…….and brutal! Immense, dramatic, rain laden clouds crossing Durrant’s field here this afternoon. Durrant’s is a huge field, normally home to a large flock of sheep, the May fair in season and, annually, The Cheese Festival , a celebration of local food, beer and craft which attracts visitors from near and far for two days in the Autumn . Today, save from one other soul and her very timid, but friendly , dog, I had the field to myself, unsurprisingly given the weather. The white chalk track that crosses the field for the first third of its girth had been well washed over the last few days and despite the drying winds was still puddle strewn. From the look of the brooding skies it seemed as though it wouldn’t be dry for very much longer. When the rains come Durrant’s isn’t the best of places to be, there’s no cover to shelter under, or within, and when it comes the rain is brutal, cold, wet and thoroughly miserable. Thankfully today although it threatened, and finally arrived, it held off long enough to allow me to return home only mildly soggy, thank heavens for small mercies .

Sunday morning meandering in The Minster , Wimborne Minster to be precise. Beautiful in the warm sunshine this morning , so very different from yesterday’s miserable weather. No flat, grey sky, no wet, miserable rain and, thank goodness, the gale force winds had subsided. That in itself was a bonus . I like Wimborne , lovely little town, suffers like most historic locations from narrow town roads and far too much traffic but it’s no less lovely despite that. The town’s skyline and centre is dominated by The Minster and the little roads, lanes and alleyways seem to radiate from and circulate around it, paying homage to all that history. It’s a great location to wander, especially out of season and away from the hordes of summer visitors , particularly delightful in Spring with the daffodils waving in the breeze and the sunshine as it was this morning .

I hadn’t realised it but, belatedly, I’ve completed another month here. Two months, sixty three posts, plus this one, a small milestone but significant in as much as I’m still going. I have surprised myself in my perseverance, how many times have I, or we collectively, because I’m sure I’m not alone, begun something only to then falter and give up shortly afterwards? New Year’s resolutions are a prime example, closely followed by new diets and gym memberships, all embraced with gusto in the first instance and then slowly but surely discarded, some within weeks, others, dare I say it, within days and others sink without trace, being no more than a fleeting thought.

As a child it was an almost annual Christmas event, as most Christmas’s are, that somewhere in amongst the presents would be a pen of some description and a diary. Nib and ink, if you were lucky, then again who would think to buy an ink pen and not buy ink? It’s a bit like buying a child a battery operated toy….and forgetting, or not even bothering, to buy batteries, I had one or two Christmas’s like that as a child! A ballpoint, far less messy than an ink pen, far more convenient, more often than not a Parker pen, resplendent in it’s plush, velvet lined cardboard box, sophisticated fare for a child and more often than not coupled with a diary. Now, it may have been a cunning ploy, destined to set one off on a lifetime of literary exploitation and genius but I was a boy, I accept there may have been noteable exceptions but as a rule young children, even adolescents, and particularly boys are more susceptible to immediate fare. A pen and diary come a very poor second to a football, an annual, or if your parents had won the football pools, a bicycle. Thus the poor old pen, of whichever variety, and the diary were consigned to the back of some dark and dingy drawer within a very short space of time, rarely to see the light of day again until space was required the following Christmas for the same process to begin all over again for another year.

I draw reference to the above because I was concerned that this project might suffer the same fate, however, to date, things have flowed fairly well, possibly the added inclusion of the photograph has made a difference, males of the species are often referenced as being ‘ visually orientated’ so maybe that’s part of the attraction for me, as the author. Obviously I can’t appreciate how things are received by anyone reading this, or is it that people appreciate the photograph without reading the script? Whatever, as I said at the beginning of this journey a blog is , to some extent, a self indulgent act, and at the moment it’s proving to be a whole lot more successful than a diary!

During my working life I’d return home to my Herefordian roots, often with relish, escaping the hectic, whirlwind pace of city life and pressure cooker employment at every opportunity. Once there I’d often seek out one of rural life’s greatest escapes…the lanes! Rural lanes, particularly in the height of summer are playgrounds given by God, brimming full of cow parsley, ox-eye daisies, cornflower, the odd poppy in the hedgerow and the ever present dandelion. I promised myself a retirement full of wandering quiet country backwaters almost devoid of the motorcar and enjoying this beautiful bounty.

