In my case it’s been a boyhood thing which, by natural progression, became an adult obsession, well oiled machines. Well, I say well oiled in as much as, I enjoy a well oiled machine. I’m not making any claim to be able to keep it ‘well oiled’, in fact, as I alluded to yesterday, I have no technical skills, ability or aptitude. Whereas some of my school friends and, in later years, compatriots revelled in spanners and Swarfega, I was very definitely not on that programme. I’m more at home behind the wheel or the handlebars. I can still recall each and everyone of the, longish, list of machines I’ve owned from the very first motorbike, a BSA Bantam D14/4 no less, through to todays bland, featureless, Euro Safety Cat4, Ford ( though I have to say it’s probably the most reliable and efficient motor I’ve ever owned ). I shudder to think of the small fortune I’ve no doubt squandered in keeping those vehicles on the road, sometimes of necessity, sometimes purely for pleasure, there have been moments when I’ve loved, and sometimes hated, them all at one stage or another. I’m sure the obsession is rooted in childhood, I am of an age where I can just remember ‘steam’, though only in respect of the railway and, very rarely, road rollers. There was something magical about the sight and smell of those gargantuan ( to a small child ) machines seemingly hurtling along belching great clouds of smoke and hissing steam on the railway and the clank and rattle of the roadroller at work as it rolled and flattened steaming swathes of tarmac on the roadworks. All long since consigned to history save for ‘ conservation projects’ and ‘open days’ where well oiled machines are rolled out once again to delight and entertain the child in us adults and, possibly, amaze a new generation of children. Who knows, the appearance of well oiled machines may still spark an obsession or two in today’s technology inspired youth.

Of the two I fall very definitely into the latter camp, but I know my limitations. I am no James Watt, in fact I would probably have struggled to light the fire let alone work out the intricacies of steam power. Why do I allude to this, well, this morning I have spent a couple of hours down at the local steam railway heritage project at Shillingstone. I frequently visit the station, and the station cafe, I have often dubbed the place as ‘the station that keeps on giving’ as I always manage to find something to photograph on my wanderings. This weekend they’ve got together with other fellow ‘steam’ enthusiasts to provide the general public with an opportunity to get up close and personal with the station and several behemoths of a bygone age. We’ve been delighted with, and by, a number of traction engines, stationary engines and a number of fine vintage vehicles all designed to hark back to an age long gone and yet, in their own way, a sign of progress and technological evolution at a particular point in time. When I arrived I had a quick wander through the machines and noted one shot which immediately gave me the title and illustration for today’s offering. Sat on part of a gleaming machine was a grand hat, a tin lid, and a rag, the hat obviously belonging to keeper of such a fine beast and the rag obviously used to keep the machine in such grand fettle. Which also got me thinking that, as so often in life, you need both the engineer and the oil rag in varying degrees. Whereas you need the finest of minds to develop, encourage and engineer society successfully it’s also very true that you need someone willing to be ‘ the oil rag’, to get dirty and grubby, to do those tasks that are less glamorous and yet often vital to keeping the wheels on and turning for the benefit of all. Whilst I take my hat off to the ‘engineer’ and admire his efforts I am also more than grateful to the ‘oil rag’ for being the unsung hero who often goes along, almost anonymously, and smooths my daily path. Now, I must get back to lighting that fire!

Specific, or specifics ( more than one ), is a concept I struggle with. After all, the more specific you are the narrower your view of things, the more critical your point of focus becomes and there’s less room for any margin of latitude or error. This afternoon’s little wander became a fine example of the issue. I set off specifically to try and track down some Demoiselles or Damselflies which I knew would inhabit the margins of the river down by the mill on a warm, sunny afternoon such as this. Well, all I can say is that it was a lovely afternoon for wandering about along the bank of the river watching the world go by. Demoiselles and Damselflies were not in abundance, and, as yet, there was no sign at all of any Dragonflies. Not that I have much success with those either, they’re just manic creatures, prehistoric but amazingly beautiful and deceptively delicate, incredible flying machines of the natural world flitting here and there at an incredible pace but never, it seems, settling long enough to enable me to photograph them successfully. Those creatures that I did find this afternoon were incredible to observe, as a child they frightened the life out of me, nowadays they intrigue and delight me , watching them flit from leaf to leaf in the sunshine isn’t a bad way to while away an afternoon in the Dorset countryside.

