From Pyrenees to Pennines

Ragtag Tuesday: Flying the flag

Last time, we had to get to York to catch the coach to London. This time, York had two coaches stuffed with its own. Harrogate and Ripon had two, up from zero. And Leeds had upped its game from two to five.

Coach to London? Yes, to support the March for the People’s Vote. You’ll know there were about 700,000 of us. You’ll know the arguments. So let’s just talk about a fun day.

A day in which I could take few photos, because I was on Team North Yorkshire, and often doing duty carrying one end of our banner. We did sing though. All the Yorkshire marchers who could be found as we passed the Grosvenor Hotel were rounded up for a photo call. A passing marching band (there were musicians….) struck up with ‘On Ilkley Moor baht’at‘ and all right-thinking Yorkshire folk joined in with lots of enthusiasm but little melody.

We talked. How we talked. We made common cause with voters from Jeremy Corbyn’s constituency, from Devon, from Northumberland, from Leicestershire – the banners proved that no part of the nation was unrepresented.

And we carried flags. EU flags, Union Jacks, Yorkshire flags, Italian flags. Progress was slow. We snuck off to coffee shops (staffed by Italians) and pubs (staffed by any and every nation) for a quick breather and still easily regained our places.

Have you ever tried to fit 700,000 people into Parliament Square? No, can’t happen. In any case, thousands and thousands of us were still marching as the speeches started, as they continued, and after they had finished. That was disappointing, as last time, I’d been inspired and energised by so many fired up and dynamic contributions.

Instead we got street theatre. Anarchists on wildly decorated bicycles, a Boris Johnson look-alike, a tricycle. It was, despite our serious purpose, lots of fun. And tiring.

Look. This is us on the coach home. Our flags are still in place.

But I’ll end on this story, which makes me in equal measure sad and angry.

On the bus down, a French woman who has lived in the UK for 32 years told us that she no longer feels welcome in the UK, has suffered abuse, and has been told to ‘go home’. She’d always previously loved Britain’s diversity and felt us to be accepting and tolerant.

And sadly, after two years of this different treatment, she’s decided she and her British husband have had enough and they’re moving to France. Even though she has considered Yorkshire her home for over 30 years. This is not the first time I’ve heard tales like this.

It’s no secret that I voted Remain. But nobody, however they voted, seems happy with how things are going. If you believe that, having been given the chance to vote on continued EU membership, we should now be given the opportunity to vote on the Final Deal (including an option to remain), please write to your MP. Here’s how.

Click on any image to see it full size.

Today’s Ragtag Challenge is ‘Flag’.

A window of opportunity

I’ve always loved looking at the contributions to Thursday doors, where bloggers from around the world share images of their favourite doors. Somehow, I’ve never got round to joining in. But looking through my photos for something or other yesterday, I realised that I had the makings of a post about windows. Here it is.

Here’s an image from the last March for Europe in London in June. I’ll be there again, probably as you read this, marching for a People’s Vote on the Final Deal. I’m not sure how much I believe in another referendum, but what other hope have we got to turn the tide against the national disaster that is Brexit?

Happier times, happier pictures. I started off by including images from Europe too. But I’ll do England today, and maybe travel further afield another time.

Hull Minster, as seen from the office buildings opposite.

And Ripon Cathedral glimpsed through a camera obscura in early 2017.

There’s an osteopath in Ripon who always has a delightfully quirky window display. Here’s winter.

Through the car window, a snowy winter landscape near Kex Gill in Yorkshire.

Train windows: a view of Canary Wharf through the windows of the DLR line.

And the more rural landscape from the Wensleydale Railway.

I’ll finish with the photo I found that started me off. This was the view I took outside our house on Christmas Eve morning last year.

The Only Map You Need

I was introduced to this witty and engaging blog by Restlessjo, whom you should also meet. This post offers you a map. A useful map. You’re welcome.

Travel Between The Pages

h/t Jools Stone

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Ragtag Tuesday: a serendipitous sunset

I was dashing out to a meeting yesterday evening when this sight greeted me at the end of the road.

Pure serendipity. I suddenly realised how early I was. There were five minutes to spare when I could stand and stare at the black outlines of the newly-skeletal trees. The sky was transforming from a sappy fresh green and yellow through to a pale teal blue, before bleeding into grey-edged tones of salmon pink cloud. Why hurry? I stayed and enjoyed the moment.

Tuesday’s Ragtag Prompt is ‘Serendipity’.

Postcards from Dovedale

We’ve just come back from Dovedale.

Dovedale? Yes, it’s in the Peak District, a glorious area of England, part of its Pennine spine. There are old stone-built towns and villages with long histories of hard work in mining, textiles and farming. There are limestone and millstone grit uplands and escarpments, with distant forest and moorland views, and valleys and gorges cut deep into the limestone. There are ancient stone circles and enchanting landscapes. Forget modern life, put on your walking boots and explore.