For those of you who may not have visited yet don’t delay, the black and white half timbered houses, the neatly plowed fields and the magnificent apple orchards are picture postcard scenes in the northern half of the county and the area North and West from Hereford’s fair city is a delight. Hemmed in on the western edge by the escarpments forming The Golden Valley, Westhope, Garnstone, Dorstone and, eventually, Capel-y-Fyn and on the Eastern edge by the Lugg Valley, the Mortimer Forest and The Radnor Forest into Wales there is something for everyone and for every season. The inspiration for my love affair are the little lanes from Leominster through to Ivington, Cold Harbour, Stretford Brook and on into Little Dilwyn, Dilwyn and eventually Weobley, the jewel in the crown of The Black and White Trail, as I say, if you haven’t yet visited don’t delay.

Having described all of the above, reminisced, waxed lyrical, I have to say that my current adoptive county, Dorset, and particularly North Dorset, offers me so much of that which reminds me of what I’ve known as ‘ home’ for the majority of my days. There are a plethora of lanes and villages to explore, there are the hills, the valleys, the slow old Stour and it’s mills. There are the towns and villages of Thomas Hardy, the pomp and majesty of Georgian towns and country houses aplenty and lanes, glorious, seemingly never ending lanes that lead from here to there and through the back of beyond in which it’s a pleasure to lose oneself at every available opportunity.

Or the lack of it. There are times when being vertically challenged and having a low centre of gravity are a distinct advantage, in these winds I have no lofty aspirations to rise above my modest height for fear of being blown over and bowled along the road or field like some lumpy piece of tumbleweed. I have every sympathy for friends, colleagues and aquaintences who stand head and shoulders above me in this weather, buffeted and battered by this incessant, unseemly weather, albeit it is still only mid-March and not quite yet officially Spring. We’ve been spoilt by the beautifully warm weather we enjoyed in February and now that things have returned to a more seasonal norm we don’t like it, well, I don’t like it! The weatherman tells us that Storm Gareth has receded, moved East, and is now hammering the living daylights out of Northern Europe, what they haven’t mentioned is that his family of siblings is still very much firmly planted over our little corner of the Northern Hemisphere, and it appears may be so for the next few days at least, deep joy.

That said, there are distinct signs that the season’s moving on, there is light in the evening sky and dawn’s welcoming ray’s are ever earlier in the mornings. The gardens and the hedgerows are budding nicely and everywhere there are signs of Spring, the smaller plants and bushes coming out in bloom make for small colourful oases where, for the last few months, we’ve had the less than inspiring, bland, brown, leafless livery to look at. It’s making for a very welcome change of scenery, roll on I say, and not before time, I’m done with the winter, bring me balmier, sunnier, warmer days and be quick about it!

Yesterday’s wet and windy weather has taken it’s toll on the downstream riverbanks today, while the River Stour is still within it’s banks in Sturminster just a few miles down the road it’s an entirely different story. Where on Sunday I stood at the Wilson Haines bridge in the meadows today I would’ve needed a boat to get out to it I think. The slow old Stour meanders down through the flood plane as it works it’s way towards Blandford Forum, twisting and turning on itself like some sinuous water serpent. At the first signs of rain the water levels rise and the flood waters ease themselves out across the meadows, filling the ditches, dykes and hollows like fingers filling gloves, stretching silvery tendrils across fields and through spinneys that nestle alongside the river. That said, as quickly as it rises it also falls, where the waters are lapping bridge supports and fencelines today, tomorrow , as long as there’s no overnight rain, the wet incursion will have receded, faded away almost miraculously , I’ve rarely seen waters rise and fall so quickly. Today the river at Shillingstone had breached it’s banks at the Haywards Lane bridge and nearly doubled in width, the blustery wind blowing the water’s surface into ripples along it’s length as it wrapped itself around the flood marker sitting isolated in the cold, brown floodwaters.

