Thursdays usually find me as an eager volunteer with the National Trust, and today I was at one of their tenanted farms, located in the vicinity of the Bridestones. The job: the Herculean task of repairing the ailing state of the fence boundary between a small patch of woodland and a field containing some sort of root vegetable — winter fodder for sheep, I think. Such fencing is the responsibility of the Trust, internal field boundaries, that of the farmer. Alas, any prospects of capturing photographic evidence were thwarted by the ruthless clutches of ferocious blackthorn and head high bracken, as they swallowed me whole.
So, no photograph of my escapade today. But fear not, instead I have posted another image from yesterday’s bimble about Kildale. Once again, I found myself bewitched by the purple haze that blanketed the moor, a sight so compelling that it rivals the grandeur of Roman emperors in their dignified robes. The allure of this violet carpet was irresistible, leaving me to ponder upon its historical majesty.
Leave a Reply