What a beautiful day, well, this afternoon certainly was,I can’t really speak for the morning as I was otherwise committed but as soon as I possibly could I took myself off for a wander about in the sunshine. The Easter break has begun and the local school’s have closed, plenty of evidence of the youth being out and about and enjoying the weather, and why not, surely better to be out and about in the fresh air rather than couped up indoors over a console when the weather’s so good. Plenty of time for the joys of Playstation, X-Box or the computer later in the day or when the weather breaks , as it surely will, in the next few days.

A wander through the playing field and down to the riverbank showed the evidence of all the rain that we had prior to the weekend, the bankside footpaths were still damp and , in places, slimy with the mud left as the waters receded. The lower lying margins still contained ample evidence of the floodwaters, small lagoons in places where it’s normally a pleasant walk, picking a dry trail became an artform in places and in others an impossibility necessitating a detour to find a dry and passable route.

A lone swan, one of this years cygnets by it’s plumage, meandered down the river, slow and serene in the still, mirror like waters of The Stour in the lea of the old Somerset and Dorset railway bridge on the far edge of the town here. Unhurried, all the time in the world, gliding bye with no apparent care in the world, bathed in the warm sunlight under the huge sky, how very rural!

The hour that we’ve gained is beginning to show it’s strength. Tonight the light in the evening sky held on, mixing with the humidity of the day and , depending which point of the compass your gaze was directed on, turned from a brief golden glow into a darkening gloom over the endless acres of rape. The tracks through the crop seem to lead and direct the eye towards the church in the distance whose tolling bell called the congregation to evensong, it’s melancholy ring almost muted by the heavy evening twilight. No other sound , no birdsong , no animal , no other human contact or interference disturbed the evening, the heavy, still atmosphere pungent with the fragrance of wild garlic not yet blossomed.

This morning saw another monthly meeting of vintage and performance cars and bikes congregate at Poets Corner here in Sturminster Newton. Thank goodness the weather gods smiled on us today. After yesterday’s deluge the promise of better and brighter weather by the forecasters came a bit like Manna from Heaven, unusually they were right, though the breeze on the corner was a bit sharp at times there was no sign of any damp stuff. A little bit of bright weather makes so much difference to the mood of people it seems and so it was today, a steady flow of people old and young, all enjoying the weather, the cars and bikes, and, for some of us, the local cafe owners coffee and bacon rolls went down a treat. This regular monthly event attracts a varied catalogue of the ancient and exotic. Old Austin’s rub shoulders with the latest Porsche’s, exotic sports cars from both sides of the Atlantic grace the sidewalks, little everyday runabouts share pavement space with luxurious models from Daimler, Rolls and Aston Martin. Meanwhile, there are owners sharing hints, tips, histories and experiences with each other while younger children, together with older parents, clamber in and out of the vehicles, all enjoying a very laid back atmosphere. Not to be outdone the two wheeled patrons ranged from an expensive three wheeled CanAm Spyder, an equally expensive and sophisticated Triumph down to Matchless, AJS and an ancient Norton whose rider was a little perturbed not to find a small puddle of oil underneath his parked machine. Unusual in a British machine of such vintage, worryingly so, hopefully it hadn’t discharged it’s precious cargo somewhere else on the journey. If you’ve not made it here for the occasion yet I’d say you may be missing a trick, though I may be biased, not a huge event but enjoyably intimate, make a date, the first Saturday in the month here in Sturminster Newton.

If I thought yesterday was damp, well, it was just a taster for today it seems! Right from the get-go this morning we’ve had the wet stuff in varying degrees from drizzle to full on deluge, still , it helps to lay the dust I’m told. It wasn’t just confined to my little corner of the county it seems as a trip South to Bournemouth and then back North through the countryside to Gillingham was decidedly damp from start to finish, and none too warm either. Spring has apparently sprung, however, it seems that no-one bothered to let the weather gods know, c’mon guys, keep up, get on the programme cos we could all do with a good dose of the warm and sunny stuff.

Own up, how many of you sniggered on reading the title today? Childhood , schoolboy, juvenile , and seemingly very British ,as humour goes jokes or innuendo regarding bodily parts or functions are never far away. However, today’s title has nothing to do with such basic fare, nor is it an oblique reference to today’s miserable weather, albeit the rain did fair ‘piddle’ down on and off all day. That presented a challenge too good to refuse , would it be possible to get out and about in the pouring rain and still find something with which to create a passable image? Given the inclement conditions where better to go than the Piddle Valley , hence the title of the piece. The valley takes it’s name from the river running through it’s length and encompassing the villages of Alton Pancras, Piddle Trenthide, Plush and Piddlehinton. It’s designated an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and it’s easy to see why, although today, in the rain, nowhere near at it’s best but still beautiful all the same. Several of the villages have interesting facts and history’s worth researching but I’ll leave you with the fact that Piddlehinton is home to a brewery producing several tasty concoctions but I always find it amusing to think of consumer’s drinking Piddle Beer. Childish , schoolboy, juvenile. ………

