It’s been a hectic weekend, so much so that I haven’t had a minute to get out with the camera, however, it doesn’t happen that often and occasionally a change is a good as a rest so they say. After Friday morning’s session at the lavender farm with my little red breasted model, a robin, I hasten to add, it was always going to be difficult to find a better shot this week anyway.

That said, there were times over the weekend that I wouldn’t have minded being able to lean on the gate in the photo and just gaze down the field line from one of if not the highest points in Dorset where the county line with Wiltshire runs across the skyline at Win Green. Wiltshire would like to claim it for their own and , yes, the majority of Win Green Hill is technically on their side of the line but the best views are all Dorset’s, south to the sea, across the Blackmore Vale, onto the Purbeck Hills and down to the Isle of Wight.

The peace and quiet from this point is wonderful, no traffic noise, just the birdsong and the breeze, though, catch the weather on a bad day and the wind howls unhindered from all directions and, should it rain, the only shelter is the clump of beech trees growing atop an ancient Bronze Age bowl barrow. A romantic might say that the howling isn’t the wind it’s the sounds of our ancestors protesting at the mess we’re making of things perhaps.

Our ancestors view in the day would have been very different, certainly not the wonderful view afforded to us nowadays though it’s none the less fascinating that feet have trod the ground here for millennia, I’m sure one or two would have rested on that gate had it been available to them at the time.

I took the short drive down the lanes to The Dorset Lavender Farm Project at Fiddleford this morning, too lazy to wander the meadows and not really inclined to pick my way through the soggy, muddy gateways along the way even though the weather wasn’t too bad at all. Dry and sunny first thing has given way to cloudy and threatening now coupled with a breeze that’s distinctly chilly.

I had the place to myself, no-one else there today, no other human interaction to be had but it was soon evident that I wasn’t alone. Within minutes of arriving and setting up I was aware of fluttering wings, lo and behold, one of two resident Robins arrived to see what I was doing. I think he was more interested to see if there was anything in the depths of my camera bag in reality, he’s very often fed by staff here and is a constant feature during the day whenever anyone arrives.

He was lucky, I had biscuits and the few crumbs scattered on the table were sufficient to entice him, cautious at first but with increasing bravado, into the scene. The first few clicks of the shutter made him hop away, not far, just far enough for him to gauge the threat. Confident that I wasn’t going to make any sudden moves he returned to the table, my benificence in feeding him a few meagre crumbs rewarded by his presence in my company and in my photo.

Perfectly peaceful in the depths of the countryside with just the colours of the autumn and my little red breasted companion it wasn’t a bad way to start the day.

Not quite literally on ‘ the road to nowhere’, all roads lead somewhere after all, though, not necessarily to Rome as the saying goes. This one links the villages of Marnhull to Stalbridge, Dorset is a very ‘Up Hill and Down Dale county’, well it is hereabouts anyway. This location is called ‘ Cox’s Mount’, at whatever point in history this land belonged to Mr Cox I can only say he had a very fine view from his hilltop.

This county seems to be blessed with such views, they appear at every twist and turn, that said, taking your eyes off the road to admire the view can be a little bit like taking your life in your hands, the county isn’t blessed with the finest of roads, narrow, twisty, rutted ( though that isn’t just peculiar to Dorset it seems ) and pothole strewn are all adjectives that spring to mind.

They are roads that should encourage a slower pace of life, however, familiarity breeds contempt ( again, not peculiar to Dorset ) and it’s not uncommon to find oneself meeting someone coming the other way almost head on which can be a bit disconcerting to say the least. Mechanisation and transport have far outstripped our provincial highways and , more often the case, byways. The demands of agriculture and industry have seen the introduction of vehicles onto roads that are in places better suited to the horse and cart of yesteryear.

I’m glad of these little lanes and their incredible views and while they are sometimes frustrating in as much as they make getting from A to B a somewhat leisurely affair they are none the less pleasant if you’re in no great hurry, the road to nowhere often has a great deal to offer and enjoy.

Today’s been promised, billed even, as the day of the week where the weather’s concerned and so far it’s lived up to its promise. It’s been a gorgeous day, warm, sunny, dry, you name it’s had it all with the exception of any inspiration. I’ve struggled to find anything of note, nothing has leapt out shouting ” Shoot Me! Shoot Me!”

