In A Big Country
"It's always the same nowadays in summer. We either get rubbish or it's too hot. We don't ever seem to get anything in between."
Two ladies of certain years stood in the car park of Morrison's supermarket in Brecon, discussing the weather. We're obsessed with the weather in the UK, simply because we get so much of it. On this Friday morning it was unusually hot and still, in the middle of a ten day period of unbroken Mediterranean conditions as we were. But just over a week earlier we shivered in our woollens and reached for the central heating controls as we wondered whether summer had been cancelled. Some of you in places where the mercury habitually passes the 30 centigrade notch and stays there for most of the summer laugh. But we're just not used to it in this country, which for most of the year is cold, wet and dark. Many of us head south for warmer climes each year where it's far hotter than this, but for reasons I can't really explain, it just feels more punishing here. Perhaps it's the humidity.
I was within listening distance of the conversation, but was carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. The car park was almost completely full, and with shoppers constantly heading between their cars and the supermarket entrance across the concourse, there was no way I was going to attempt to reverse 6 metres of campervan into anything less than two adjacent empty spaces - even with the aid of a reversing camera. I reasoned I'd rather risk the odd dirty look than potentially maim some poor innocent in an attempt to squeeze Brenda into a space where even an experienced van driver might struggle. I'd parked at the side of a parking bay as unobtrusively as I could, but the two ladies having this conversation were both going to find it ever so slightly more challenging to reverse out of their spaces without hitting me.
A red haired man in a silver SUV circumnavigated the car park over and over again. I couldn't decide why he didn't just pull into one of the few empty bays. Every three or four minutes he would reappear, like the second hand of a ticking clock, inexplicably circling. Meanwhile I waited for Ali, who had gone inside to brave the crowds and fetch the provisions for the last two days of adventure in the mountain playground that lay a few miles south. All the while I expected the imminent arrival of some grumpy overheated local at my window to remonstrate with me on the subject of where I'd parked. But there was little I could do, and nobody troubled me anyway.
Eventually Ali arrived, looking hot and irritable and telling tales of battles at the supermarket shelves and enormous checkout queues. It seemed my ordeal had been the easier one. As we pulled away a sense of relief came immediately, partly because the first corner that I'd been frowning at for some time wasn't quite as tight as it has looked. Everything seems different in compact spaces when you're driving something twice the size of your usual vehicle. The red haired man in the silver SUV waved to beckon me out of the car park as he made yet another circuit and we were off back towards the sanity of the quiet mountain farm where we were staying. At one point we had to squeeze past an oncoming farmer in the narrowest of lanes, but he knew exactly where we could pass one another without incident and all was well in the world once more.
Later, we found ourselves deposited here at the top of the forest above the Talybont reservoir. The rest of the party had descended the valley to wander among the waterfalls and pools far below us. But Ali and I intended to walk the six miles back to our farm over two mountain summits. There's another tale there so stay tuned. For a moment we lingered here, gazing out into the big country from the clearing beneath the tall spruces and feeling the calm sensation that a view without evidence of human intervention brings.
I took this one on my phone and shared it on other social media, often a barometer for whether I decide to post an image here on Flickr. I resisted the temptation to tinker with it any further in the editing suite. After all, it had been well received and more importantly it felt like the right version of the image to me already. One of you was kind enough to suggest it reminded him of a scene from an Enid Blyton novel and I could see why. And yes that's her right there - my little shipmate on life's ocean of adventure, which may have been the title of one of those novels in fact.
It's going to be the first of a number of images from this six night rip to South Wales. There are stories to tell and pictures to go with them. I finally downloaded them onto my PC this morning, and as ever, I'm disappointed with some, but pleasantly surprised by others. But best of all - what a holiday. And what a way to be reminded that you don't need to travel over oceans and continents to find exquisite places when they're all over the place where you live if you just look for them.
In A Big Country
"It's always the same nowadays in summer. We either get rubbish or it's too hot. We don't ever seem to get anything in between."
Two ladies of certain years stood in the car park of Morrison's supermarket in Brecon, discussing the weather. We're obsessed with the weather in the UK, simply because we get so much of it. On this Friday morning it was unusually hot and still, in the middle of a ten day period of unbroken Mediterranean conditions as we were. But just over a week earlier we shivered in our woollens and reached for the central heating controls as we wondered whether summer had been cancelled. Some of you in places where the mercury habitually passes the 30 centigrade notch and stays there for most of the summer laugh. But we're just not used to it in this country, which for most of the year is cold, wet and dark. Many of us head south for warmer climes each year where it's far hotter than this, but for reasons I can't really explain, it just feels more punishing here. Perhaps it's the humidity.
I was within listening distance of the conversation, but was carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. The car park was almost completely full, and with shoppers constantly heading between their cars and the supermarket entrance across the concourse, there was no way I was going to attempt to reverse 6 metres of campervan into anything less than two adjacent empty spaces - even with the aid of a reversing camera. I reasoned I'd rather risk the odd dirty look than potentially maim some poor innocent in an attempt to squeeze Brenda into a space where even an experienced van driver might struggle. I'd parked at the side of a parking bay as unobtrusively as I could, but the two ladies having this conversation were both going to find it ever so slightly more challenging to reverse out of their spaces without hitting me.
A red haired man in a silver SUV circumnavigated the car park over and over again. I couldn't decide why he didn't just pull into one of the few empty bays. Every three or four minutes he would reappear, like the second hand of a ticking clock, inexplicably circling. Meanwhile I waited for Ali, who had gone inside to brave the crowds and fetch the provisions for the last two days of adventure in the mountain playground that lay a few miles south. All the while I expected the imminent arrival of some grumpy overheated local at my window to remonstrate with me on the subject of where I'd parked. But there was little I could do, and nobody troubled me anyway.
Eventually Ali arrived, looking hot and irritable and telling tales of battles at the supermarket shelves and enormous checkout queues. It seemed my ordeal had been the easier one. As we pulled away a sense of relief came immediately, partly because the first corner that I'd been frowning at for some time wasn't quite as tight as it has looked. Everything seems different in compact spaces when you're driving something twice the size of your usual vehicle. The red haired man in the silver SUV waved to beckon me out of the car park as he made yet another circuit and we were off back towards the sanity of the quiet mountain farm where we were staying. At one point we had to squeeze past an oncoming farmer in the narrowest of lanes, but he knew exactly where we could pass one another without incident and all was well in the world once more.
Later, we found ourselves deposited here at the top of the forest above the Talybont reservoir. The rest of the party had descended the valley to wander among the waterfalls and pools far below us. But Ali and I intended to walk the six miles back to our farm over two mountain summits. There's another tale there so stay tuned. For a moment we lingered here, gazing out into the big country from the clearing beneath the tall spruces and feeling the calm sensation that a view without evidence of human intervention brings.
I took this one on my phone and shared it on other social media, often a barometer for whether I decide to post an image here on Flickr. I resisted the temptation to tinker with it any further in the editing suite. After all, it had been well received and more importantly it felt like the right version of the image to me already. One of you was kind enough to suggest it reminded him of a scene from an Enid Blyton novel and I could see why. And yes that's her right there - my little shipmate on life's ocean of adventure, which may have been the title of one of those novels in fact.
It's going to be the first of a number of images from this six night rip to South Wales. There are stories to tell and pictures to go with them. I finally downloaded them onto my PC this morning, and as ever, I'm disappointed with some, but pleasantly surprised by others. But best of all - what a holiday. And what a way to be reminded that you don't need to travel over oceans and continents to find exquisite places when they're all over the place where you live if you just look for them.