The Importance of Being Outdoors
Yesterday morning over breakfast a strange story appeared on my TV screen. A young lady of unknown address somewhere in the UK was so obsessed with singer Ed Sheeran that she'd managed to find, enchant and become engaged to his doppelganger. There they were on my TV screen, the blushing fan and "Ed," who wasn't of course called Ed - although he'd met Ed and they'd been photographed together. He did look uncannily like the real Ed - there was no disputing that, but I couldn't help wondering. Would she still love him if he hadn't looked so convincingly like her heartthrob on the box? He'd even styled his hair in the same way as the omnipresent songsmith. Immediately I asked Ali whether she was only with me because I'd once been compared by somebody I passed in a dimly lit alleyway at night to Bruce Willis. She laughed just a bit too much - really rather hurtful I thought. She seems to prefer Jason Statham in any case. You can stop laughing as well for that matter. You haven't met me so you don't know whether I look like Bruce or not.
Well ok, three of you have met me and are therefore able to reveal the truth to the world. But as I sat there watching "Ed" and his bride to be, a second thought occurred to me, which was "thank goodness we're going out for the day." You really need to get outside, even if only into the garden to listen to the birds singing. If we weren't going anywhere we could have stayed and watched the story of the woman who'd fallen in love with the alien who abducted her. It's amazing what passes for in depth journalism really. All of this on one of Britain's two main TV channels as well; not some obscurity on button number 4,569 watched by a handful of eternal sofa dwellers who are so entrenched in their positions that even seven minute advert breaks won't shift them. My regular reintroduction over the last eight months to the eternal brain rot known as daytime television for the first time since the mid 1980's has confirmed that in some regards, little changes in this world.
Happily the day ahead of us had much to recommend it. We were driving east for brunch at one of those American style diners, where the walls are covered with pictures of famous musicians. As I chewed the contents of a large bowl of nachos I stared at photos of Elvis, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and a replica poster advertising Buddy Holly's final concert at Clear Lake, Iowa before that fateful plane ride. No sign of Ed though. Then we pushed on to a peaceful afternoon in the sun at a National Trust property on the Cornwall and Devon border where with our matching jumpers we're about as racy as the clientele gets on a weekday. I left with a car boot full of well nurtured and reasonably priced perennials for the garden. The evening took us into Plymouth, for what for me was the third rescheduled show in eleven days, courtesy of the inevitable "concert bunching" as everyone tries to catch up now that Covid isn't running our lives quite so rigidly anymore. I'll bet lots of people who attended the Strictly Come Dancing Professionals show last night also went to see Diversity on Sunday, but I'd be surprised if I wasn't the only person present who'd also attended the concert by Nick Mason's Saucerful of Secrets the previous Sunday. Much as I enjoyed the acrobatic talents of those much feted dancers, the evening in an audience surrounded mostly by men of certain years wearing jeans that could have done with more regular visits to their washing machines was one I'll treasure. Born a decade too late to witness the band in their prime, I never thought I'd get to see an original member of Pink Floyd at work. When they played the full length version of "Echoes," I was lost in time, transported almost forty years back in time to my university days, listening to the cassette player in the communal kitchen at 2am, sitting next to a half empty can of beer and casually ignoring the fact that there was a pure maths lecture at nine the following morning. Somehow that sort of lifestyle doesn't phase you when you're nineteen years old does it?
Three shows on, we're all entertained out, and the trio of diversions that added a number of slow miles to the journey home last night reminded us we just want to stay close to base for a bit while the county highways department prepares the roads for the summer onslaught of visitors. I'll plant those perennials and listen to Pink Floyd in the garden. I might also go back to the woods, just to sit and absorb the calming sounds beneath the trees. The bluebells are over now; the final one of those three visits last week confirmed that, but it's still a magical place to disappear into. This is the last image I'll share this year from those short trips into the canopy. I'd posted this shot on another platform - that one that likes to force me to think in a 5 by 4 format, but Flickr is a bit more friendly in allowing us to use whatever aspect ratio we like, and in this case, neither 5 by 4 nor the original one that the camera works in was quite right. I wanted that foreground splash of light, and I also wanted to remove the sky from the top left hand corner in the final crop. The Camborne Town page asked to share it, and in doing so added further confusion to the great Pendarves Wood debate that started over morning coffee in the office some time early last year. They are insistent that I was in Pendarves Wood, despite it being a mile to the west of here and the map not giving this happy few hectares any name at all.
I didn't argue. I just thanked them for featuring me and moved on, happy to be outside and not watching people getting married on the basis that their fiancé looks like their idol. I know it's all about personality, but I'm not sure how I'd feel if Ali looked like David Gilmour or Nick Mason to be honest. I kind of like her as she is. And she seems to put up with me, whomever I do or don't look like.
So if you see "Bruce" behind a camera in the woods, don't assume it's me. There are lots of middle aged Pink Floyd fans out taking pictures, some of whom may be sporting jeans that really need a trip to the laundrette or even the furnace, and many of them are just as follicly challenged as the real Bruce is. I'm just one of that army, trying my best to avoid nonsensical stories on the large rectangular screen in the corner of the living room and chasing the light on the much smaller one in front of me instead. It's much better for the sanity you know.
