Naked Ambition
Today a curious thing happened at around 4pm when I was seized by a sudden urge to use the vacuum cleaner. Maybe it was the incessant rain. Perhaps it was the discovery that the acting in “Neighbours” is just as wooden as it was last time I watched it in 1988 – even that of the two familiar looking cast members who appear to have been unable to secure work elsewhere in the intervening 33 years. Once I’d got over the disappointment of learning that Kylie left the show not long after I had, we moved onto Countdown – a thirty minute word and numbers based quiz show which I now understand is generally prolonged by up to an hour of freezing the picture while we try and come up with a six letter word that actually exists. Apparently we have to do this to keep our brains active in our dotage. The daytime TV excitement over, I looked out of the window once more – it was still raining. There was nothing for it – the carpet was going to be de-fluffed – throughout the house more or less for that matter. In those early days of management training, the detestable phrase “low hanging fruit” reminded us budding future leaders to seek the easy gains first. Now it means running the Dyson over the landing and the hallway before worrying about what’s lurking under the sofas in the living room.
Maybe we should hoover the space under the bed more often. In the dark shadows beneath where we sleep, I discovered a Blue Peter annual with Valerie Singleton on the front cover. I’m all too conscious that if you’re under fifty or you didn’t grow up in the UK you might need to look that up. Moments later I was reminded of a trip to a restaurant in Brighton called “Wahaca” more than three years ago when I found a pack of complimentary chilli seeds that had been attempting to germinate in the dust under the laundry basket. If it sounds like I’m making this up in the hope of some cheap laughs, rest assured that my imagination doesn’t stretch far enough to come up with the material – I have to rely on real life experience. At least I’ve been able to reunite that long lost black running sock with its companion again. The good news is that this odd bout of housekeeping overdrive has passed for now, and whatever the weather’s doing tomorrow, I’m going to embrace the outdoors with my camera.
After all of the unexpected enthusiasm for household chores I looked out of the window once more into the disappearing light, where the soft autumn rain continued to drown the outside world in a drab grey shroud. On this Monday of achieving not very much it seemed the right time to finally relate the tale of last summer at the waterfalls above Talybont Reservoir. You know the one.
We’d been deposited here by the rest of the party, who’d headed in the opposite direction down the course of the river, following the cascades through a sharp descent into the valley. My sister Becky is one of those people who happily bathes in ice cold water for her own entertainment. I’m told it’s extremely beneficial for the mental wellbeing, is much more fun than vacuuming the house, and is an excellent weapon against early onset dementia, but after so many summers in warmer climes I just can’t bring myself to join in the fun. Last time I went into the sea at home in Cornwall without a wetsuit I lasted less than five minutes before I crawled out to the discordant soundtrack of my own chattering teeth. This was in the middle of summer. Shoes and socks off, and trouser legs rolled up is about the best I can manage. But my sister is made of sterner stuff. So we were later told, she found the perfect pool for a swim. The bad news was that it was already occupied by a rather too mentally well naked man, who stood brazenly baring all and inviting her to join him – in front of her partner if adding to her already acute sense of discomfort were needed. What she’d have liked is for him to move aside, preferably to somewhere much nearer Cardiff, so that she might swim alone for a while in a space that wasn’t quite big enough for two strangers, especially when one of them was exhibiting such symptoms of over-confidence and a couple of other things besides. But wilfully or otherwise he didn’t accept the hint, and I fear the haunting image of naked guy will enter into the family canon of memorable incidents and sit there uncomfortably for the rest of our days. I didn’t even witness the full frontal effrontery on display (see what I did there?), but I still feel scarred by the images that dance across my thoughts in idle moments – of which there are now so many.
When my sister announced she’d been able to secure the bothy for five nights, one of my immediate thoughts was of waterfalls. I love waterfalls – I could watch and listen for any amount of time. The patterns on the dark swirling bowl and the silky white threads of the drop itself that a long exposure can deliver are always waiting to be captured if the old brain is firing on both cylinders. The Brecon Beacons is full of them, some tucked away discreetly in hidden valleys where few venture to tread, while others crash noisily down from the mountains and through the landscape in places impossible to ignore, often with generously sized car parks nearby. I’d really hoped we might return to the dramatic splendour of the four waterfall valley near Ystradfellte, but the others pointed out we’d come here to escape the crowds and reminded me that it’s very busy there in the middle of summer. Add to that the fact that I myself will usually do anything to avoid spaces full of other humans and it was hard to argue. Every one of those four perfect beauties would inevitably be under siege by gangs of selfie stick wielding sightseers while I’d find myself skulking grumpily in the shadows, waiting for the precious moment of isolation that would almost certainly never arrive. What I’d give to have the majestic Sgwd Yr Eira to myself for an hour or two. If you’ve ever managed to, do let me know how in the comments. I could always return at a quieter time when the rivers were fuller and satisfy my creative urges with a cascade filled binge – the autumn would be good. So, for this trip I’d settle for the more remote offerings as they arose, almost incidental to the scenes we would make our day hikes through. In the event, it seemed the overwhelming heat and harsh light would win out. Everything I thought I knew about waterfall photography was being challenged as I struggled with each composition our visit delivered. Scenes seemed cluttered and messy and the bright sunlight clashed with the dancing water. In this spot I closed my eyes, trusted my luck and took the shot, hoping that the crop and the edit to come later on would bring an image worth sharing. Maybe it did – but if it didn’t, there was still a tale to be told. He's probably still there waiting.
