A Boat and Bird Race

Ready, Steady, Go!

A cool gloomy evening in Paignton.

This was about the most excitement on offer.

I put a tenner on the gull.

Looking for a gold medal

Down by the allotments.

The Dorchester Duck Olympics.

Going for gold.

And all looking in the wrong place.

You can’t catch me!

As seen from the train up to Exeter this afternoon.

Two sisters racing and chasing across the deserted beach.

Beach fun

this limply bedraggled wet soggy summer

has been in short supply.

Loony little midget woman

I’ve never spoken to her.

She might not speak.

She walks with mute steps.

In a catatonic dead-eyed stupor.

Always carrying a plastic bag of shopping

Shuffle, shuffle.

Slow. Shuffle. Slow.

As if the world outside were a padded cell

she’s been let out into.

This block i live in is choka with loonies

The start of the new season

Newly promoted back into the football league

are Exeter City.

Playing their first home game against Shrewsbury

Lights blaring away.

In the middle of August

It’s not going well

1-0 down and only 15 minutes to go. Nervously, 4,915 Grecians look on.

To traipse off single-file in resignation at the final whistle.

Yeah – they lost.

All that familiar anxiety

that goes with a bunch of small-time losers

has returned.

Looks like it’s a season fighting against relegation

yet again.

Volumptous

Or is it voluptous?

It’s certainly very sensual.

Pinned up high on the ceiling above my bed.

Makes you want to levitate.

So as to sink up onto it.

It’s where my soul sleeps

When it wants to leave my body

Glowy Fluffs

Those ducky fluffs get bigger and bigger.

Must be about 10 weeks old now. Still 9 of them left.

All snuggled up in the night warm.

Glowing.

And dry. Not raining!

A funny little herbert

The farmer must have got fed up of him. Left that odd tuft of wool as an omen.

But the chap kept nosing and nibbling quietly across towards me.

The night was falling it’s eerie darkness into the field.

Behind was the spooky church on the hill.

I could have been in a novel by Harumi Murakami.

With something strange about to happen – or maybe already happened

to this funny little herbert

Cows on Dartmoor

I tramped across waterlogged moor, digi at the ready.

Right up to about 3 feet away. I could have reached over and tickled her ears.

Not interested in me. Not bothered. Getting stuck in to all that heathery greenery.

Heads stuck in, minds on the job, chewing and chomping.

The rain lashing and slashing across. Soaking me to the skin.

They carried on. Regardless. Ignoring me. Focused.

On better things to do.

Malty beers

…

Leffe

A blonde beer from Belgium.

Malty.

It’s quite popular over here.

A couple of bottles would do it.

I’d drink it again.

.£1.05 for 330ml. 6.6%…

….

….

Whitechapel Porter

“Dark ruby roasted malt with spicy hop notes”

It’s an evocative name “Porter”, makes me think of Samuel Pepys. Or other such portly gentleman in wigs.

Drunk in ale-houses and taverns of the early 18th Century by porters who carried luggage and goods throughout London.

Porter quenched the thirst of the Industrial Revolution apparently.

The father of Stout; without it there’d be none of todays Guinness or Murphy’s.

This whitechapel porter was like brown beer. “Ruby” makes it sounder richer than it is. But i liked it. And I like the “stout” looking bottle too. Which is why I’ve pictured it here.

I’m gonna be drinking lots of different beers, ales, stouts lagers, meads, pilsners, bocks, porters in the next months. Not to get pissed. But to enjoy. And write about here.

A little project to savour.

£1.45 for 500 ml. 5.2%