
48 hours in Ile Tudy. The first few spent with friends from Cornwall. I hope the end of the rainbow reaches them in their cottage.

48 hours of a reliable phone signal and Wi-fi. Giddy times. Gaudy flowers.


48 hours in Ile Tudy. The first few spent with friends from Cornwall. I hope the end of the rainbow reaches them in their cottage.

48 hours of a reliable phone signal and Wi-fi. Giddy times. Gaudy flowers.


How do you stay motivated when learning something new?
I am lucky that being semi-retired and having stepped away from a full time career, learning something new is pretty much my choice, so I learn with great enthusiasm. But what I have realised is that having to learn things that may not have fully engaged my happy head spaces in the past has given me a bit of a super power of just diligently getting on with it. Recently I had to learn, at speed, the rules and advice for communal space vegetable plot gardening. Not exactly allotments but definitely strip horticulture, something medieval people knew about. I found it fascinating and like a lot of things it is a lot less about the fruit and vegetables and a great deal more about managing people.
So I would say finding fascination is the motivation for learning new things and just being diligent.

Coincidence is a wonderful thing to enhance a tiny ponder. Moments before seeing this rocky outcrop on the coast of Brittany we saw a field with two Percheron horses grazing.

Moments later we were reading about the evocative rocky outcrops of the area. Evocative I would say of a very large horse poo.

Maybe it was just a time and a place thing? Maybe not

Two beaches.
Two bits of History
Two brushes with authority.
The lovely feeling of mirth bubbling up through absurdities
Another day of domestic and Tennis Club administration loomed yesterday. Embellished by a trip to two different beaches at either end of the day.
My first minor skirmish with authority was with an armed escort as I returned from the tidal pool to home on my morning dog walk. Following hard on the heels of Royal Marines returning from their morning walk.

My next walk of the day was with a friend to explore the historic but hidden walls of our maritime town.

We wandered with our dogs and looked at ancient walls hidden amongst small housing developments. Crenellated walls providing shelter to chickens and an urban orchard.

A much wilder area of bigger walls was inaccessible to us but appears to be being cleared to provide a place for lunch breaks and beehives for a local boatyard. Although local, intrigued historical sleuths were discouraged by the deliberate placing of fallen branches and brambles.

We had to make our way out via a shiny car dealership. Now the trouble with locating historical defensive walls is that they are effective. We couldn’t scramble down a possible rampart.

So we had to make our way through the car dealership. Not under the watchful eyes of keen eyed Archers with poison tipped arrows, aimed at us or our dogs. But CCTV cameras with Cyclops eyes following our every move in case we made off with a new car tucked in our pockets. We had been seen. We carried on our history ramble for maybe twenty minutes or so along the course of a reclaimed river bed.( Once the location of the actual Shit Creek where sailors were trapped without a paddle)
Soon enough we found ourselves back where we started near the car dealership. We may not have caught the flinty eyes of Archers on battlements but we had raised the hackles of Car Salesmen . Two men in bright white shirts, over tight trousers, and trendy, but cheap shoes were fixing hastily created laminated signs to their perimeter fence.

In the search for history we had transgressed. Historically things could have been so much worse!
So that is me done with close encounters with authority but history was not done with me for the day.
For about 8 weeks I have been trying to apply for a postal address and post code for the Tennis Club I help to run.
The on-line form just didn’t work for me. Two failed attempts had disheartened me and earlier this week I took the last chance advice of the website and wrote a snail mail, old school letter to the advice desk of our local council. I won’t bore you with all the complexities of the situation but there have been a lot of boxes to tick and I feel I may have ticked them all and still stumbled.
Less than 24 hours after the snail mail was posted I got a helpful email reply from the council. History has bitten me on the bum! The box I needed to tick for a 100 year old tennis club without an address or postcode was …
New Build.
It really was a day where my funny bone was tickled by the absurdity of modern life clashing with history.

A day of admin, absurdity and beaches, with history as the entertainment.

What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?
Unsurprisingly as an only child, in a family with only one other child, who was seriously disabled, I was completely obsessed with becoming an adult. The power balance was completely out of whack in my extended family and life experience. Childrens T.V or radio was projected at children by more adults and nursery education did not exist. I was five before I met any more than a handful of children.
I don’t think any of this was particularly negative, I was just fascinated by the adults around me, who lived lives that seemed vivid beyond the boundaries of my small existence. After 5 there was a realisation that real life was not as I had always known it.
Most people remember their first day at school. Mine was memorable because for the first time in my life there were more children than adults in the room.
Now my childish obsession seems rather tame. Just becoming an adult would have happened naturally.

