In 2007, I went walking with 2 good friends in the Yorkshire Dales around Ingleborough.
The air was heavy with rain that never quite broke, shot through with sunshine that never really came out to play, and just the right temperature to keep you walking at a mile-devouring trot.
We walked up hill and down valley, up to the top of Ingleborough, glorying in the view down to Ribblehead Viaduct far, far below (look – we were up there) and marvelling how completely unsuited to the environment we were with our puny arms and puny legs, clumsy and uncoordinated. I’m saying this chiefly because I remember falling over just after the following photo was taken – one of those undignified sprawls that has even the goats rolling around, eyes streaming.
Somewhere up Ingleborough, I lost my notebook.
(Maybe you can see how).
Then, three months later, my hard-drive crashed just before a much-delayed data backup, and I lost all but four of the the 100+ photos I took. These are two of them: the others are here and here. Four photos and a few scraps of memory, like wisps of sheep wool on barbed wire.
It’s shocking how much of life is like that.
“Like wisps of sheep wool on barbed wire.”
Well said.
Ta, “Tarquin”.
S’no good hiding from me, Person That I Know Well. Not that you’re really trying, of course. Although you wouldn’t be the first if you were. (Which reminds me – Hi Mum!)
I originally read “A Wisp of the Daleks”.
I am now imagining fleece-covered Daleks catching their wool on barbed wire as they move to invade North Ronaldsay. The seaweed-eating local sheep just sit by on the rocky shore, shaking their heads and snorting.
I’ll see if I can pitch it to Steven Moffat, shall I?
(Those sheep are *bloody* scary, has to be said. And the way the Orkney wildlife just…looks at you. Very eerie).
So, some hideous caprine-Dalek hybrid genetic experiment? *scribbles outline*
Do not joke about pitching ideas to Steven Moffat. That’s like joking about pitching to Joss Whedon. It is a dream that cannot, should not be mocked. (In my field, it’s like saying you’ll submit your next paper to Science or Nature.)
But yeah, hybrid Daleks! Of course I was thinking more ovine than caprine, pedantic taxonomy geek that I am, but hey, if it makes wool, it’ll do.
They could be the result of a horrifying experiment to breed a less creative-thinking Dalek race, like the Manhattan story but in reverse — or it could just be an evil plot to infiltrate honest British flocks in a bid to take over from the inside.
No doubt you’ll need a scientific consultant to develop the genetic engineering aspect of the story; please allow me to offer my services. I can list my credentials if you’d like, they are suitably impressive. I’ll even get you a letter of recommendation from the president of the American Society for Microbiology (who coincidentally happens to be my boss).
Brag, moi? Never, mon capitaine. Just making sure that, the day you have your big break in tv screenplay writing, you know I’m the go-to person for the sci consult job.
Or how about pitching the same idea to Steven Moffat AND Joss Whedon, and playing them off against each other?
“I’ll meet his bid and raise it a signed Angel box-set! Hand-delivered by Summer Glau!!”
“I’ll set my statues on you.”
etc.
Ovine, caprine, bovine, porcine, ovaltine, whatever. *waves hand* I’m an ARTISTE, I care not for tawdry factual nomeclaturalities. Away with you.
But come back when I get my own series. I have a job for you.
Your landscape just looks so much more accessible than ours. I have to scramble straight up, but the views are nice from there, if not as long as yours.
It’s true, the Dales take a lot longer to get higher. A wee bit different to, say, tackling an Apennine ridge.
But I’d rather be in Italy. Every time.
oh, this one made me sad.
Don’t be sad, Lan.
Be determined to cherish.