The Importance of Being Outdoors
Yesterday morning over breakfast a strange story appeared on my TV screen. A young lady of unknown address somewhere in the UK was so obsessed with singer Ed Sheeran that she'd managed to find, enchant and become engaged to his doppelganger. There they were on my TV screen, the blushing fan and "Ed," who wasn't of course called Ed - although he'd met Ed and they'd been photographed together. He did look uncannily like the real Ed - there was no disputing that, but I couldn't help wondering. Would she still love him if he hadn't looked so convincingly like her heartthrob on the box? He'd even styled his hair in the same way as the omnipresent songsmith. Immediately I asked Ali whether she was only with me because I'd once been compared by somebody I passed in a dimly lit alleyway at night to Bruce Willis. She laughed just a bit too much - really rather hurtful I thought. She seems to prefer Jason Statham in any case. You can stop laughing as well for that matter. You haven't met me so you don't know whether I look like Bruce or not.
Well ok, three of you have met me and are therefore able to reveal the truth to the world. But as I sat there watching "Ed" and his bride to be, a second thought occurred to me, which was "thank goodness we're going out for the day." You really need to get outside, even if only into the garden to listen to the birds singing. If we weren't going anywhere we could have stayed and watched the story of the woman who'd fallen in love with the alien who abducted her. It's amazing what passes for in depth journalism really. All of this on one of Britain's two main TV channels as well; not some obscurity on button number 4,569 watched by a handful of eternal sofa dwellers who are so entrenched in their positions that even seven minute advert breaks won't shift them. My regular reintroduction over the last eight months to the eternal brain rot known as daytime television for the first time since the mid 1980's has confirmed that in some regards, little changes in this world.
Happily the day ahead of us had much to recommend it. We were driving east for brunch at one of those American style diners, where the walls are covered with pictures of famous musicians. As I chewed the contents of a large bowl of nachos I stared at photos of Elvis, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and a replica poster advertising Buddy Holly's final concert at Clear Lake, Iowa before that fateful plane ride. No sign of Ed though. Then we pushed on to a peaceful afternoon in the sun at a National Trust property on the Cornwall and Devon border where with our matching jumpers we're about as racy as the clientele gets on a weekday. I left with a car boot full of well nurtured and reasonably priced perennials for the garden. The evening took us into Plymouth, for what for me was the third rescheduled show in eleven days, courtesy of the inevitable "concert bunching" as everyone tries to catch up now that Covid isn't running our lives quite so rigidly anymore. I'll bet lots of people who attended the Strictly Come Dancing Professionals show last night also went to see Diversity on Sunday, but I'd be surprised if I wasn't the only person present who'd also attended the concert by Nick Mason's Saucerful of Secrets the previous Sunday. Much as I enjoyed the acrobatic talents of those much feted dancers, the evening in an audience surrounded mostly by men of certain years wearing jeans that could have done with more regular visits to their washing machines was one I'll treasure. Born a decade too late to witness the band in their prime, I never thought I'd get to see an original member of Pink Floyd at work. When they played the full length version of "Echoes," I was lost in time, transported almost forty years back in time to my university days, listening to the cassette player in the communal kitchen at 2am, sitting next to a half empty can of beer and casually ignoring the fact that there was a pure maths lecture at nine the following morning. Somehow that sort of lifestyle doesn't phase you when you're nineteen years old does it?
Three shows on, we're all entertained out, and the trio of diversions that added a number of slow miles to the journey home last night reminded us we just want to stay close to base for a bit while the county highways department prepares the roads for the summer onslaught of visitors. I'll plant those perennials and listen to Pink Floyd in the garden. I might also go back to the woods, just to sit and absorb the calming sounds beneath the trees. The bluebells are over now; the final one of those three visits last week confirmed that, but it's still a magical place to disappear into. This is the last image I'll share this year from those short trips into the canopy. I'd posted this shot on another platform - that one that likes to force me to think in a 5 by 4 format, but Flickr is a bit more friendly in allowing us to use whatever aspect ratio we like, and in this case, neither 5 by 4 nor the original one that the camera works in was quite right. I wanted that foreground splash of light, and I also wanted to remove the sky from the top left hand corner in the final crop. The Camborne Town page asked to share it, and in doing so added further confusion to the great Pendarves Wood debate that started over morning coffee in the office some time early last year. They are insistent that I was in Pendarves Wood, despite it being a mile to the west of here and the map not giving this happy few hectares any name at all.
I didn't argue. I just thanked them for featuring me and moved on, happy to be outside and not watching people getting married on the basis that their fiancé looks like their idol. I know it's all about personality, but I'm not sure how I'd feel if Ali looked like David Gilmour or Nick Mason to be honest. I kind of like her as she is. And she seems to put up with me, whomever I do or don't look like.
So if you see "Bruce" behind a camera in the woods, don't assume it's me. There are lots of middle aged Pink Floyd fans out taking pictures, some of whom may be sporting jeans that really need a trip to the laundrette or even the furnace, and many of them are just as follicly challenged as the real Bruce is. I'm just one of that army, trying my best to avoid nonsensical stories on the large rectangular screen in the corner of the living room and chasing the light on the much smaller one in front of me instead. It's much better for the sanity you know.