Storekorsnes and Oksfjord


This gallery contains 14 photos.

The Norway of my imagination survives at its distant edges. It is an imagination fed by a too brief holiday in the early sixties when the sun perpetually shone, the snow-capped mountains reflected a clear bright light and the fjords … Continue reading

Mad dogs …


This gallery contains 14 photos.

Everything has changed.  Gone are the thousand lakes and the endless forests.  Gone too, if temporarily, are the midges. We have crossed into Norway, into snow-capped mountains on the edge of the sea. The 200km trip north from Lakselv along … Continue reading


We have continued along the narrow road to the deep north.  Leaving Sweden we stayed one night in Levi and have now arrived on the banks of the Juutuanjoki as it flows into Lake Inari. This is the cultural centre of the Sámi in Finland.

Inari is home to both the Sámi Parliament (Sámediggi) and the Siida, the National Museum of the Finnish Sámi.

After a morning in the Siida, heads echoing to the drone of Sámi music, we float across the lake to Ukonsaari and Hautuumaasaari, old man and graveyard islands. In winter we could make the same journey on foot. The skies threaten as we return; nevertheless it is hard to imagine this vast lake frozen for seven months of the year and harder still to imagine tribes of people surviving in such an empty harsh land for thousands of years:

The view from ... Hautuumaasaari ... The view from ... Leaving ... In the grounds ... 104-Silda-wordpress In the grounds ...

(Click on the images to enlarge – the penultimate photograph is a detail from a wall-hanging in the Siida Museum and therefore not mine – photography is allowed but not flash)

Weekly Photo Challenge: Symbol

My first bicycle was a BSA and my second a Triumph Palm Beach – foggy damp Manchester was about as far removed from sandy beaches as can be imagined but then the Triumph Smog doesn’t quite have the same ring.

According to various websites, the Palm Beach was actually produced by Raleigh using the name Triumph under licence from the motorcycle company.  There is therefore a long and distant connection between my pedal-powered days and my Triumph Scrambler. Both symbolise freedom, the wind in your hair/helmet and life on the open road.  Toad would understand completely :-)

... Triumph

My WordPress activity has diminished lately because when I am not hitting golf balls (not very successfully) I am out on wheels of various configurations. By way of explanation here are some more images of the Scrambler from life on the open road:

... but the star of Jurassic World

... on the road from Carrshield - in the background, the Allen Mills chimneys.

... near Birtley

Now spot the Triumph Scrambler (and the golf clubs!) in this trailer – star of stage, screen and Northumberland.

Time, time, time …

… see what’s become of me.

An earlier post shows the house that was home from my earliest memories until my mid-teens. I grew up there.

We left in the mid-sixties and yet externally it is remarkably unchanged.  The leaded light windows remain, the front door has not been replaced with a tight-fitting plastic alternative, even the concrete pre-fab garage remains.  I remember my dad, quietly, methodically, capably erecting it even though I have no memory of what was there before.  The telephone wires still connect from a wooden telegraph pole, run down the external side walls and enter the house at the same place – the second step on the stairs where my sister was positioned most evenings of her teenage years.

The window above the front door was my bedroom, my elevated view of the world, my garret.  Bristol Britannias, Dakotas and Viscounts flew above the house on there prop-engined flightpath into Ringway.  Vulcans flew over less often but, louder and lower into Woodford. Aeroplanes and air travel was still romantic and exciting.

Much has changed in that street and all the familiar names have long gone – the Hilliers (affectionately known as the Hillybums – I know not why), Miss Bracher, the Irelands, the Driscolls, the Fawcetts, the Hagans, the Southerns and the Jones’.  Each house was fronted by a brick wall which we climbed on, jumped from and ran along.

One summer day we were persuaded to sit still long enough to be frozen in time, like unstable books with no bookends.  It seemed like a safe world back then.