…of the natural variety, as big as ‘ two bob bit’s ( humour me, you have to be of a certain age.) and for most of the day! Dear God, can it rain much more? The answer would appear to be a resounding yes. I know they say there’s no such thing as bad weather only inappropriate clothing but oilskins and a souwester just to take a short walk to town? There’s little or no sartorial elegance in looking like Captain Birdseye whilst promenading the market square on a cold, wringing wet Tuesday morning ( or afternoon for that matter) , not that anyone would have noticed given that all sane souls would’ve avoided today’s deluge like the plague. Only the most ardent, or deranged, shoppers would’ve ventured forth.

That said, as the afternoon has worn on the rain has infact lessened and allowed me to get out and about, albeit briefly. It’s difficult to resist the lure of a photograph and even the wet weather offers opportunities but it does mean you have to get out there, sometimes at the risk of getting a little damp. The one thing about adverse conditions is they tend to focus the mind and the eye, a preconceived idea or a modicum of previous experience is always a handy thing to have though, the less time spent out in rubbish weather is always a bonus. Making something of nothing is always a challenge, silk purse, sow’s ear sort of thing, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t but it’s always fun trying .

I so rarely go out and fail to find something to photograph, however , today has been one of those days. Having said that it’s not been a total waste, I’ve visited one or two locations, revisited one or two others and discounted one or two more, that’s as productive as it got though. I couldn’t find anything that particularly spoke to me and this afternoon’s conditions were so similar to yesterday it was easy to imagine that you’d lost 24 hours and turned the clock back, not quite as blustery but other than that so similar. So, short shrift today, hopefully tomorrow will be a breath of fresh air , though given the weather forecast I’m not too hopeful, fingers crossed for a little bit of inspiration, wish me luck!

Well, less stormy, more windy, and then some! Although it didn’t sound too disruptive overnight dawn broke and was accompanied by a howling gale, exit one fence panel but fortunately no more than that here whereas others may not have been so fortunate . I dislike the wind, if you’ll excuse the pun, I think it stems from my early employment as a painter. Working outdoors in all weathers in North Herefordshire was not an experience for the faint hearted. Rain, sleet, snow and above all the unrelenting wind from which there was never any escape, not a lot of fun being stuck fifteen feet up a ladder painting windows, dressed in enough clothes to give one the passable image of the Michelin Man, unable to feel the tips of your fingers or the end of your toes. Hence my, almost , paranoia with regard to the wind, which this morning was enough to keep me in until lunchtime.

The same wind served to keep the clouds scudding across the skies and afforded us some sunshine until early afternoon but as the day wore on the cloud cover increased and the occasional spot or two of rain was to be felt. So, a trip to the river? Off to the lakes? A walk high up on the Ridgeway accompanied by the unforgiving wind? No chance of that thank-you very much, no, off to the river it was then and to a particular location I’d seen photographed before but never visited personally. Now , I’m not one for just emulating things that have been done by others, certainly when they’ve been well covered by photographers with greater pedigree than my own, but, if you can visit and come away with an image or two that add to the record of a location then so be it. There are several bridges crossing the River Stour of a similar nature hereabouts but this one is one of the most attractive, whether or not you have the wind to go with it!

After yesterday’s trip to the coast and sea level this afternoon was a total opposite , a wander along the ridge of Bulbarrow and out to the promontory that is the iron age hill fort at Rawlsbury Camp. Watery March sunshine warmed the breeze, which fortunately wasn’t too brisk, along the exposed finger of land overlooking the Dorset Gap with the imposing cross at its summit. The view from the summit on a good day can take in five counties apparently, today, whilst still impressive and dramatic, it was a lesser event, the distant horizons shrouded by misty, low clouds and threatening showers which fortunately didn’t materialise , it’s a fair walk back to the car and precious little shelter against the elements.

Fortunately there was no rain this afternoon, nor, unusually, was there much in the way of company . No walkers or cyclists this afternoon, no sheep or cattle grazing, a couple of stragglers from the local hunt, love it or loathe it, the pack and the rest of the horses somewhere unseen under the ridge, possibly towards Ibberton or Belchawell. No birdsong this afternoon either, just the wind gusting occasionally , drying the freshly ploughed furrows of the fields, the budding hedgerows, the trees and the odd Dorset ‘ Daisy ‘ , a splash of colour hiding on the grassy banks.