. I ventured over the tide-line - all cuttle bone and wrack, to the slope of the shingle specked today by foam and slammed by the waves driven by gale and tide.

I turned South-East, out along the spit, to enjoy the full force of nature. My feet crunched against the loud wash of waves, the hiss of stones and, when my hood was blown hard against my ear, the percussive ping of rain drops driven into the fabric.

Walking out I took the roughest route, deep shingle and the strongest wind. Occasional respite came from crossing the spit track to gaze over the lake there, where the ridge lifted wind came back down before deciding which way to proceed. At the deepest point of the lake, the moored boats bobbed against their restraints.

For a variety of reasons I had never walked the entire length of the spit (about a mile and a quarter) and, once I had passed my previous best I half decided that today was the right day to do it. I wondered about the wisdom as the castle drew closer. I appeared to be the last person out there and, after fighting the wind and the shingle my legs felt like someone else was in control.

Out to sea the Needles lighthouse was visible in the misty rain and I could see the line of breakers as the seas were forced over the Shingles Bank. Walking the front of the castle for the first time I went far enough to cross the transit of two buoys, North and East Shingles I would guess without a chart to hand.

A few minutes in shelter, a photo and I turned back, lest the rain worsen. I followed the much used path at the lee side of the spit and, other than a span of muddy weed and some loose shingle it was far easier than the path out, although the sounds of high seas just a few yards away were ever present.

The final stretch on the sea wall back to the car allowed the rain to begin to seep through my jeans and I'm sure that as soon as I got into shelter, the rain redoubled its efforts. The light was softening over the estuary's returning waters before I drove home.

Blow me tender

Successional storms sweep the Solent whipping waves up down and across this well-used waterway. This weekend the Beaufort scale leans towards the galey end of the spectrum and our boating is restricted to the river mooring, next the ferry.

Yesterday even the row out to the mooring was a bit of an epic voyage, as despite the wave barrier down-river, the 40-60 knot Southerlies are sufficient to create a wave system on the river itself. In the wind-mill of moored vessels and a swell the inflatable tender feels like a cork in a sink with the plug pulled. A few gusts are enough to cancel the force created by the oars and, back bent we paused episodically, waiting to be pushed backwards.

The tethered boat, once we arrived, was still quite mobile against the ropes and buoyage. After flask-chocolate and a bun and a thorough check above and below we stood on the deck to enjoy the spectacle of the ferry fighting against the wind to leave its ramp and set off back to the Island. I took a brief video on my phone thinking that it was unlikely to convey the sensation of movement and noise, but watching it again on dry land it is obvious that stuff is bobbing up and down quite a bit.

We noticed, after the ferry's departure that there was a cruiser, down river of us on the same mooring line, that was sideways to the wind and, apparently, unmanned. Weighing the threat of an escaped boat in the harbour against the upwind row to check it out, I decided it was possible to have a look. So we made fast and had a brief, windy reconnoitre. The bow-line had obviously snapped, but with no suitable line evident to remedy this we had to make to shore and report it. Fortunately the sailing club still had a rib in the water and sent three strong chaps to sort it out.

This morning broke bright, with gusty overtones. Flocks of jackdaws and seagulls wheel in the blue. No sign of yesterday's damp and ragged cloud.

Misdirection

Too many door signs.
I'll make one. "Here be dragons"
We'll see who reads them.

A reliable cycle?

Almost without fail, every three or four years, the high water pressure that arrives at my house eventually blows out the flexible hose connecting the cold water feed to my washing machine. Ever since I installed the plumbing 20 years ago, turning off the stop-tap on the washing machine feed has been getting more and more difficult.

Roughly 38 years since buying my first washing machine I have had to shell out for my third. I did consider the alternative of spending a hundred pounds and a day fixing the old one, but I had become a bit bored with its mechanical foibles and fancied a change. The old one, even with refreshed motor brushes, would occasionally refuse to operate (normally aborting a programme after just a few minutes), when asked to rinse it would leak. The killer blow was the disintegration of the drum bearing to the extent that cycles would halt immediately at random times with a loud thump and the whole machine would leap within the confines of its den.

The change of machine necessitated a battle with the stop-taps of course. The hot would slow to a drip, but the cold would not turn off. These tap connector devices are not helped by having levers of plastic all of three quarters of an inch long. Neither does it help that they are installed (rather cunningly I though 20 years back) right against the wall behind the sink unit. So I turned off the kitchen supply entirely and waited for the delivery.

It had occurred to me in the time between ordering a new machine and its arrival that it might be a single cold feed machine, but I hadn't bothered to check, in the hope that ignoring a problem would make it go away. The replacement is of course a single feed machine, so I had to redouble my efforts on the hot tap, eventually reducing the drip to a negligible level (I hesitate to say it has stopped entirely).

On a more cheerful note, my house it returning to a more acceptable level of laundry cleanliness. I even tested the wool setting on a couple of jumpers that hadn't seen soap yet this winter.

A turn for the better. (Lewmar 24 service)

I spent about three hours cleaning and lubricating one of the 30 year old Lumar 24 winches off the boat ready to either sell or refit it. Much of the time was faff: wandering back and forth to the garden to wash parts in paraffin, etc. But there was a job I had to ask the Internet about and since I didn't find a good answer, here is an uncharacteristic tutorial.

