CHALLENGE OF THIS WEEK:
… … … wait for it … … …
Boom boom! (Ahem, a bit less of this wild enthusiasm—)
I walk a lot. Six klicks when weather is fowl (I’ll admit it, I’m chicken) and varying circuits to twelve K’s when I feel like it.
A totally unnecessary accessory on any walk is a camera and trimmings, without which I’d
feel be naked (dysfunctional, and fretting oodles too) … (so please delete and amend previous wordings as required for coherence).
So herewith also find a few shots selected entirely at random, just as they appear on my screen. One day I’ll get ’round to a whole heap of proper editing—that’ll be when I take a break from shooting, which will be right after Hell freezes over. Judging by the expression on the face of my Guardian Angle there, no time soon. (No freezes pleases, hey?)
is a wee country town overflowing with sportsfolks of all types and ilks. Can’t get away from them (hell, if walking is a sport I’m guilty too?) (naaaah!).
Here have a nice cricket—
—game. I have no idea who is playing whom but judging by the wild enthusiasm of the crowd it was a major match …
Another day, another atmospheric phenomenon. Judging by the halo even power poles can be holier than thou. Or moi.
No walk would be complete without passing under the gaze of (SFX: drum roll, please) The Watcher. His hat seems to have slipped again, it does often and I retilt it to a more rakish angle.
Nice guy but he never returns my salutes—and never growls at me for walking across his grass, for which I am grateful.
Across the road and along a bit these things. This being farming country I venture a guess that they may be something to do with agriculture (but don’t quote me on that).
More in that vein, here have thee a nice—
—harvest, complete with an ever patient truck awaiting collection. Of the harvest, that is. I’m told that those big gift-wrapped things are stuffed with hay. Apparently gift-wrapping makes it better somehow. But I can’t help thinking that it makes things a bit difficult for sheep and cows and things, all molars and no claws …
And when the ploughman homeward wends his weary way and old dogs turn back to their kennels, this (above) is what you see sometimes down here.
It was a misty-rainy day and with wet all over the lens I took the shot anyway, knowing damn’ well that folks would think it all Photoshop. ‘Snot, it’s wysiwyg …
AND NOW FEEL
—make a comment …