Not only does rural North Dorset enjoy a plethora of lanes most of it’s towns and villages also enjoy warrens of alleyways. While the fronts of properties are well served by roadways and footpaths the rears are often linked by narrow passageways. Today I visited the village of Stalbridge , I ‘d seen a potential image on previous visits and drives through on my way to other locations and thought I’d stop and see if I could get the image I’d seen in my minds eye. A walk through the village provided me with one image and then a walk to the local church revealed an alleyway which just begged to be investigated. Once away from the main road the peace and quiet took over, no intrusive traffic noise to interrupt the birdsong, primroses in blossom under the canopy of a large oak tree, grape hyacinths growing in the dry stone wall of the churchyard , rural bliss in abundance.

I pose the question ‘ is there anything original ‘ nowadays or are the images I find the product of my conscious or subconscious mind influenced by the work of others?

As artists, people who paint, or photographers, people who take photo’s, it seems that our eyes are drawn to similar scenes and subjects . The old adage states that ‘ there’s nothing new under the sun’ and I guess that to a degree that’s very true. We draw our inspiration from what we see and what we know, we often learn by rote, certainly by example, and so, consciously or unconsciously, are we simply following what we know to be a successful formula to produce a pleasing image?

Today , travelling the local roads home , I noticed an scene which I thought might translate to a decent image, I could see it in my minds eye and resolved to return and try to capture it this afternoon . Imagine my surprise when, at lunchtime, I discovered a very similar image posted by a photographer of some considerable merit. Now, was my initial concept the result of my conscious attempt to create an image or was I influenced subconsciously by an image I might have seen previously?

I love the swathes of reeds that fringe the river here, tall and slender, tipped with feather like fronds that sway in the breeze. They glow , golden, in the sunlight and even on the dullest days their bleached,pale yellow, straw like stems add colour and structure to the river bank. They don’t grow profusely here, but in the reaches of the river where they do grow in any number they provide a haven for small birds, the ducks and moorhens , where they grow in clumps just in the watery margins it’s also possible to see the swell of grayling as they swim in and out of the shallower water. Given that here, in Dorset, there are many beautiful thatched properties it’s a wonder that the reeds aren’t more readily cultivated but it seems not to be the case for whatever reason, I think that someone’s missing a trick here.

There is no such thing on a day when the clocks have gone forward! The day seems to be no more than a monstrous game of catch up. Despite rising at a normally civilised time of day I was already an hour behind before doing a stroke, breakfast was late, therefore clearing up was behind, by the time I got out it was almost time to come back in again for lunch and so it continues. Sitting here writing this and glancing up at the clock it’s already showing it to be mid afternoon and before I know it it’ll be time for an evening meal. The sooner the powers that be cancel this seasonal change to the clock the better, after all, time is precious and losing an hour at my time of life is something I can ill afford ! I can hear you saying ‘ You’re going to get it back when the clocks change in the Autumn ‘, that’s little recompense right now let me tell you, I’m still trying to sort myself out and have been all day so far.

Today we’ve ventured a little further afield than normal, the last few days have been beautiful, the county has enjoyed some great weather and with another great day in prospect we decided we really ought to make the most of it.

The little village of Moreton was a great start, The Walled Garden does great coffee and cake and once you’ve had your fill it’s a short walk to the beautiful little church of St Nicholas with it’s special windows, clear glass, designed and etched by Sir Laurence Whistler over a 30 year period. They replaced the apparently dull and dreary stained glass ones which were blown out by a second world war bomb. Across the road lies the little graveyard which contains the grave of Laurence of Arabia , survived a World War behind enemy lines only to succumbe to a motorcycle accident locally. The sun shone on the daffodils waving gently in the breeze vying for space with the bluebells under the tree canopy, truly a rural idyll a day such as this.

Moreton done it was time to move on and with Weymouth in close proximity it would’ve been rude not to visit the Georgian jewel in the Jurassic crown. Travelling in through the villages at Warmwell and Osmington and on past the vast horseman cut into the chalk hillside above the Preston end of the town brought us into, and along, the crescent promenade with it’s grand facades, some showing signs of faded grandeur others resplendent, ready for the new season of holidaymakers. Beachfront cafes open for business, young and old enjoying the sun,sea and the seemingly endless sands before wandering into the lanes and alleyways of the old town itself. A great location in which to end a glorious day.