Pirate Weekend in Plymouth. A weekend to celebrate a time when Plymouth was Queen Elizabeth I’s Pirate or Privateer major port for repurposing, recycling and most importantly reusing stolen goods from the high seas.
This year, Pirate weekend was enhanced by 2 days of warm sunshine and large crowds. My photographs were a bit rubbish due to sharp shadows and crowds. But the vibe was brilliant.

Bold bosoms oozing out of basques, laced tight, were de rigueur for lady pirates . While tricorn hats and eyeliner were what any self respecting pirate chap started the day with. What all pirates of any persuasion ended the day with was sunburn and a lot less doubloons in their pouches.

A huge cruise ship moored just off Drakes Island. With guests being brought into the Barbican by small boats.


Not quite a regular day trip to Plymouth in 2026. But things might have looked a bit similar in 1566. But then again maybe not.


What’s the most interesting local custom you’ve encountered?
I am interested in local customs and the human need to touch the legacy of previous generations, by doing something that has been done many times in the past. Let’s be honest, some local customs are barbaric, inhuman and fueled by fear. I am intrigued by the little ones that cause no harm. Like nailing a hot cross bun to a pub ceiling every Easter or Maypole dancing in May.
Maypole dancing was my first ever experience of a custom. Normal games classes were suspended late in April at my primary school, for us to be taught to dance round a tall mast with ribbons hanging full length from the top. We were encouraged to skip and dance around the mast, weaving a never ending plait of colour down the length of the pole. Nobody ever explained why we were doing it and as soon as the first blush of May was past, the mast was taken down and games lessons became tuition for the summer game of Rounders, far preferable to me. As an adult I know it is some sort of fertility ritual connected with Spring. But until today I have considered it no further.
Time to head off to Googleland.


I have never photographed a Maypole event , so did a quick little sketch with my travelling art pack.

With the accuracy of an Art App and Ai on my smart phone the header image was produced. One of the dancers even looks like 5 year old me taking the whole thing very seriously. But not hanging on tight enough to my ribbon.

Which gives me great hope for my quick summer , plein air drawings.
They usually sit in the sketch books, only a few ever become a real piece of art. Maypole dancing has shown me a new way of using them. May fertility of the creative mind.

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If you had to describe your ideal life, what would it look like?

What is an ideal life, would be my next question. Human nature would suggest that I should aspire to something better.
I can’t imagine anyone describing a life that was less good as ideal.But wishing for better might not be better. A micro ideal that would not rock the boat too much if it turned out to be less than ideal, sounds ideal.
But I have hundreds if not thousands of those.

Sometimes wishing for better is the enemy of good.
Putting the brakes on better, might well reveal that now is ideal.

Early morning dog walk for voting. So early that I had to wait for the coffee shop to open.

I rewarded myself with the laminations of a croissant.
I have a habit of voting early, having missed the vote once when I lived in Lambeth. I had left for work before the Polling Stations had opened and due to the unpredictability of working in Cardiac Cath labs arrived at the Polling Station with only a half an hour to go. Almost the minute I got off my train there was a strange vibration in the air. The Polling station was less than five minutes from the train station. There were outside broadcast camera operators and journalists and an enormous queue. Some sort of drama had occured and there were record numbers of voters. There was no way that everyone in the queue would get to vote and no chance that anyone joining the queue, like me, would get the chance. To queue, to make a point or not to queue. Either way I was denied my constitutional right.
The Lamentations of a choice, no croissants involved. The cafes were all closed.

Which is the best thing to do in your city?
I like to find the edges of my city. In my case I am fortunate the edges are well marked. To the south is the sea, to the west the river Tamar and to the north Dartmoor. Only the eastern edge has the slightly blurry edges of urban sprawl but that is contained by Dartmoor running to the north and the sea to the south. So there is a fat ribbon of development to the east until that stops and agricultural land re-establishes itself.
I also love the centre of the city where I can find independent shops, a market and a museum and art gallery.

My least favourite part of my city are the burbs. Vast stretches of anonymous housing developments. I blame an obscure folk song from my childhood.
Little Boxes
Song by Malvina Reynolds
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes all the same
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in the houses
All went to the university
Where they were put in boxes
And they came out all the same
And there’s doctors and lawyers
And business executives
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And they all play on the golf course
And drink their martinis dry
And they all have pretty children
And the children go to school
And the children go to summer camp
And then to the university
Where they are put in boxes
And they come out all the same
And the boys go into business
And marry and raise a family
In boxes made of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
There’s a pink one and a green one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Malvina Reynolds
Little Boxes lyrics © Audiam, Inc, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
I was only young when I heard these lyrics and I would not have known the word dystopian but I absolutely knew that this was not a future I fancied in any shape or form.
On the whole I have avoided anonymous suburbia. I know that it is hugely comforting and homely to millions of people. Funny really that my view of my city or indeed any city was shaped by a folk song.