I’ve been out and about, peered over hedgerows and through gateways, walked the length and breadth of one or two Dorset villages and still found nothing to write home about let alone wax lyrical over. Maybe I’m struggling with the photographers equivalent of ‘writers block’ or maybe I’m trying just a little too hard. Whatever, it’s been hard going today.

I’ve noticed that today’s post marks a point that’s roughly two thirds of the way through what I set out to try and achieve, namely, to post everyday for a year, today’s post is the 243rd ( which, with the very rare exception, have duly been consecutive ) and so it should be all downhill from here, hopefully not too literally. It would be nice to think that I can conjure up something of interest for the final third of the journey. Tomorrow , as they say, is another day, let’s hope that inspiration returns and isn’t drowned out by another Dorset deluge!

It’s been another of ‘those’ days, you know the ones, days where nothing really gels, where you feel you really should be doing something and yet the world conspires against you and prevents you from accomplishing anything of any meaning.

Today’s fare was a venture into the ‘macro’ world, due in part to the unpredictable weather ( it’s been prone to downpours of almost biblical proportions ) and in the main because I didn’t want to face a soaking coupled with there being very little left in the garden with which to construct a photo of worth. Hence you have to try and make the most of what you’re presented with.

My wife has long said that I have a near obsession with the dead and the decaying, I should hasten to add that it only applies to flowers and seeds. Nature fascinates me and I find myself drawn to the sculptural constructions left at the end of a plant’s life, the framework that has supported colourful blossoms and blooms all summer is often as delicate and beautiful as the flowers themselves.

Sometimes we only get to appreciate this incredible world in miniature, viewing it at almost life size allows us to see what the eye misses during the growing season. Once the blooms have faded and the petals dropped the mechanics of a plant are as intricate and delicate as lace, small cellulose spars and cells give structure and support, replicated perfectly by Nature over and over again there is a beauty in their faded glories.

Today I could only find one subject in the garden that drew my interest and, while I wait for Autumn to turn the leaves and colour the trees, it was good to find something so delicate to turn my attentions on.

Today’s been the last day of September, it’s felt more like the first day of November. Despite a glorious sunrise, so I’m told, it’s had all the hallmarks of a gloomy, damp November afternoon, not cold, not windy just damp and gloomy….and muddy.

High on the ridge along Okeford Hill the farmer’s been busy, the fields that just a few weeks ago glowed golden with the wheat dancing on the breeze are bare now save for the stubble and time waits for no man. There’s plenty of evidence that the farming year is moving along again. Fresh tractor tracks and signs of scurrying prior to sowing are much in evidence.

In the afternoon’s gloom the freshly worked soil stood in contrast to the forlorn grey stubble. The afternoon’s weather had begun to close in, looking across the valley it was easy to see the scudding clouds and the rain falling further west, making it’s progress slowly but surely as I wandered along, it wouldn’t be too long before it reached my vantage point, I wouldn’t be straying far this afternoon for sure.

I retraced my steps, hopping over the ruts and ridges where the tractor had made it’s way, kicking the odd lump of chalk that had sprung to the surface after the scurry had done it’s work. Back in the lee of the hedgerow, following the curve of the track, stopping briefly to shelter against the side of the lonely, isolated barn before dropping down into the sheltered lane, thankfully protected by the high hedgerows.

The last day of September has felt suspiciously more like the first day of November, as is we have lost an entire month. The rest of the evening is forecast with rain and even more to come tomorrow before a possible chance of change on Wednesday, I’m glad I took the opportunity to wander the ridge this afternoon, tomorrow will be a day to stay in the dry it seems.

The weather’s been less than gracious again this morning, at time blowing a gale and wringing wet after the overnight deluge, as a result I haven’t ventured out as yet. I’ve kept a wary on the weather forecast and hopefully there’ll be a lull in hostilities this afternoon and I can get out.

It’s a sure fact that I won’t get to this particular view today, it’s a view I was introduced to recently, hidden away despite being not far from the well worn path that takes all and sundry across the footbridge and the weir at Fiddleford. It’ll be far too damp today and there’s a fair chance that the river will be raging after the recent downpours, this side of the river is described as a flood meadow with good reason.

