Rubbish…it seems we’re never far from it wherever we are, town or countryside. Often the only difference is in the size of the problem, or the item, wherever you find it it’s not particularly pleasant and yet we seem almost powerless to stop it.

From relatively small scale littering, dropping cigarette ends or sweet wrappers, to large scale dumping of waste on almost commercial scales in lay-by’s and gateways, it seems that for certain members of society if we can get away with it we will. There is always a cost but for those folks who indulge they don’t seem to see the consequences of their actions.

There is always a cost to these actions, seldom borne by the perpetrator unless their actions are recorded and they are served with a fine, someone else is invariably left to pick up the pieces, quite literally, and the bill for doing so.

Whether it’s plastics on the beach, vehicle tyres and mattresses in rural lanes or just the detritus of urban living it impacts us all even if we don’t see it or are unaware that it’s going on. We have been dubbed a ‘throw away’ society ( mainly in a consumer led manner ), we really should be a little more considerate as to where we are ‘ throwing it away’ at times.

The grain is in and the animals are out. A walk along the lane last night just before sunset revealed a herd of young cattle in the top field, at this age they’re not afraid of anything or anyone and they’re so nosy. Anything in their vicinity is fair game for investigation and they’re often quite intimidating in their manner as they cluster around you, reasoning with them is akin to plaiting fog, they’re best left well alone.

That said they had one of the best views in the locality to bed down to, the setting sun casting a warm glow on the broken cloud looking back across the vale towards Melbury Down, Compton Abbas and even as far as Win Green, bathed in sunshine and marking the boundary with neighbouring Wiltshire.

It was a glorious evening for a walk, the fresher autumnal weather makes for pleasant wandering, especially at dusk in the quiet, peaceful countryside hereabouts. Through the fields and down to the river, the only sounds were that of the sheep bleating in the fields across to Piddles wood, the odd wood pigeon calling in the distance and, somewhere far off, the low hum of farm machinery toiling somewhere, unseen but insistent, the season is never over, it just rolls on almost seamlessly.

After a day at the computer finalising images for a project in the making yesterday evening’s clearing, cold skies at sunset proved a distraction too difficult to resist and two nearby locations offered me, quite literally, the highs and lows of the evening in equal measure.

As the sun settled in the west I was firstly drawn to one of the high spots in the area, Okeford Hill, which sits on a ridge flanking one side of the Blackmore Vale with a view north , west and east. At sunset the views across the vale into neighbouring Somerset, Wiltshire and Hampshire are uninterrupted, so, unfortunately, is the wind. With nothing to stop it’s progress for a good many miles it whips across the landscape blowing all before it unless it’s strongly rooted, last night’s northerly blow felt as though it hadn’t had landfall since Greenland. It was cold with a capital ‘C’. My familiar and favourite foreground devices, the grasses and seedheads, were being blown and scattered by the wind. It made for a cold and difficult experience trying to find something with which to construct a worthwhile photograph, I half managed, it was a case of a ‘high’ and yet a ‘low’…. a something and nothing event.

The sun was dipping low in the sky and as a last throw of the dice I headed down off the hill to my second location, a place that was the exact opposite of my initial lofty vantage point. At well over 150m further down towards the base of the valley the slow old River Stour wends its way under the bridge crossing at the tiny hamlet of Hamoon. Whatever warmth there had been in the evening sun had well and truly disappeared, sunset was over and the blue hour was beginning, deepening and darkening as the time ticked by. The howling wind on Okeford Hill was now replaced by a silent stillness, the light reflecting off the almost glass like surface of the river as it made it’s way through the reeds and away towards Shillingstone and, eventually, the sea some 30 miles or more away. There was a calm serenity to be had, the photograph was an ‘easy’ to be had, the exact reverse of my earlier experience, a ‘low’ and yet a ‘high’, a nothing and yet a something event to end the day with.

I missed to post yesterday, caught up in a project which only took an hour but which I couldn’t put down afterwards, it was only late on in the evening that I realised I hadn’t posted despite the excitement of the fair being in town and it being a perfect subject to photograph.

I for one, and I’m sure there are a host of others like me, love the arrival of the fair. It’s origins stretching back into history are far removed from the sophisticated, and not so sophisticated, thrill inducing rides that entertain the brave ( or foolhardy ) nowadays. In the past the ‘fair’ would have been a celebration of ‘occasion’, a thanksgiving, a blessing, a market or some such event. It was an event that brought people together to enjoy themselves, often as a distraction to the hardships that life offered them at the time. There may be more than a little of that sentiment for some nowadays, we are certainly living in challenging times it seems.

For a few afternoon’s and evenings once a year we are treated to the bright lights, the sounds, the smells, the thrills and excitement that we may not be privy to for the rest of the time, and judging by the crowds on Friday evening here on Durrants Field there were plenty seeking the distraction and enjoying all that the travelling company had to offer. I wandered and photographed, mingling with the crowds in the last of the evening sunshine, sampling the candy floss, toying with ( but finally discounting ) the idea of a hot dog before finally walking back home, full of the heady mixture for another year.

