I’ve just been out to the car and the temperature reads 27C. I wouldn’t mind, well, I would really because I don’t do ‘the heat’, but the air-con in the car has decided to give up the ghost. The inside of the car’s something akin to a medium sized oven, thankfully I don’t have to use it this afternoon but at some stage I’ll need it and if the temperature holds it would be nice to be cossetted by air-con. I am now awaiting a call from the engineers as to when they can take a look at things, knowing my luck it’ll probably be on Friday which, according to the Met Office, is the day the weather is due to break and we’re forecast rain. A little ironic considering that today is St Swithins day. How on earth people cope with this heat I don’t know, all I want to do is sit in the shade and wait for the relative cool of the evening. I appreciate that being born into a hot climate must make a difference and for those people that were the current weather must have been quite a pleasant change. I, however, am melting. If this is global warming then increasingly I shall be in for a hard time of things in the summer while, conversely, in the Autumn we’ll be up to our ankles in floodwater and our knees in snow come the Winter. Hurrah! The engineer says he can look at my air-con on Thursday, roll on, for now it seems it’s another couple of days in shorts and Hawaiin shirts, well it would be should I own a Hawaiin shirt!

It’s been a great day out! This morning we attended ‘Poole Goes Vintage’ down on the quay, I’d seen the event posted on Facebook, Helen said ‘Let’s Go’ and that was that, we were off so to speak, despite my aversion to all things organised. Things that are ‘organised’ usually involve an element of ‘queuing’. Now, I don’t mind queuing, queuing is very ‘British’, well it used to be and I should clarify my previous statement regarding said activity to read that I ‘used to not mind queuing’. Nowadays it often brings out the curmudgeonly in me ( what a wonderful word ) , mainly because it’s become a dying art. Nowadays, it seems, no-one queues. A line may form as if to queue but as soon as whatever is being queued for opens or becomes available the orderly queue becomes a general free for all where manners and respect go out of the window in the quest to be first in, first served or whatever. That said, off we we went to Poole with high hopes and we were not disappointed in the least. The journey down was a breeze, despite it being a Sunday in the season, there were no queues, well, other than the one through Child Okeford all the way to Blandford, I’ll ignore that one…for now. There were readily available car parking spaces, again no queues. We didn’t have to queue for coffee, on two occasions , nor for an ice cream later in the day, who says that miracles don’t exist and the entertainment was first class. A delightful duet of ladies sang hits from the day, a gent crooned Elvis hits, couples jived and other attendees dressed the part, there were cars to photograph, the sun shone and it seemed that everyone was out to enjoy a thoroughly good day. It’s one I shall certainly look forward to next year.

……Any Truck That’s Going Back Home’ is a line from an Elton John record album called Tumbleweed Connection. It has an intensely American feel, very rural, very ‘country’, in my mind very ‘Deep South’. It resonates on a personal level. I am to all intents and purposes a ‘country boy’, coming from a small town in a predominantly agricultural area, not that I ever worked on the land, other than as a teenager in school holidays. I had friends and knew others whose lives were intertwined with the land. Lives dictated by lambing or calving, by sowing, by reaping and baling on long, hot days and evenings which invariably ended in the local pub, all to be started over again the following day until the job was done. As the year wore on and days shortened the arrival of Autumn heralded a change in priorities. Where the impetus had been on ‘gathering in’ there was now a perceptible shift towards closing things down, ploughing in and planting winter crops, hedging and ditching ready for the wet, rainy winters days when working the land would be a wet and muddy experience. Where the warm summers resulted in bronzed torso’s and bulging biceps ( and that was just on the girls ), the onset of winter dictated wearing as many layers as possible against the cold and damp. I have always wondered why farmers saved hedging and mowing for the wettest of days, I guess there was always something more productive to be done in the fine weather. I am a ‘country boy’ but I never wanted the privations of working the land, I enjoyed the company of those that did, ‘they were the best of times, they were the worst of times’ to parody Charles Dickens but ‘Country Comfort’s’ still weigh heavy on my mind from time to time.