How to get the shaft key out of a Lumar 24 winch.
Here are a couple of pictures showing first the key and secondly the hole it fits. I didn't think to take a picture while it was stuck, and I was too greasy during reassembly.

The advice received from the web suggested levering the key using something thin. Nope. Doesn't work. I tried that and broke off the tail of a Swann Morton blade in the gap. The technique is to hit it - more precisely to drift it out from one side. I would have to recommend the use of a"soft faced drift", realistically half a clothes peg or the like, but I have to admit I used a cross-head screwdriver that I hit with a substantial pair of pliers.

The rest of the job was simple and self evident, although I have heard tell of folk struggling with the initial split ring. Just hook the tapered end out of the slot with a fine screwdriver, or a finger nail if you have any, and then chase the ring from the slot by following the gap created, clockwise until the whole ring is free of the slot and falls over the gunwhale.

I must add a bit of advice to those of you who consider winch maintenance to be a simple question of adding an extra layer of grease every year. Do take the time to strip down and clean from from time to time. The original grease stuck to the main spindle was doing very little good after 30 summers of heat, sailing seasons, water, grime and hair. I found it to be a gentle pleasure handling such a well made device of stainless steel and brass, especially now it has a single brand of clean grease and light oil on the pawls.

After all this service, the signs of wear are minimal. A bit of a shine on the outsides of the pawls, a little patina where the rough cast faces have ingrained oil stains. These mechanisms were only removed to obtain the ease of self-tailing replacements. I may yet decide to use one to replace the main winch since these 24s are dual action.

Electromechanical empathy

I am of the generation that lived through the emergence of the CD player as the dominant vector of music reproduction in the home; stuck then somewhere between the gramophone and the Spotify era. Brothers in Arms was not my first disc; probably my third.

I still use my venerable Technics SL-P220 attached to a tuner/amp of a subtly earlier time in my dining room.

The news, already absorbed from a BBC iPlayer radio app, had saddened me, as it has so frequently this year so far. I thought to regain some cheer by playing the Madness Terry Wogan jingle from disc 2 of The Business over breakfast. Uncharacteristically the machine took a half dozen attempts to actually play. I could only sympathise with how it felt.

Ducks in and out

A ferry was just leaving the ramp as I balanced first on one leg and then the other to don nautical clothing and boots behind the car. Carrying just a waterproof bag, oars and the pump I stepped down onto the pontoon to find the last week of rain in the tender, all six inches of it. Fortunately, this gave enough weight to allow the transom to overflow when the bow was lifted and I soon had the clear fresh water tipped into the muddy brackish water flowing out the river with the tail of the tide.

The breeze wanted to push me onto the moorings until I met the main channel, where I had to row back towards the line of boats to avoid the ferry terminal. Our yacht was fine, rain washed and secure. A cup of water in the bilges from wind-blown rain entering the vents, slightly low on electricity because the new orientation angles the solar panel poorly for the low winter sun.

Not much moving on the water, although it seems pleasant when the sun shines. As I ready the tender to return to shore the ferry looms back into view; shy of me today? I could have taken the same photo that I took two weeks ago, but without the ice.

Early not rising

From under covers the day looked gloomy; sounding still. A few early gates and cars, the imperative shouts of birds - too soon still to sing their love ballads.

The needy devices called out their morning pleas: junk emails, bank balances arriving, a single tuneful appointment.

Cinematic beams and fine droplets

Fine rain, settled gently in the earlier puddles, greeted me on the way home. Splashing as high as the screen. Mud run off the fields and fine aggregate deposited by ad-hoc steams, tracked by cars, stuck to the tarmac. Little used T-junctions worked the differential as tyres threw up this damp deposit, seeking the metalled surface beneath.

The sky was pale grey, bruised. Wind whispered and the headlights showed edges, hedges, posts and white lines. Approaching eyes glared through the mist and the beam helped a little before being soaked up and scattered by the damp air.

Reflectors signposted property boundaries, parked vehicles or day-glow clothing on dog walkers and cyclists; picking them out like the victims of thermonuclear accident or, with glowing highlights, like Tron people.

The edge of troubled weather

Yesterday evening was more calm and drier than most weather of late. Across the plain, a disused airfield, the sky was colourful. Lit and textured like a child's crepe paper stained glass christmas decoration. Yellow glowed through textured blues and greys, a celestial candle in the West that sank slowly towards a wooded horizon as I approached.

As storm "Gertrude" dances in the North of the kingdom we are spared her gratuitous violence, merely swooshed and swished by her skirts as she whirls up there. The trees in the garden shook this morning; some in apparent  mirth, some in anger and the birds kept to cover.

Trouble with waking

Fake dawn, moon lit, seeped through the curtains at five. The quiet gave it away and I checked the time, tried to remember how to sleep and lay there past the rattle of the first commuter train. Some time slumber crept back, relaxing the muscles' unaccustomed aches from Wednesday night badminton, until I woke. The arm stretching out for the alarm stabbed; sore shoulder, a touch of tennis elbow.

Floods mostly dissipated had left dampness which had frozen on the street and cars. Stabbed again as I scraped to the hum of warming engine and the blower trying to clear the glass. We joined streams of warming cars queuing for no reason but each other; flowing in and out of towns beneath the broadening pale blue.