Given the gloriously sunny day I enjoyed just two days ago on my travels to Herefordshire the bottom has well and truly dropped out of things. Since yesterday mid morning we’ve enjoyed, and I use the term as loosely as is allowed, nothing but high winds and prolonged spells of rain again. Autumn is doing it’s best to go out with a bang rather than a whimper. It shouldn’t surprise me, Halloween and Bonfire Night are just around the corner and both celebrations are often accompanied by the worst of weather.

I’ve sat here today watching the rowan trees in the garden being thrashed by the wind, blown one way and then the other, how on earth the berries stay on the tree heaven only knows but they are holding on for grim death I would imagine. All the while the wind’s been blowing it’s been joined by the rain, lashings of it, driven along ferociously by the wind, forcing it’s way into every nook and cranny. It’s not been a day for getting out and about in it.

I had grand plans to venture down to Poole and photograph the Zombie Festival but that plan went out of the window at a very early stage this morning, somewhere very shortly after waking up and long before getting up. The wind and rain conspired and all plans for an outdoor day were well and truly scuppered. In fact, short of fetching the papers in from town, I’ve done nothing and ventured no further than the garage and workshop in order to take a few photo’s, ostensibly for this blog but in reality to avoid losing the will to live, well, perhaps not quite the will to live. I’m neither a garage or workshop person it has to be noted at this time, but they’ve served the purpose this afternoon and afforded me both shelter and the odd photographic opportunity.

Tomorrow those kind people at the Met Office have promised us a far better day and the promise of , at the very least, a dry week. The optimist in me says ‘hurrah’ while the realist in me say’s ‘ don’t hold your breath’. I fear an umbrella may be called for at some stage.

This morning’s wander along The Trailway began brightly enough, the thin, pale sunshine warmed things a little and picked out the structure in the cloudy, sometimes threatening sky but it was never destined to last. At the furthest point of my intended walk the elements conspired and came together resulting in a very windy deluge that forced me to take cover.

I’d gone out with the express intention of photographing a stand of field maples about a mile and a half down the old railway line, when they’re in colour they’re quite a magnificent sight, well worth the mile and a half trudge and in fine weather it’s no bad walk. However, if the weather doesn’t hold it’s a fair old uphill stretch back to civilisation in the rain and the wind.

Standing in the shelter of a tree watching the rain greying out the landscape I was grateful for the spreading canopy above me, those broad leaf maples did a very reasonable job of holding back most of the inclement weather even if they hadn’t coloured up to their best as yet, hopefully there may be time yet before the wind strips them bare.

In the adjacent field the maize crop that had stood as tall as a man was no more, the last crop of the harvest had been taken in, not before time given the wet weather we’ve had and the state of the fields, all that was left was the stubble. Row after row as far as the eye can see and the lie of the land will allow are the stalks sat in the muddy ground awaiting the plough and a new crop, we’re still in October but this morning’s rain felt very definitely November.

Today’s been a very long day, a nine hour drive and traffic, traffic, traffic…and I quite enjoy a drive but today’s been a grind. Up before the crack of dawn and out, away to far flung Herefordshire to visit my elderly mother in the most westerly extremity of the county in Kington.

I try to get back once a month, most months I manage it but every now and then time slips and I find it’s stretched to five or six weeks, however long it’s been it always seems as though nothing as changed, as though time has stood still,it hasn’t of course, time is the enemy of all of us, it’s a thief that robs us daily. Returning to my Herefordshire roots is a grounding experience, it reminds me of so many things, so many people, so many places and so many experiences. It’s also a most beautiful county.

It’s a county of rich, red earth, of white faced cattle whose hides are as red as that earth. It’s a county of rolling countryside as far as the eye can see, of streams and rivers, of market towns and the famous half timbered black and white villages, it is , as they say, God’s Own Country and as much as I enjoy the delights of rural Dorset, Herefordshire is in me and always will be, even if I have to endure the god awful drive to get there.

Quite literally a ‘wallflower’, clinging on for grim death, well, not really clinging at all. It’s amazing that, given the opportunity, plants will grow anywhere, this one had seeded itself in the mortar between the bricks on a garden wall but it serves as a reminder that life can sustain itself in the most inhospitable and unlikely places.

This one obviously finds enough nutrient to survive and flourish despite rooting in the most unlikely position on the garden wall ,a little yellow oasis against the red brick, bathed in the dew and misted in the early morning fog we had here in North Dorset. Fragile and yet at the same time obviously extremely hardy to survive and flourish as it has.

I guess you could almost use this example as a metaphor for life in general, how we often cling on, sometimes in the most precarious situations, and still find the ability to flourish and enhance our surroundings despite adversity at times. Life is a precious commodity and once our course is set we cling to it quite doggedly, making the most of our situation and circumstances whatever they might be.

Tuesday again, out to the lakes at Todber and then on to shop in Gillingham, one of life’s current little rituals, though one that might alter in as much as the trip to the lakes may become less frequent as the weather closes in for the winter, the trip to shop in Gillingham will continue unabated, we have to eat after all.

This morning’s mist and fog made for a beautiful start to the day, all the familiar sights take on a different lease of life when they are shrouded in the mist, the glow from the sun, rising and fighting it’s way through the grey shroud clinging to the fields and the water, bathed everything in glorious, subdued hues and heralded the start of what promised to be another glorious autumn day.

Misty mornings remind me of childhood and walks to school, past privet hedges festooned in cobwebs bedecked with glistening droplets, reminds me of late afternoon football sessions on what us Leominster folk called ‘The Grange’, carrying the goal posts and cross bars from the junior school under the watchful eye of a very authoritarian games teacher. Misty mornings that became misty afternoons, days where the warmth never burnt the silent, silver, swirling fog away swim in the further corners of memory and come to the fore on days such as these. I love misty days, there is much that is a comfort in them.