Of late it seems that I haven’t been able to commit as much time and effort into this ‘blogging’ thing as I’ve done in the recent past. Things have conspired against me, much has been happening and it’s all required attention which has diverted my focus a little. Today’s been no exception and the day still isn’t done, I find myself reminded of the phrase ‘ You won’t know what to do with yourself when you’re retired’ together with ‘ I don’t know how I found the time to go to work’. I’m also reminded of a post I wrote here some time ago…..the one about my indolence! So, today’s effort is short and sweet ( an accusation that’s been leveled at me on occasion ), today I am like the proverbial bee, buzzing about all over the place, or perhaps more like a butterfly, flitting here and there but not necessarily getting much done. That said, I guess that once the work’s done I can return to more leisurely and peaceful pursuits, onwards and upwards it is then I guess!

Not to mention a sticky beginning and a sticky middle. How is it possible for a grown man to make so much mess using an artists brush, a small canvas board and a thimble full of Modge Podge medium? Easy, let me tell you, damned easy. In an effort to unleash my inner creative spirit I have today tried something I’ve seen done and long thought I’d do myself, namely, create a canvas using one of my images. Small scale at first of course, I don’t want to run before I can walk, and now having seen how much mess I can unleash on a board 6×4 inches I will invest in overalls for anything larger. I made the mistake of getting some Modge Podge on my fingers and then picking up the paint brush but then found I needed to move the print I was using….and couldn’t put the paint brush down, it had stuck to my fingers. Prising the paintbrush out of one hand only succeeded in transfering the issue to the other hand! Economical use of Modge Podge at all times seems to be the way forward. I am reminded of a TV advert from my youth in which they pasted a fellow into overalls and stuck him to a biplane….part two of the process seems to be a little less complicated though it involves the use of water, what could possibly go wrong I hear you ask? I’ll let you know in due course.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending a party set in an English country garden. It celebrated the centenary of the local ‘Country Market’, an organisation created in 1919, initially by the Womens Institute and subsequently becoming a Co-Operative Social Enterprise which encourages small local enterprises to grow, make and sell their products and produce in their own locality. In some respects the country market is often regarded as an anachronism, a relic of the past, whereas in reality it’s often a vibrant, colourful celebration of the countryside, it’s ware’s and it’s inhabitants. If you are lucky enough to have such an event locally I’d certainly encourage you to go and visit. Yes, it’s shopping by any other name, often though that’s where the similarity ends. Produce locally grown, meat, eggs, preserves, flowers, plants, crafts, a veritable myriad of things both delightful and delicious, all served by vendors who are passionate and knowledgeable about their product. It fulfilled a need after The Great War and still fills a need today, for some of the local community it’s a link with the past in their area, a reminder of markets long gone, a chance to reminisce. For others it’s a current day lifeline, a chance to socialise without having to resort to the vagaries of public transport in the countryside. Whatever the reason, the Country Market is a living celebration of the diversity of the countryside and it’s inhabitants, it would be nice to think it would survive for another century.

Mine has been sorely tested this morning. So far I have had issues with the renewal of my driving licence and re-arranging my vehicle insurance, life used to be so simple and then along came the internet. The only issue in the past was making the time to get into a local office to speak , face to face, with an employed individual whose continued employment depended on his or her success with the customer. A world in which you got used to dealing with people and developed skills in efficiency, courtesy and diplomacy rather than hiding, faceless, behind a keyboard in some far flung corner of the country, if you’re lucky, or , if you’re unlucky, in some far flung corner of another continent. I swear to God I’d have had more luck if my current crop of contacts had been yak herders on the deepest, darkest plains of Tashkent. Add to that some individual nearby with a chainsaw who thinks said chainsaw is a handheld version of a MotoGP 500cc motorcycle and you can see how my morning is going so far. Coffee, coffee may be the answer to all my prayers, and maybe a digestive biscuit before I set off to battle the traffic to Dorchester, at least in the car I shall not have to contend with the chainsaw maniac.