The sunny, dry, warm conditions that encouraged me to wander on the day that I took this shot, a mere fortnight ago, have recently been a distant memory banished by the cold winds and driving rain. I enjoy a walk but it’s hard going in these conditions, not only do the elements conspire against you but Dorset clay seems to be a particularly sticky, cloying goo. It’s heavy as well, it doesn’t make for good going or maybe, more to the point, I’m a fair weather walker.

Roll on the afternoon and a chance for the forecasters to prove themselves correct, it’s a sure bet that I won’t be straying too far afield but it would be nice to get out and about, a man could go crazy cooped up for too long!

I left it very late last night, almost too late. The sun was well down on the horizon when I thought to go out, I tried two other locations before getting high up on Okeford Hill more in hope than anger.

By the time I’d managed to get here the sun was gone, hidden behind the last vestiges of the cloud lying low on the western horizon. Fortunately there was enough ‘glow’ to colour the sky and the last of the cloud offered a little interest in what would otherwise have been a very boring sky. I’d been lucky to miss the rain shower, the addition of the puddles added another interest to the scene but it still wasn’t going to give me much I thought.

As I set the camera up on the tripod, essential given that the light had almost gone, I could hear the car labouring up the hill and I knew I might have the foreground interest that I needed to liven my scene up. Opening the shutter with the lens closed down allowed the headlights of the car to ‘travel’ through the picture without recording the vehicle itself and giving me the added ingredient that lifted a mundane shot into something far more interesting.

Last night was almost a classic case of ‘ failing to plan is planning to fail’, fortunately, being aware of any opportunity that presented itself saved the day, I couldn’t have planned it, it just happened and I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time thank goodness.

Nothing says ‘Autumn’ to me more than the horse chestnut, the humble ‘conker’. From it’s early supposed origins as an English tune;

 Anne Gilchrist concludes that it is “a version of an old English tune called ‘Go no more a-rushing,’ which was arranged for virginals by William Byrd and Giles Farnaby—by the latter under the title of ‘Tell mee, Daphne.’ … So ‘Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree’ is really an Old English—perhaps originally a dance—tune, preserved traditionally and lately modernized.”

to those winter afternoons spent collecting the rich, brown seeds as a child in the company of parents who would then pierce and thread them and oversee the first few games of conkers as their parents had done before for them. The first recorded game of conkers using horse chestnuts was in 1848 on the Isle of Wight.

I remember doing the same for my own son, a right of passage almost, something handed down and handed on again from subsequent generation to generation. The whole process rooting the past, the present and the future together in cool, afternoon forays in parks, fields and hedgerows seeking out the sleek, shiny horse chestnuts while trying to avoid the prickly, waxy, spiky green outer cases.

Nostalgic it may be, but after all this time, there is still nothing that says Autumn has arrived more loudly than seeing the spiky green carapace on the tree or split open on the ground revealing it’s glorious cargo. Long live the Horse Chestnut!

As the old adage goes, ‘ A Watched Pot Never Boils’, so it is with the turning of the leaves it seems, it’s Autumn, for goodness sake get on with it! Bring on the glorious reds and golds, glistening greens and bronzes. There was some evidence of it this morning but, oh my, it’s taking it’s time.

After yesterday’s dismal showing on the weather front I was keen to get out in this morning’s far better weather, light breeze, no rain and even some sunshine through fairly high, well broken cloud cover, after a day of almost incessant rainfall it was good to be out and about.

I expected the river to have risen overnight and I wasn’t disappointed, on reaching the mill the water was roaring down the tumbling bay and over the weir itself and the angry waters rumbled and roared, white foam floating on the rapidly rising millpond. It never ceases to amaze me how the river level here rises and falls at such a rate, flooding at the merest hint of rain and then returning to it’s more modest levels a day later. The weeds that had choked the river downstream last week were well and truly hidden this morning but, if the rain doesn’t return later today, tomorrow they’ll be poking their heads above the water as before.

I ventured up to the cattle crossing, last week a friend and I walked across it to take photo’s, this morning the waters were knee deep, flowing across the concrete crossing at quite some rate, certainly not a chance of crossing today. Where the waters had been still and covered in green algae from the summers heat they were now brown and muddy as they scoured the banks and the river bottom in the rush of the flow.

All the signs are in place, the season’s slowly and subtley changing, those elusive autumn colours will soon be with us , maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but they will arrive, it seems I shall just have to be patient a little longer.