In the four years that we’ve been here in North Dorset this tree has been a constant, it has stood, wedged against the lip of the weir having been washed down the river at some stage during a previous flood. The weeds and reeds have grown up around it and it’s become a small island, resolute against the broad flow of the river as it races down over the concrete basins and on into the millpond. However it seems that all may change.

In the last swell of the river the weight of the water seems to have dislodged the old trunk, it’s now splintered and slipped, teetering on the edge, the small island world lies precariously poised on the lip of the basin waiting the next flood, awaiting it’s fate. If, or when, it falls it’ll allow the water to flow more evenly over the weir at that point but once it falls into the next bay it may likely get trapped there and create an obstruction all over again.

For the moment it hangs, balanced on the edge, hooked by it’s tendril like branches to the top lip of the weir, for all the world looking as if one more good flood will push it over the edge and give it a new home, albeit only a few feet away from it’s present position.

This morning’s post was written in the comfort, and warmth, of my snug, centrally heated bedroom because it was just a tad on the chilly side first thing. I did wonder whether or not I’d bother to get out and about given it was that fresh but what’s a Sunday afternoon for if not to stroll after lunch?

A wander down the Trailway and through the meadows, disturbing a cock pheasant who thought I hadn’t seen him hiding in the grass as I approached, watching him run off with that silly, elongated strut which always makes them look like a very dapper version of a roadrunner in my opinion, and then on down to the riverside. Along the slightly swollen Stour and down to the old mill at Fiddleford where the great, grey heron was stalking the waters silently.

Through the fields, the remnants of the stubble turned grey and bleached by the sun and the weather, the grain that spilled and wasn’t collected, not yet devoured by the flocks of wood pigeons or rooks, still glowing golden on the ground where it fell at the end of the harvest, the meagre sunlight picking out the rich colour under the increasingly darkening sky.

Then home along the riverbank where the ardent anglers sit in stony faced silence for fear of disturbing the fish. The old river, dirty and slow, laden with silt and mud washed along in the floodwater, meandered its way between the banks where the leaves on the trees are turning and the hips and haws show the brightest shades of red, more colour on a gloomy Sunday afternoon stroll in the countryside.

Yesterday was a breath of fresh air, a return to the warm and sunny weather of last month, very welcome it was as well although we didn’t spend too much time in it. A family visit into Hampshire allowed us the luxury of a drive in the sunshine, as much as a ride along the M27 can be considered a luxury especially in the elongated stretch of roadworks around the M3 interchange, and the changing scenery was at least entertaining.

Coming home last night under clear skies as the sun dipped low on the western horizon it felt distinctly chilly, I did wonder whether or not we might see the first signs of a frost this morning. That wasn’t to be, it seems that the night sky clouded over at some time and kept the temperature just high enough to prevent the frost but obviously cold enough to kick the central heating into operation as it gave me an early morning alarm call just before 07:00, a comforting way to start the day, cosy, snug and relieved that the boiler was working, no nasty, expensive surprises there thank goodness.

Sitting here now and watching the cloud bank rolling in from a northerley direction probably indicates it’s going to be a chilly day, it’ll be a bonus if it stays dry I think but at least it’s dry at the moment, if a little soggy under foot, it’ll be a wellingtons and waterproof type of day methinks….

This morning’s conditions didn’t fill me with much hope, the weather’s been so unsettled over the last couple of days and although the incessant rain has ceased it’s far from over. The squally showers that have replaced the downpour are no less ‘wetting’ should you suffer the misfortune of getting caught out in the open. That being the case it isn’t wise to be wandering too far from home and that gives rise to another problem…..repetition.

I live on the edge of an area of outstanding natural beauty, that’s an official designation not just a statement from one who spends a great deal of his time wandering about in the countryside hereabouts. As such the local area is a great magnet to other photographers and certain local scenes feature time and time again, it makes getting a different view or an outstanding shot increasingly difficult and I hate being repetitive, particularly when the work of other individuals is of a very high standard. However, at times there is no other alternative than to shoot what has already been shot and hope that you can offer enough of a difference for it to be noted.

With the weather and the above in mind I was at a bit of a loss this morning as to where to go and what to photograph, you wouldn’t think it would be that difficult, or maybe I’m just a bit ‘picky’ about things. It’s without doubt that the river here offers some of the best opportunities coupled with the magnificent beech avenue at Hinton St Mary but how many pictures can you see of the mills, the avenue or the river before you reach saturation point, hopefully there’s room for one more because it’s all I could find in this morning’s meanderings.

Once , perhaps twice, a year my wife likes to visit a fairly local event dedicated to ‘crafters’, those souls who enjoy being creative to one degree or another and where they have an opportunity to browse and shop for the latest lines, designs and ‘must haves’ for the season.

I go along as driver and head ‘bag carrier’, it’s not an onerous task because there’s always coffee and some other delicacy on offer, savoury or sweet, at some stage during proceedings. I’m always amazed at the ingenuity and endeavour of these people, there are folk who sew and stitch, crochet and quilt, weave and wire, stamp and stick and in the majority it’s all created by hand ( granted that sewing machines, spinning wheels and other odd mechanics are utilised to aid a process ).

Some of the creations on show are out of this world, the levels of skill and patience honed over many hours , there are works of art created from fabric and felt, works created with pen, ink or paint, creations in wire work, some are whimsical and some are bordering on incredible, all are entertaining and set the mind wondering as to what might be achieved with a little application. One thing’s for sure, most of the creations required a little more invention than the use of ‘ a pair of scissors and some sticky backed plastic’ and would certainly merit more than a Blue Peter badge.