No, it’s not another reference to the Womens World Cup, entertaining that it’s been, a breath of fresh air in so many circumstances compared to the men’s game of late. Not that it’s been without its fair share of controversy, most of it whipped into a frenzy by overpaid pundits, former players, now earning far more than they ever did in their playing careers, and all paid for by….us, the license paying public. No, tonight’s title reference belongs solely to the humble bee, busily buzzing about, getting on with what nature intended, pollinating and gathering, efficiently and economically going about his business seemingly without a care for anyone or anything else. Single minded and resolute, stoic in his endeavours. We’ve been out all day and after tea has been the first opportunity of the day to be out with the camera, and, as the evening isn’t unduly spectacular this evening I haven’t strayed far. We’re fortunate in as much as we have a fairly good crop of lavender in the garden, I say fortunate as I quite like the fragrance and the colour, so it seems do the bees. Kneeling down between the bushes of fragrant flowering blooms with the breeze blowing gently and watching the busy little bees buzzing about, hard at work, it was a lovely way to spend a few minutes at the end of the day.

I’m well on the way to halfway there, today’s post takes me into the 150’s, another month will bring up the midway point and, as yet, it’s not been too difficult. There have been one or two occasions when it’s seemed hard to string a sentence together and once or twice it’s been a little difficult to find a subject to link to an image, but on the whole the concept of blogging about being out with the camera has flowed quite well. There have been moments when the image and the words have melded almost seamlessly, as in today’s offering. Those that read this and know the local area will undoubtedly recognise the image and appreciate the link between the image and the title, for others not knowing the area the image reflects ( literally ) one of the sculptures at a local and well known beauty spot, ‘Sculptures by The Lakes’, at Pallington, near Dorchester, it’s also home to a rather posh gallery and a very nice cafe, the prices at one will make your eyes water while the other one is very reasonable and great quality. It’s our first visit today, I’m sure it won’t be our last and I’m also sure there will be more photo’s to come, today’s hot, harsh sunlight didn’t have a lot going for it which is evident in the photo, I only managed to take four images, almost unheard of!

As promised, well, as suggested earlier, here’s the second post for today ( those of us of a ‘certain age’ will remember the ‘second post’, sadly no longer with us. ). Today has been an altogether better day for inspiration, a little cooler, a lot less sunny and far less harsh than yesterday, it’s been refreshing. This morning’s post involved an image taken from last night’s end of day wandering, an image that I’d had to wait all day to try and capture but none the less appealing, hopefully, for the long wait. Sunset’s are always evocative, no two are ever the same , every one you see is one less, one you’ll never get to see again. This afternoon’s image is also evocative, a few poppies scattered in the wheat or the barley is an image that seems to resonate strongly with people. Some images are stronger than others, some photographers more successful in their efforts than others but seldom is there an image so recognisable it seems. From fields full of the scarlet papavers to the odd one in the hedgrow or often, more lately, on an urban traffic island the poppy stands out and, at this time of year, reigns supreme. I had told myself that this year I wouldn’t join the rush, the annual stampede, to photograph the poppy, despite there being several prime sites locally, both of the red and the pink variety. I’ve passed the fields at Bradbury Rings in all their scarlet glory and haven’t even ventured to the pinks out at Almer, amazing sight though they must surely be. Not that I haven’t been tempted and not that I haven’t taken the odd, sly, shot but in the main I have steadfastly refrained, until this afternoon that is. High on the hillside to the east of Blandford Forum sits what’s left of RAF Tarrant Rushton, one of the most significant of a number of sites associated with the D-Day landings. From this lofty site aircraft towing gliders left to provide the allied forces with support from the air in what was to become an action known as Pegasus Bridge. Little is left of the site today and this afternoon a sparse handful of red poppies played peacefully on the breeze under a beautiful Dorset sky, evocative for more reason than one.