Naked Ambition
Today a curious thing happened at around 4pm when I was seized by a sudden urge to use the vacuum cleaner. Maybe it was the incessant rain. Perhaps it was the discovery that the acting in “Neighbours” is just as wooden as it was last time I watched it in 1988 – even that of the two familiar looking cast members who appear to have been unable to secure work elsewhere in the intervening 33 years. Once I’d got over the disappointment of learning that Kylie left the show not long after I had, we moved onto Countdown – a thirty minute word and numbers based quiz show which I now understand is generally prolonged by up to an hour of freezing the picture while we try and come up with a six letter word that actually exists. Apparently we have to do this to keep our brains active in our dotage. The daytime TV excitement over, I looked out of the window once more – it was still raining. There was nothing for it – the carpet was going to be de-fluffed – throughout the house more or less for that matter. In those early days of management training, the detestable phrase “low hanging fruit” reminded us budding future leaders to seek the easy gains first. Now it means running the Dyson over the landing and the hallway before worrying about what’s lurking under the sofas in the living room.
Maybe we should hoover the space under the bed more often. In the dark shadows beneath where we sleep, I discovered a Blue Peter annual with Valerie Singleton on the front cover. I’m all too conscious that if you’re under fifty or you didn’t grow up in the UK you might need to look that up. Moments later I was reminded of a trip to a restaurant in Brighton called “Wahaca” more than three years ago when I found a pack of complimentary chilli seeds that had been attempting to germinate in the dust under the laundry basket. If it sounds like I’m making this up in the hope of some cheap laughs, rest assured that my imagination doesn’t stretch far enough to come up with the material – I have to rely on real life experience. At least I’ve been able to reunite that long lost black running sock with its companion again. The good news is that this odd bout of housekeeping overdrive has passed for now, and whatever the weather’s doing tomorrow, I’m going to embrace the outdoors with my camera.
After all of the unexpected enthusiasm for household chores I looked out of the window once more into the disappearing light, where the soft autumn rain continued to drown the outside world in a drab grey shroud. On this Monday of achieving not very much it seemed the right time to finally relate the tale of last summer at the waterfalls above Talybont Reservoir. You know the one.
We’d been deposited here by the rest of the party, who’d headed in the opposite direction down the course of the river, following the cascades through a sharp descent into the valley. My sister Becky is one of those people who happily bathes in ice cold water for her own entertainment. I’m told it’s extremely beneficial for the mental wellbeing, is much more fun than vacuuming the house, and is an excellent weapon against early onset dementia, but after so many summers in warmer climes I just can’t bring myself to join in the fun. Last time I went into the sea at home in Cornwall without a wetsuit I lasted less than five minutes before I crawled out to the discordant soundtrack of my own chattering teeth. This was in the middle of summer. Shoes and socks off, and trouser legs rolled up is about the best I can manage. But my sister is made of sterner stuff. So we were later told, she found the perfect pool for a swim. The bad news was that it was already occupied by a rather too mentally well naked man, who stood brazenly baring all and inviting her to join him – in front of her partner if adding to her already acute sense of discomfort were needed. What she’d have liked is for him to move aside, preferably to somewhere much nearer Cardiff, so that she might swim alone for a while in a space that wasn’t quite big enough for two strangers, especially when one of them was exhibiting such symptoms of over-confidence and a couple of other things besides. But wilfully or otherwise he didn’t accept the hint, and I fear the haunting image of naked guy will enter into the family canon of memorable incidents and sit there uncomfortably for the rest of our days. I didn’t even witness the full frontal effrontery on display (see what I did there?), but I still feel scarred by the images that dance across my thoughts in idle moments – of which there are now so many.
When my sister announced she’d been able to secure the bothy for five nights, one of my immediate thoughts was of waterfalls. I love waterfalls – I could watch and listen for any amount of time. The patterns on the dark swirling bowl and the silky white threads of the drop itself that a long exposure can deliver are always waiting to be captured if the old brain is firing on both cylinders. The Brecon Beacons is full of them, some tucked away discreetly in hidden valleys where few venture to tread, while others crash noisily down from the mountains and through the landscape in places impossible to ignore, often with generously sized car parks nearby. I’d really hoped we might return to the dramatic splendour of the four waterfall valley near Ystradfellte, but the others pointed out we’d come here to escape the crowds and reminded me that it’s very busy there in the middle of summer. Add to that the fact that I myself will usually do anything to avoid spaces full of other humans and it was hard to argue. Every one of those four perfect beauties would inevitably be under siege by gangs of selfie stick wielding sightseers while I’d find myself skulking grumpily in the shadows, waiting for the precious moment of isolation that would almost certainly never arrive. What I’d give to have the majestic Sgwd Yr Eira to myself for an hour or two. If you’ve ever managed to, do let me know how in the comments. I could always return at a quieter time when the rivers were fuller and satisfy my creative urges with a cascade filled binge – the autumn would be good. So, for this trip I’d settle for the more remote offerings as they arose, almost incidental to the scenes we would make our day hikes through. In the event, it seemed the overwhelming heat and harsh light would win out. Everything I thought I knew about waterfall photography was being challenged as I struggled with each composition our visit delivered. Scenes seemed cluttered and messy and the bright sunlight clashed with the dancing water. In this spot I closed my eyes, trusted my luck and took the shot, hoping that the crop and the edit to come later on would bring an image worth sharing. Maybe it did – but if it didn’t, there was still a tale to be told. He's probably still there waiting.