Just as quickly as it arrives it goes. At close of festivities on Saturday night a swarm of figures work late into the night under bright lights, taking down the stalls, dismantling the huge rides, packing away all the brightly coloured bits and pieces into the huge wagons and trailers. By Sunday morning the field is empty, only the flattened grass and the odd sign of scorch mark or oil patch remains, the cacophony of noise replaced once again by the silence of the countryside.

Farewell my noisy, smelly, adrenaline inducing and often mildly expensive, frivolous friend, I’m already looking forward to next year’s event.

This morning, caught high on the ridge between two valleys, I stood and looked across the expansive landscape, the fields now bare and awaiting the plough, the huge rolling skies almost reaching down to touch the landscape. I’d like to say it was as serene as it was breathtaking but being right on the side of a very busy route through the county meant that it was less than silent.

Looking east the landscape unfolded across huge fields that, until recently, had been full of the wheat crop, the tall stems swaying with the wind as it played across the undulating landscape, all gone now, safely gathered in before the rains begin to set in with any regularity. Looking west the land still rises slightly before cresting and tumbling down towards Cerne Abbas, famous for it’s less than scantily clad chalk giant. Despite driving the road to Dorchester a good number of time this morning was the first time I’d been able to stop and photograph it. It’s a majestic viewpoint indeed.

This morning’s ride out afforded me huge skies, hills and valleys, a couple of deer silhouetted against the skyline in a field full of straw bales, a buzzard wheeling over the meadows near sleepy Piddle Trenthide and, despite the clouds in the photo, a surprising amount of sunshine to go with the stiff breeze that was blowing. All in all, a very pleasant morning in the glorious countryside caught high on a ridge between the rolling countryside and the rolling clouds.

The thrill of the open road, especially on two wheels. It’s a thrill I’ve known since a young age and something that still excites me to this day. The ability to just get up and go at the drop of a hat, the exhilarating feeling of being as one with the machine, the wind in your face, the freedom, the fresh air….and sometimes the rain!

Nowadays I’m definitely a ‘fair weather’ rider. Increasingly, the reasons for not having ‘ a ride out’ are becoming far simpler to find and nowadays I do question how much longer I’ll keep my two wheeled passion alive. Those teenage days where any excuse to ride in whatever weather and for whatever reason are long gone, common sense finally winning over aching, chilled bones but despite that the magic of two wheeled transport couldn’t be resisted, the motorcycle went but the scooter arrived.

The arrival of the scooter was almost the complete turn of the circle, in the early 1970’s and almost out of school I was sorely tempted by a friends bright orange Vespa, my father had owned a Lambretta when we were children and so scooters were no mystery. There was something ‘cool’, something ‘Mod’ about the iconic scooter together with the clothes but I was never a ‘Mod’. I enjoyed the music and the fashions but I was, as much as anything, a ‘soul boy’, not that I was totally sold on that either, I was never ‘slavish’ to anything for very long. The fickleness of youth it seems.

In the end I was seduced by the acres of chrome and ‘candy apple paint’ that adorned the ranges of Japanese motorcycles of the time. Scooters had a reputation of breaking down with an alarming regularity, old British bikes very similarly deposited their precious cargoes of lubricating oil and seized up almost like clockwork, my travelling path was very definitely lit by the land of The Rising Sun for forty years. A succession of machines inveigled their way into my life, some for longer than others, but eventually a combination of factors meant there would be no more.

The motorcycle went but the scooter arrived, I’d gone full circle, albeit the scooter only shows a passing nod to it’s venerated forbears, it’s fully automated, twist and go, but it still affords me the same sense of freedom, the same excitement, the same exhilaration as ever. Drag on my parka, my Union Jack helmet and show me the open road and I’m gone, aches and pains forgotten….unless it’s raining.

The fair has arrived! I alluded to it in this morning’s post and on returning to town mid morning it’s duly arrived and setting up as we speak. I love it! Not so much from the point of view of riding the amusements but more from the excitement of the event. It’s a love affair born of childhood.

The traditional May Fair that I knew as a child set up in the streets of the Herefordshire town of my birth, tight, narrow, busy, bustling little streets that had once known ‘ two way’ traffic in the time of the horse and carriage and early days of motoring but now restricted to a ‘one way’ system owing to the narrowness of the carriageways. The spaces filled with machinery and brightly painted rides, carousels, stalls and amusements made the tight and cramped spaces feel like some sort of Dante’s Inferno filled with coloured lights and loud music. A Mad Hatters Tea Party on steroids.

It must have been hell for the local shopkeepers and residents who lived in the rooms above the shops. Three or four days of absolute madness and mayhem from mid day to chucking out time, but for young children, adolescents and teenagers it was heaven. The atmosphere was electric, almost tangible, like you could reach out and cut yourself a slice of the excitement. It’s a powerful memory that enjoys being rekindled every year.

And so it is, with great relish, that I look forward to being there again tomorrow night, and possibly the night after…and maybe the night after that as well, to drink in the heady atmosphere, the sounds, the smells ( who’d have thought that diesel and hot dogs could be so appealing ), the lights, the screams and the laughter. I may be another year older but the memories are as fresh as ever.

