Crumbling here and there
Silent, still in the landscape.
Yet speaking of change.
Migrating.
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18 Jun 2013
More walking
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Crumbling
Yesterday I walked up to the limekiln and back across the moor. For a while I thought I would never do this walk again. Knees ! Well, one knee.
The osteoarthritis was sudden and painful. I could just about get round the supermarket if I had a trolley to lean on. No more long rambles round Falkland. No more days out on the hills. Not a lot of point in holidays either or visits to exhibitions or a lot of other things.
With no walking I had to learn to photograph in a different way. I drove around a lot looking for lay-bys and field gates. More time was spent photographing birds from the kitchen and the car. My garden got a makeover to encourage butterflies and bees. I treated myself to a macro lens and, after a bit, a new camera.
Last September I had a knee replacement. Changes again. We all have to adapt as we get older.
I sat at the limekiln and thought how busy the moor used to be. Workers digging limestone., the kiln at work, waggons and horses, noise and bustle. The scars are still there. Now the limekiln sits alone. Listening to the wind. Watching the birds and butterflies and the passing walkers. Crumbling a bit as we all do. Eventually.
The osteoarthritis was sudden and painful. I could just about get round the supermarket if I had a trolley to lean on. No more long rambles round Falkland. No more days out on the hills. Not a lot of point in holidays either or visits to exhibitions or a lot of other things.
With no walking I had to learn to photograph in a different way. I drove around a lot looking for lay-bys and field gates. More time was spent photographing birds from the kitchen and the car. My garden got a makeover to encourage butterflies and bees. I treated myself to a macro lens and, after a bit, a new camera.
Last September I had a knee replacement. Changes again. We all have to adapt as we get older.
I sat at the limekiln and thought how busy the moor used to be. Workers digging limestone., the kiln at work, waggons and horses, noise and bustle. The scars are still there. Now the limekiln sits alone. Listening to the wind. Watching the birds and butterflies and the passing walkers. Crumbling a bit as we all do. Eventually.
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