Sitting here typing this the only sound is that of a blackbird singing his head off in the garden below. We have a pair who regularly come and forage early mornings and again at dusk but it’s the male who seems to sing prodigiously, head tilted back, warbling for all he’s worth. I count myself extremely fortunate to live in such a peaceful place after experiencing the hustle, bustle and noise of the city. The constant traffic noise punctuated by the harsh two tone sirens of emergency vehicles, the regular, heavy throbbing of engines from the nearby railway line and the incursive screech and squawk of landlocked seagulls nesting on the roofs of city centre buildings are a dim and, thankfully, distant memory. Thank heavens for the peace and quiet of our glorious countryside in all it’s many and splendid guises. Quiet country lanes, serene and still rivers and lakes. All teeming with a myriad of interesting creatures large and small.

Over the fields and in the back of beyond, under immense skies, the meadows are beginning to burst with colour. The extra hour or so of daylight, the odd degree of warmth ( not that it’s felt any warmer with the wind chill we’ve experienced ) and the rain have all combined and the meadows are awash with yellows and pinks, not to mention the ubiquitous dandelions, some still in flower and a good many more in seed just waiting for the merest hint of breeze to disgorge their feathery, parachute like seedheads across the landscape. The season is moving on.

Well, that’s something that none of us is ever likely to experience. We’re not made for that sort of stuff as human beings, we are all on the downward slope from the moment we come into the world. We have a phrase here, one of those fancy wall stickers, on the bedroom wall, it reads ‘ Time is precious, waste it wisely’, it gazes down on us each and every morning as we wake. It’s a timely and sober reminder to make the most of our alloted span, fill it with as much and as many things and experiences as possible for we , as human beings , are finite. Morbid for a Sunday morning? No, not at all , merely grateful for another day whilst realising my mortality, it serves to focus my attention on all the other things that I enjoy and there are many of those. The people, the places, the sights and sounds, there are so many and such a variety that boredom, real boredom, not that which is really just laziness, has no place here. There is always something, somewhere or someone to investigate and enjoy. Here in my newly, relatively speaking, adopted county there are a myriad of places to visit, vistas to see and enjoy each and every day, particularly at sunrise and sunset. There are hills and vales to wander and explore, the highest point in Dorset lies only a few miles away and here the stunningly beautiful Blackmore Vale never ceases to delight, especially on a warm and sunny day. Infinity may not be something I will ever experience but the view across the Vale at sunset from Okeford Hill isn’t a bad starting point to stand if you want to ponder the subject.

A week ago we were basking in glorious sunshine and looking forward to the promise of a long awaited Bank Holiday in the sunshine. Not something that we’re often treated to , but, when it came it was long overdue, greatly received and much enjoyed by all. This week however has reverted to type, sad, sorry and sometimes downright soggy if you were unfortunate enough to get caught in a downpour. This coming weekend we’re facing the dubious delights of a visitation by Hannah no less, the latest named storm to break on our westerly shores, batten down the hatches and stay safe folks. It’s brewing here already this afternoon, the wind’s increased and the clouds have thickened, where the sun bursts through on the odd occasion it darkens the horizon dramatically and makes the other fresh colours stand out against the moody,threatening sky. Fingers crossed that it doesn’t bring too much in the way of destruction and devastation, certainly nothing worse.

Cooped up, confined by the rain of yesterday morning and early afternoon the clearing skies of early evening proved to be a welcome distraction. Not that the weather forecast was overly welcoming, rain was due to return they said. With that in mind and one wary eye on the looming clouds to the south I ventured out. With just a narrow window of time to play with and an equally narrow rip in the cloud cover to try and exploit I knew I wasn’t going to be able to venture far. Fortunately the ridge and the river often provide a spectacle in the last throes of daylight as the view is westward and any reasonable light is to be found on that side of the town, the land drops away and the river’s silvery thread under the huge skies is always attractive. From my viewpoint on the ridge you could split the horizon into two distinct scenes, to the left, the south and west, the dark clouds of the incoming front loomed, lit dramatically by the dying vestiges of sunlight to the right, west and north. A few shots to try and capture the light playing through the clouds and across the river and then a shot or two to capture the darkening sky and the impending storm before hurrying back up the riverside terraces to take a last look across the darkening vale and scurrying home to avoid the worst of the late evening rain. All in all no mean end to the day despite it’s damp and dreary start.