We had four wonderful days, which for once, we didn’t have to organise. Here’s why.

Walking with our group, as the afternoon sun cast our shadows against a drystone wall.

Autumn was begining to show its colours, but summer temperatures remained. We walked. I didn’t have a camera (Barcelona…..). I had a new mobile phone though. It isn’t the same, but I played with some of its gizmos. Here are my postcards from Dovedale.

Thorpe Cloud. It’s a tough triangular hill, formed of marine skeletons which haven’t easily eroded.

The Nine Ladies, a Bronze Age standing circle.

This fly agaric was an early victim of special effects on my phone.

Views from the heather moorland near the Nine Ladies. We’re by a Bronze Age cairn

Special FX again….

These drystone wall edged fields are reminiscent of the Yorkshire Dales.

The stepping stones across the river in Dovedale…..

… the needle-like crags…..

… the caves…

..the autumn colours near the riverside.

Autumn colour again

And a deliberately impressionistic take on the trees reflected in the water.

Click on any image to see it full size.

Ragtag Tuesday: Rugged rocks

We both had an affair on holiday. It was a delight while it lasted, and when it ended, as it had to, there were no hard feelings. We’d like to do it again.

We both fell in love with the Corrèze in the Limousin. As far as the eye could see there were majestic rolling hills: forested, green, largely uninhabited other than by the occasional herd of Limousin cattle. Settlements were well-ordered and charming towns and villages, often demonstrating a history dating back to the Middle Ages and beyond. Of course we were smitten.

Near Corrèze.

In Corrèze.

Near Corrèze.

Gimel-les-Cascades.

Then we continued on to our old stamping ground in the Ariège. Not all of this département is actually in the Pyrenees, but the mountains are always visible. And as soon as we saw them again, we knew our affair was over.

The foothills of the Pyrenees – the Plantaurel – from our friends’ house in Laroque.

The Pyrenees tug at our hearts like no other landscape. The gentle foothills are given added character by the backdrop of the mountains. We used to watch for the first flurries of snow on the peaks, maybe in September, while we were still in t-shirts.

When we lived in Laroque, this was our view from our roof terrace, and my daily joy as I hung out the washing there.

Anyone living in the Ariège could name the peaks, count them as their friends – Le pic de Saint-Barthélemy, le Pic des Trois Seigneurs, Montségur. Locals would tell you, every spring, exactly how little snow should remain on the high slopes before you could plant your spuds and beans. They would be the ones to relish the mountains in every way. They’d grab their snowshoes as the snow deepened to enjoy a silent walk in the crisp, cold empty landscape.

No snowshoes here. Just a rugged, snowy walk near Montaillou.

They’d know where to look for alpine strawberries in summer, and have secret places that they wouldn’t tell their closest friends about where they’d gather mushrooms in autumn.

They loved the rugged beauty of the mountains as we did, from the majesty of the snow-covered peaks, to the riot of wild daffodils, then gentians in spring, to the muted soft green palette of the hillsides at dusk on a summer’s evening, to the rich russets and golds of the autumn woodland.

Springtime wild daffodils in the Dolomies.

Gentians at Roquefixade.

I can’t visit the mountains though without being aware they demand our respect. They’re mighty, rugged and visually stunning. As we gaze at lines of rock, crumpled in geological eras long past, as we look at tumbled boulders lining the valley floor, or delicate but dangerous sheets of scree, they remind us that, compared with them, we are here on earth for a very short space of time. They have witnessed civilisations and religions rise and fall, harboured refugees from war and conflict, provided impenetrable barriers to would-be conquerors and generally put us in our place. It’s this combination of love and respect for them that draws me and moors me to them. Mere hills and plains simply can’t compete.

Montségur in mist in mid-July

And Montségur in March, with snow still around.

Lac de Montbel from Regat.

The Pyrenees by moonlight.

Treat these snowy peaks with respect.

Today’s Ragtag Daily Prompt is ‘Rugged’.

Click on any image to view full size.

Freedom for Catalonia!

We stopped off in Berga on our way to Barcelona. It’s a mediaeval city with a strong history of republicanism. In May 2012 for instance, the town council declared King Juan Carlos to be ‘persona non grata‘. Nobody’s likely though, to be keen on a king who goes elephant hunting in Africa as his country plunges ever deeper into recession.

Now its cause of choice is Catalan independence. I’m not going into the arguments here. Though sauntering along various Ramblas on a September evening as friends and families pop into a bar for a drink, or to a restaurant for dinner, it’s hard to accept their definition of themselves as an oppressed people; or to take entirely seriously their view that they and, for instance, the Kurds, are all in it together.

Mooch up and down the narrow alleys of Berga with us and look at the posters, the slogans, the street art which are such a feature of this town. A young man stopped me as I was snapping away. ‘We don’t all think that way here’ he said. But he admitted that he was in a minority .