…is sometimes difficult to find, or rather, motivation perhaps is a better consideration. It’s not that there’s nothing to photograph ( therefore implied inspiration ) but sometimes what’s the purpose of photographing it, or anything for that matter, therefore lack of motivation. I know from comments among my circle of fellow friends and acquaintances who are photographers that I’m not alone in this conundrum. Recently an American friend alluded to the fact that she’d had some adverse comments regarding her work which had caused her to consider giving up her photography ( which I’m glad to say she didn’t ), she’s not alone in this I’m sure, I’ve had one or two disparaging comments over time as, I’m sure, have many others. Not everyone is appreciative of one’s efforts, particularly if you post on general social media sites, though why, presumably as adults, they don’t just scroll on by heaven only knows. Perhaps their desire to comment mirrors our desire to post. By posting we are implying that we want our efforts to be seen, hopefully recognised, and generally enjoyed by others who happen to see the images we show. Generally speaking mine seem to be reasonably well received and a good number of people have been kind enough to say so. It does beg the question then of whether we can become trapped into posting what we feel a potential audience likes to see or whether we continue in a particular way that satisfies just our own inner muse. I know from my own personal experience that I don’t, or can’t, confine myself to just one particular genre, I am not a portrait photographer, a landscape photographer, a sports photographer or a photographer in any other particular field. I just enjoy a good image when I see one in front of me and then seek to capture it if I can, perhaps that lack of direction is one reason why I may never be rich or famous in this wonderful world of photography….it may also explain why I sometimes struggle with inspiration or motivation.

I’m suffering withdrawal symptoms! After four days in the sun last week in Porto the last three days back home here in Dorset have much to answer for and little to be recommended. That said, I am glad of a little cloud, it always adds some weight and drama to a landscape, I’m less enamoured of the rain but, heyho, beggars can’t be choosers and it adds to the fun of finding something to photograph in all kinds of weather. Today’s foray has taken me into the countryside and then down to the river, as a bonus it’s managed to remain dry despite some heavy, rain laden clouds across the Blackmore Vale. The wheatfields at Marnhull stretched away into the distance towards Stalbridge and the River Stour was delightfully peaceful, I didn’t see a soul. My company was only the birdlife in the hedgerows and along the river bank save for a few cows in the meadow at Marnhull, some sheep in the fields back off the Bath Road at Sturminster and a tractor, noisily working a field of grass over on the Stalbridge Lane side of the river. Other than that the only other living thing I saw was an adder swimming sinuously in the river, twisting and turning over the lilly pads at the rivers edge before, eventually, diving down and disappearing into the tangle of reeds and rushes at the waters edge, note to self, don’t even consider swimming in the river at that location! Not that it’s a consideration in reality, despite learning to swim in the river, my days of sharing the waters with the denizens of the deep are well and truly over.

….. since I posted and it may take me a while to get back up to speed! My plans to post every day for the whole year had to take a back seat to more entertaining and important issues. I got married, then we journeyed to Portugal where we enjoyed a break in the sun and enjoyed the culture and vibrance that Porto had to offer. A jolly good time was had by all, well, Helen and I enjoyed it anyway, so much so that we’d happily return for a second ( possibly third ) helping. It’s a fascinating city, especially if you like architecture, history and gastronomy, there’s plenty of all three to go round. Built on the steep banks of the River Douro the city extends up the slopes on both sides of the river, although one bank encapsulates the Vila Nova de Gaia, an almost seperate municipality, and the river is spanned by 6 incredible bridges dominated by the magnificent Dom Luis 1 bridge. The views from the top of the bridge are spectacular and far reaching as the city plays out across the span and down to the ancient waterfront of the Ribiera. A great place to be at any time of the day, a magical place as the sun dips below the horizon and the lights of the city illuminate the evening sky. Sitting here thinking of it it’s a far cry from this morning’s dull, drizzly Dorset offering….but, as Simon and Garfunkle famously said ‘ Gee but it’s great to be back home’!

Tomorrow will see the temporary cessation of hostilities, between me and the keyboard that is, or possibly the keyboard and I, depending on how grammatically correct you might want to be. There will be a halt in proceedings of at least a week, possibly slightly longer, for tomorrow is my ‘Significant Day’. Tomorrow will be the day that my ‘Significant Other’ and I make our statements before each other and she does me the honour of becoming ‘ My Wife’, so much more becoming don’t you think. No particular frills or fancies, just a meeting of minds and hearts in the company of close family and friends to celebrate a union, the coming together of a whole, shared feelings, mutual aspirations, love and affection. Tomorrow is a very ‘Significant Day’ indeed.