The last few mornings I’ve woken to a cooler, fresher, atmosphere, it appears that the sun has ceased it’s hostilities for the moment, possibly for the year given that we’re now fast approaching September, a month that traditionally signifies the onset of shorter, cooler and, often, wetter days.

Recently we’ve had more unsettled weather, we’ve had heavy dews, mists and fog, we’ve had daytime showers and while we’ve enjoyed periods of wonderfully sunny, warm weather it is time for a change. It’s time for the countryside to recover a little, things are looking distinctly tired. The fields are brown, the crops are in, only the maize is still in the fields but even that’s only a matter of time, a few short weeks and the farmers will be looking to harvest the final crop of the season. The land can breathe a short sigh of relief before the cycle begins all over again for another year.

In the meantime the hedgerows are burgeoning with the autumn crops of berries and nuts, the blackberries are ripening and the hazlenuts and sweet chestnuts are beginning to show. Wild hops weave in and out of the hedge tops in places, bright green with their freshness against the tired foliage around them, they make such a contrasting sight.

Mornings and evenings now we will be treated to more muted colours, any sunshine will be a welcome distraction and a link to the fast disappearing dregs of summer but it’s not a time to regret, rather a time to celebrate the newness of fresher things. The smell of newly turned soil in the fields, the heady fragrance of the earth and meadows after rain showers, the wonderful golds and reds of leaves before they fall, the mellowness of another year turning. Goodbye Summer and hello Autumn my old friend and , as if to celebrate, the Fair is in town bringing it’s own brand of excitement and another opportunity for photographs.

Yesterday’s foggy, misty, autumnal walk on Hambledon got me to thinking about myths and legends, today’s photo illustrated the theme perfectly. It’s a long standing belief that spiders don’t like horse chestnuts, conkers. It didn’t seem to bother this one yesterday, nor the myriad of others who’d weaved their magical silken threads between every available vestige of natural growth they could find, horse chestnut or otherwise.

Another country superstition, myth, call it what you will, is that should a hare run up a village street there will be a fire at one of the properties therein within a few days. Well, suffice to say that I think most of Dorset’s villages, particularly those around here will be safe. In all my wanderings over the last four years I have scarce seen a handful of rabbits let alone such a mystical creature as a hare. I fear they are on a par with that other elusive Dorset creature…the unicorn.

I have however seen deer, on several occasions they have popped up and taken me by surprise, in fields of maze on some occasions when I’ve been out watching the disappearing sun at dusk or in shady glades in spring time when the carpets of bluebells cover the ground, amazingly fleet footed, always elegant in their movements and always a pleasure to behold. In fact they are more readily observed than those elusive hares.

This county of Dorset, like many others , is steeped in folklore, myths and legends. Foggy days with restricted view and dampened sounds offer a more mysterious look to our beautiful countryside. On such occasions it feels that it’s not hard to lose the odd century let alone the odd hour while walking the lanes and hills, all the while the damned spiders are playing amongst the conkers, happily oblivious to the myth that says they shouldn’t.

This morning they suggested we would have mist, unfortunately no-one bothered to tell the weather that and instead we had fog. Now, as I understand it mist rises and fog falls, both have their origins in the relevant air temperature and its relationship with ground temperature and that’s as far as my meteorological knowledge and skills go. Mist is often considered romantic and fog, well, fog is damp.

Given that I don’t rush to rise and take advantage of the sunrise I thought I’d done pretty well this morning, up, out and on location for 08:00hrs ( okay, I know that’s not particularly early but for those of you who’ve read my laments on early rising you’ll appreciate the effort I made ) hopefully to make the best of any unfolding weather . Sadly that romantic mist I mentioned earlier failed to make an appearance and I was left with it’s cold, damp, grey relative…the fog.

In fact it was splendidly foggy, if fog can ever be considered ” splendid “, visibility was no more than 50 feet, not that you really get much opportunity to look about when you’re climbing the lower slopes of Hambledon Hill, concentrating on catching enough oxygen to remain standing upright is the main preoccupation. I did however encounter some hardy souls, obviously far earlier risers than myself, three overly energetic fell runners and five, less energetic, dog walkers, not all at the same time I hasten to add. My only other compatriots this morning were a herd of sheep wandering about in the murk and they weren’t overly keen on my intrusion and wandered off , possibly into oblivion as I never encountered them again on my meanderings.

Meanderings was the right word, in the world of reduced vision I somewhere and somehow took a wrong turn and an unfamiliar descent necessitated an about turn and a retrace of footsteps, a very surreal feeling of being somehow lost on ground that is relatively familiar ensued. I can fully see and appreciate the need for proper planning and equipment on unfamiliar ground though.

So, as it stands, give me mist over fog any day, I probably wouldn’t have got myself off the beaten track had the weather been misty, the fog was entirely to blame, it didn’t stop me getting a photo or two though even if the sheep weren’t entirely impressed at my efforts.