Earlier, as I posted today’s blog, which was really yesterday’s blog but I got caught up in things yesterday, I noticed that it was the hundredth consecutive occasion on which I’d posted. On one hand it’s a celebration I guess, it certainly has succeeded in my aim to record some of the things, events and locations that I’ve been presented with over the last few months. On the other hand it’s made me realise the effort that’s required to sit and record the things that daily life presents us with and which often pass us by in the hustle and bustle of the mundane. I admire all the more those people who can write, illustrate, photograph or generally create something, whatever their chosen medium, which can captivate an audience, knowing that it doesn’t just drip from the pen, the paintbrush or whatever tool or instrument is used to create it. It’s not easy, well, I don’t find it easy. It comes and goes in fits and starts, at one moment nothing and then a sudden rush of productivity will lend itself to a line or a photograph, a bit like a hook in a song which repeats itself and binds you in, then just as quickly things can stall and you’re back to wondering again, but I’m damned if I’ll let it go. Have the last hundred posts improved either my photography or my use of the English language…mmm….debatable on both counts. However, most of it’s correctly exposed, usually accurately spelt and generally grammatically correct, though I’m told my use of the infuriating comma could do with some work. Inordinately long sentences and the lack of paragraphs may also be in issue it seems!

Tonight’s entertainment, ably performed by The Wessex Morris, men from Cerne Abbas, home of the giant, probably has it’s origin as far back as the giant if not further. Despite it’s appearance it’s far more than grown men thrashing about with handkerchiefs, wicked looking staves and bells strapped to their knees. It’s quintessentially English, it celebrates folklore and it requires some feat of memory to remember where you are in the dance and where you should be for fear of getting a sharp clip around the ear or the knuckles with a fearsome stick. I take my hat off to you gentlemen of The Wessex and other like minded souls.

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I’ve always found the dawn a magical time. There have been occasions in my life where I’ve stayed out all night, sometimes by choice, often by circumstance, and always revelled in the daybreak. It’s an almost mystical event to my mind and I never tire of being part of it, although, less often nowadays. Sitting or standing somewhere in the silence of the predawn, taking in the stillness of it, knowing that as the day breaks it’ll be accompanied by a myriad of sights and sounds some regular, others less so, some mundane, others magical, but all part and parcel of a new day wherever you might be. I’ve stood alone in empty town centre shopping precincts where the earliest signs of a new day were the sounds of the mail vans at four ‘o’clock in the morning, closely followed by the bakery workers arriving, knowing that in a couple of hours time the air would be full of the delicious smells of baking. I’ve stood in shadowy doorways and watched the urban foxes playing and patrolling the pavements where, in a couple of hours, the multitude of workers and shoppers would reign supreme. At other times I’ve watched the deep, dark night recede to deepest blue and then through a subtle change of pinks, oranges and yellows to the golden glow of a sunrise while rabbits, deer and other wildlife grazed it’s way into the new day. The daybreak is a truly magical time, one that never fails to fascinate or fulfill and always something to be appreciated.

Another blisteringly hot, sunny day. I know I shouldn’t complain but I’m not good with too much hot weather. There’s an expectation that we should enjoy it because we don’t experience it that often in the year and enjoy it I do in general, but, I’m also more than glad to get out of it and enjoy the cool of the shade as well. I shall also be glad to see a little cloud cover, makes for more interesting skies and therefore more entertaining photography. At the moment my eye’s assaulted either by the intensely coloured rape fields or the vivid blue hues of the bluebell droves, both are very much in evidence in this little corner of the county, this afternoon’s walk being a prime example of the issue. A walk from Hinton St Mary across the fields and down to Cutt Mill and back showed great examples of both. The rape was bright against the deep blue of the cloudless sky looking down towards the bell tower at Marnhull, the rich, red earth complimenting the primary colours while down in the coppice bordering the Stour at Cutt Mill the bluebells carpeted the canopy floor, reveling in the warm, sunny Sunday weather.

Albeit I didn’t see any Larks this morning. I did however surprise myself and actually managed to get out there fairly early. True, not exactly at the crack of dawn, but early enough to appreciate the early morning sunshine on the dewy grass. I was not alone either, dog walkers are hardy bunch it seems, or at least their canine charges are and for the owners it’s a case of needs must I guess. I went out with the express intention of capturing the mists across the vale this morning, sadly there wasn’t much in the way of mist but what there was had a warm glow to it. The early morning accompaniment of birdsong from the hedgerows coupled with the squawking, strutting cock pheasants was an added bonus, as was the sight of a couple of ragged rabbits scurrying into the undergrowth as I approached the beech avenue up at Hinton St Mary. Getting up with the lark at the crack of dawn appears to have it’s benefits after all.