Currently, as photographers, we’re entering the ‘poppy’ season, there are already posts on social media showing these beautiful blooms in all their glory. There are stories of ardent ‘shooters’ traveling hundreds of miles searching for those fields of crimson in our beautiful countryside and then tantalising and teasing us with beautiful images while retaining that vital piece of information…where they can be found. I perfectly understand and appreciate the reluctance to pass on the information. Often it’s out of respect and consideration for the farmer or landowner on whose ground the poppies grow,sometimes it’s out of consideration for the flowers themselves, not all of us behave as respectfully and considerately as we should in the excitement of getting that ‘killer’ shot. I can only imagine the frustration of landowners on finding that their crops have been trampled, as if by a herd of elephants, for the sake of a photograph or two and while most of us may behave considerately there are always one or two who are willing to spoil it for the majority by behaving thoughtlessly or selfishly. As yet this year I’ve shied away from foraging the fields for the elusive scarlet pimpernel, I have seen one or two lonely examples on my travels along the hedgerows but no great swathes of red, or otherwise, as yet. I’m also mindful at this time of the current commemorations taking place, at the moment there’s an added poignancy attached to our scarlet subject, trampling the undergrowth for a cliched shot just doesn’t hold a great appeal for me personally. So, today’s illustration of the subject is an image from the archives taken one glorious sunny, Gloucestershire afternoon at Snowshill. High up on the Cotswold escarpment overlooking the beautiful Vale of Evesham at the lavender farm they had cut great swathes of ground through the formal lines of lavender and overplanted with wildflowers, ox-eye daisies, blue cornflowers and the bright crimson poppies all vied for space under the enormous blue skies. Quintessentially English it was easy to imagine the countryside that so many of those young men would have known as they set out on, what for so many, might have been their last summer.

Not really an accusation that can be leveled at me, sometimes I wonder if I’ve ever done anything at a rush in my life…other than the time my mate crashed his car one dark, winter’s evening. The car flipped over onto the roof, all the windows smashed and there was the ominous smell of petrol, none of us hung about then! Other than that it seems that almost everything else has been done in a measured and relatively ordered fashion, no doubt some would say bordering on lazy. I have to say I’m even less inclined to be rushing about nowadays, happy to watch the world, and other, go by at what seems to be breakneck speed. Maybe it’s the inevitability of growing old that manifests itself in such a way, maybe it’s a nod to both the past and to the future, done with the pressures of work, family ( to an extent ), career etc, etc, now is perhaps a time to pace one’s self, a case for self preservation, there’s no need to wear one’s self out unnecessarily, after all, none of us lasts forever. Or maybe that all the above is just an excuse for my tardiness this morning, all I’ve done so far is sit in the middle of town recording the passing of time and traffic for my own pleasure and no doubt at the consternation of some passing motorists who wondered whether or not I was recording the speed of their driving through the bottleneck that is Market Place here is Sturminster Newton. Fear not intrepid travelers, I was just happy to be watching you rush, rush, rush….

Opportunity has to be seized or the moment is lost. Given that the dawn is currently so early in the morning that it’s almost not worth going to bed the previous evening if you want to catch it and, conversely, the sunset is now that late that an old codger like me is more likely to be heading up the wooden hill rather than up any other form of hill to capture it, I find you have to grasp any opportunity with both hands if you want to get out and take a photograph. Hence this afternoon found me hiking off into the wide grey yonder ( there was no apparent chance of any ‘ blue’ showing, or so it seemed ) despite the gloomy predictions of the weather guru. Walking down the trailway from Sturminster to Fiddleford the skies were grey and heavy, it did seem that there was every likelihood of a shower…or two. There was damp in the air, not enough to call drizzle, certainly not enough to call rain but every now and then you could feel it falling on exposed surfaces such as the backs of your hands, the top of your head and you could feel the dampness if you brushed a hand against your clothing. If you stood a moment and listened you could hear the distinct pitter-patter of raindrops on the broad leaved vegetation at the sides of the path, not everywhere and not all of the time but enough to let you know the threat was there. A mile down the track I stopped and succumbed to putting my waterproof on whilst stood in the shelter of the bridge over the river that used to carry the old railway line on towards Shillingstone as the raindrops fell and broke the stillness of the rivers surface. Suitably attired I continued, off the old line and across the fields towards Fiddleford, stopping to take in the rich colours, the many greens and golds of the grasses and flowers on the bank side contrasting against the darkening skies above. I saw the resident heron, from afar, as it flew across the field in front of me at a surprising rate of knots, given that a heron is no more than a bag of wind on stilts, but the swans that often grace the millpond were nowhere to be seen as the river Stour tumbled over the weir and the eel traps. The rain had by now stopped and I took the opportunity ( that word again ) to divest myself of my waterproof before moving on, past the Lavender Project, no great signs of any lavender as yet and on towards Piddles Wood. I stood a moment under heavy skies in a field of wheat, almost waist high, still green but already heavy with ears that will turn golden as they ripen in the coming weeks. I saw my first swifts of the season, three of them, throwing themselves across the meadow at breakneck speed, twisting and turning their sturdy little frames, darting through the air like feathered kamikaze before disappearing across an adjacent hedgerow. Then on again into the wood, dark, still and cool. Where only several weeks ago there were carpets of bluebells all that could be seen today were ferns and nettles . Somewhere nearby, unseen, twigs snapped , heralding the presence of something or someone that didn’t come to light in the remainder of my walk through the wood and eventually I returned to the road at Broad Oak, out from the darkness of the wood and into….sunshine. So much for the weather guru’s predictions, though I’m glad I took the opportunity, after all, he might have got it right!