An extensive patch of little daisies is growing out the back of the house, left to run wild it has rampaged up into the hay stack and seeded miraculously into the surrounding gravel.

I rose early this morning and ventured into town to sketch. I sat in the churchyard looking at and drawing a wooden framed Tudor building but when I had finished I noticed the Roses and Hollyhocks growing around the gate and took this photograph.

The wildlife photographer is in our garden again, sneaking through the undergrowth. I was sitting in the front room doing a spot of surfing when the birds of the garden erupted into panic mode, squealing and crowing, so I stood up to look out thinking the small black cat from up the drove was passing through. I was shocked and delighted to find, almost face-to-face, a beautiful red Muntjak staring back at me. She turned and bounced off across the garden. I found my camera and took this shot as she grazed without concern behind my overgrown veggie patch. Although some may choose to be negative about the arrival of such a munching machine in the domestic setting I am rather excited. This may prove to be premature joy and if she chooses to stay or revisit I may have to watch the destruction of plants I like, but is that a unreasonable price to pay, maybe not, we spent too much of our precious time being far too precious and should practice going with the flow.

I began swimming at an age too young to have a clear memory, possibly I discovered my own levels of buoyancy in the warm amniotic fluid of my pre-birth state but in the common sense of swimming, as in like a fish, it was the cold tidal surge off Tenby that was, at about two years, my first true dip. Hurled off the shoulders of an adult into whose trust I had been placed, note Dad isn’t a natural water baby, I was dumped into the sea, sharks, jellies and crabs circling I paddled and flapped through the frothy effluence of the 1960s in search of the safety of the firm sand. Many years later I took a friends 10 years old to the very same beach and encouraged her to take life in hand and swim in the infested but hygienically superior waters of South Wales. She was, sadly, far more interested in the teenager and his boogie board skimming furtively past in the baby surf.
Swimming has always been, for me, a fairly serious activity, I cannot be doing with the pointless, giggling half wits that splash in the shallows, wrinkle rapidly and scurry for the warmth of their fluffy towels after only a few minutes of flapping around and then claim to love swimming. I am a sensible get in the water swimmer, goggles on, nose clip in place and swim, efficiently, quickly and economically. I found some of my swimming badges the other day, my first full length and my bronze personal survival and for one crazy delusional moment considered attaching them to my current swimming suit. Flipping back into reality the moment passed and I returned them the place from where they came.
One should not socialise when swimming unless of course one has reason to engage in either rescuing a panic stricken, water wary, land lover or to negotiate more space in a crowded pool.
I like to swim underwater, the isolation and silence is a pleasurable sensation, limited only by the fact that I would like to break free of the confines of the pool. When watching children crabbing off Cromer pier I thought save catching them how about diving with them, I was excited until I saw the colour of the water, sort of Cappuccino with extra froth, not sure how EU beach policing is doing at Cromer but it was significantly less desirable once I peered off the pier.

I took this photo hanging over the high rise walkway in the Grand Arcade in Cambridge.

I travelled last Sunday from the west midlands to East Anglia, I expected that the two leg journey would be uncomplicated but a little slow. What one could drive in 2 hours takes 4 on the train but I like traveling on trains, the changing scenery, changing faces and listened conversations all build a picture of British life that in other circumstances you don’t get a chance to see. At Birmingham I came across a hitch, the train for Stanstead Airport was cancelled and so my connection lost, I had visions of Michael Palin stranded in Wadi Halfa [sp.?] without transport of any kind, just a bag and a blank expression. At least British summer heat was stable at mild and slightly damp and not racing off into the hundreds and as dry as a slice of organic toast. I was advised to travel via Nottingham, which to my mind was a long way off track but a short snappy terrier of a woman assured me it was the best connection available. So with only one moments hesitation when a clambered off the Nottingham train whilst it lingered on Platform 5a and then clambered back on, much to everyones annoyance, I settled [on the floor] with my book and a grumpy outlook. We passed through a number of one horse towns and Burton-on-Trent where the smell of beer rushed onto the overcrowded train along with a crowd of jostling teenagers who sniffed and sneezed their petulant way to Nottingham.
The train out of Nottingham was cool and clean, the seats free and generously sized, I sat next to two young army boys who were running late on their was back to barracks, and the woman in the drawing who I couldn’t resist sketching as in profile she was quite stunning.

I love this 3D map that is outside Gt St Marys in Cambridge, you can see the city in relief and the street names are in braille for the blind, it often has swarms of tourists, both blind and sighted, exploring the city from a whole different angle. I wondered, as it has rained heavily over night, that a blind visited might suppose it is too realistic a sensory experience. The church you can see in the middle is Gt St Marys which faces the Senate House, this map sits in between these two buildings.

 

The gate to King’s College is often swamped by the mass of King’s Chapel which looms over it like a possessive parent and so I wanted to isolate it to enable it to speak for itself, people pass by it in droves, they look up at the chapel and marvel but miss the comparatively small towers that are as equal in detail and as deserving of appreciation. If you wander down the passage behind Senate House and alongside Gonville and Caius College the road leads right and off to the left is a narrow road to the river. The picture above right is a shot from river level looking up stream towards St Johns, punt free and smooth in the early morning it is an excellent spot to reflect on complex metaphores of life.