Motorways - why do that idiot minority treat travelling as some sort of competition. One classic white van man undertook me, shoved back in to the middle lane, undertook the guy in front.... Twenty minutes later he was still in sight about two hundred yards ahead. He'd annoyed scores of other motorists and his own stress levels were probably sky high that he couldn't get clear of the dense traffic. I must admit I'm not a good driver - when someone like that pushes, I do get annoyed and push back. Extremely dangerous for everyone. I am learning to control my anger, and now will drop in to the slow lane when I see this sort of situation developing; I'm never in that much of a rush and the slow lane really doesn't go that much slower when the traffic is so dense. I can then watch with trepidation the fast laners all closing up to insanely tiny separations to try and stop the undertakers getting back in. One tiny perturbation in the flow and all the brake lights slam on - its not that uncommon for a wave of emergency braking, sometimes to a standstill, to happen in the fast lane, as the slow lane wanders serenely on. Fine being in the slow lane until a Damn Great Lorry attaches itself to your back bumper...
Arriving, somewhere in England in a small village near Peterborough. The locals know me from when I looked after my post operative mother for a couple of weeks a while ago. Friendly greetings.
Walk with my mother and bird watching brother. Down to the mill, a grey fly catcher swoops across the pond. Inspect the lack of water in the mill race - today you can see the bottom of the channel. Off across the fields towards the next village. I'm pointing out the rabbit holes and tracks; fox scat and some interesting plants. My brother spots a high flying predator (Kestrel?) and we lesser mortals spend minutes even trying to spot the tiny dot in the sky. I finally get it framed and focussed in my telephoto lens, and track it as it drops like a stone towards it's prey. Larks rise bubbling from the crops on either side of us. A row of ancient gnarled Hawthorns stand, the remains of a one time boundary hedge. The sheep have left a furry trail of wooly tufts on the wire that now separates us from the field. Arriving at the next village, we stand by the bridge watching a family of Swans feeding, gliding through the water and waddling up onto the bank, home to their nest.
Looking across the river, my mother comments that King John did something memorable here, but she can't quite remember what...
Back by the same path - the alternative is a road route. Rooks, Jackdaws, Butterflies, a superb blue dragonfly. Back to the village with it's stone buildings, a magnificent horse chestnut and the small friendly shops.
And ruin the mood with the return trip up the motorways!
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