Broadhay

Frances, Stew and Baby Phoebe are flying to Canada tomorrow. On my advice they've booked a hotel room down in Luton for tonight. This means that tomorrow's car journey to Heathrow Airport will be much shorter and thereby far less stressful than it would have been.

To facilitate their journey even further, this afternoon I took mama and the heavenly babe to a "Costa" coffee shop at Sutton in Ashfield, close to the M1, twenty miles south of Sheffield. There we met up with Stew whose workplace is close by. Assisting in this way meant that Stew did not have to factor in his usual journey back to Sheffield. They could just carry on south.

This morning, I was able to fit in a two hour country walk in familiar territory close to the village of Hathersage in The Hope Valley. It was a beautiful early autumn day - so clear and colourful and fresh. I took several pictures of a farm called Broadhay and three of those images accompany this blogpost.

Just as I was setting off on the walk with my camera still slung over my shoulder in its case, a fellow in a pick up truck reversed back to talk to me. He lives at the adjacent farm. Still sitting in his vehicle he asked me what I planned to take photos of.

"The countryside," I said.

"You're not taking pictures of my farm are you?"

"No. I wasn't planning to. Why is it not allowed?"

"It's my house and I don't want people taking photos of it!"

"Right. Okay," I said.

In England the law says that when in a public area or on a road or public footpath photos may be taken of anything at all - houses, farms, historic sites or even military installations. There are no restrictions - unless there are people in the picture.

I knew that already. I just needed to placate that grumpy fellow. Now I am going to have to send him the relevant legal information about photographers' rights. I don't want him to err again by confronting other country ramblers in that same wrongful manner. I think he will probably rage when he opens the letter but honestly,  I don't care.

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Feather Boas, Welsh Terrier Sex and Trefor’s Two Mile Hike

 

It’s been a funny old day all told.

I went to a funeral today where all the pall bearers ( male and female ) were wearing fluffy pink boas

The coffin was carried out of the church to the graveside to the tune of  Big Spender By Shirley Bassey

It suited the character of the guy who had died.

During the service my colleague , who must have thought I needed a tissue delved into her handbag and offered me a sanitary pad, which flummoxed me just a little.

What would Thora Hird do in such a situation ? I thought quickly

And didn’t burst into my usual go to of schoolboy chuckling

Yes it’s been a funny afternoon all told.

I’ve just been talking to my neighbour old Trefor , who was out for his daily walk.

He’s 97 so “ old” seems somewhat of an understatement , but he’s still going strong and had just walked 2 miles up and around the Gop without stopping. 

As we chatted over the garden gate another villager passed and stopped his car. He has a welsh terrier and after the hellos were done and on the spur of the moment I asked if he would be interested in introducing his young male to Mary next time she was in season . He said he would especially as your average Welsh terrier now costs up to and beyond two grand.

I’m quite giddy at the thought of puppies in the cottage.

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Wednesday

 Last thing you bought?

Last thing you baked?

Dream destination?

Favorite book?

Biggest hope?

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