This is one of my favourite pictures taken close to my house.
It captures the quintessence of my locus, especially the rutted lanes, the upright, stoic trees and the smell of all things agricultural.
"Tis propar Devonshire" — as we say in these parts.
Looking at it now, I still find it haunting and quite moving but more than that, it's a way to rustle up the memories of old and connect with my truest, deepest self.
Or, to put it another way, I'm one with my surroundings — there's no separation, no division and I'm awash with the quixotic reverie that only nature offers.
And of course, I'm very lucky.
Let me say that again.
I'm extraordinarily lucky, and there's not a single day that goes by where I don't have to pinch myself of that fact.
There is, though, another part to my psyche which lives in a constant state of terror, namely, the fact that one day all this will be gone or certainly it will be so diminished that my kids and theirs will never experience that hot flush of love and connection I've been blessed to experience all these years — all 53 of them.
Perhaps I'm overstating the case — it wouldn't be the first time! -- but the shock and grief I feel in bearing witness to all those gut-wrenching images of loss, destruction and death from the four corners of the earth, only serves to remind me that even my sleepy little patch of South Devon isn't or won't be immune from the egregious, death-dealing thumbprint (or should I say size 11 Jackboot?) of climate change et al.( Collapse )