Oh I dream of the days that are gone.

How many car drivers did Mr Briton upset by riding in from Kenn and causing them to hang behind him. Unable to pass on the twisty road before the motorway caused a bit of 'corner straightening' I wonder.
He used to come into Clevedon almost every day to pick up the unsold remains from the greengrocers shop in Old Church road and take it back to Kenn [to boil down?] to feed to his pig and hens.
Quickly names by my brother Harry as 'The Ancient Briton' I got several pictures of him over the years. He got so old that he couldn't actually ride his bicycle with the sidecar attachment and settled for pushing it. Only finally giving up his journeying when the greengrocers shop closed.
To the relief of the many car drivers using the road.

This cheeky little gull was not worried about me in the least.
I was rather surprised that it didn't fly away when I tried to take a picture while I was waiting for the steam train to pass through at Weston.

Will we ever see swallows in such numbers as this again?
I doubt it. These pictures were taken back in the 60's with my Agiflex 111 camera probably on 50 ASA Adox film.
Using Beutler's developer it gave an extra fine grain negative.
I can still remember Mrs Long pointing them out to me.
Their chattetring was quite loud and I expect they were gathering for their flight back to Africa.

The side track to the fields in the track-way to the moor-grounds in the moors towards Yatton.

A series of pictures of Christ Church taken from the motorway bridge in Court Lane. It's surprising how  much the 'lift' you get in the height above the surrounding fields helps to clear a pathway for the camera.

Came upon a series of  shots  taken from the motor-way bridge at Court Lane showing mist across the moors.
Realised then what a perfect shot they made to back up Aunt Lizzies saying "Mist of the moor
Brings sunshine to the door"
Always worked out 100% true

A Country Rhapsody

One day I walked in a country lane;

the morning opening all around me.
I smelt the garlic of wild ramson plants;
I saw the primroses growing in the hedge.

Fox cubs played in the shadow of an oak
that grew close, in a nearby field.
The vixen's rank smell, assailed my nostrils
from the spot where she watched over them.

A small spring, gurgled and splashed as it
fed a rivulet: which ran along the path side;
teasing and swaying at the frog's spawn
tacked to the watercress which grew in bunches.

Birds drank at the shallow pools and bathed
in the waters at the edges; minnows
coasted up and down looking for food,
a stray midge larva, or a water flea perhaps.

In the hedge bank, rabbits had burrowed;
and the baby ones, for the first time, crept out
only to hurry back in fright, at the noise
of my booted feet as I went past.

This demi-paradise was not to last;
the lure of money raised its head.
Desirable residences to be built
so let us pipe the spring, culvert the rivulet.

We'll bulldoze out the bank, and fell the oak.
The narrow lane becomes a road;
my country paradise is gone, and now
the lane, is just another road in town.

Ben Grader 2002

One written in the early days of retirement