Written by A sense of humour failure is imminent. For the previous million days in a row (or so it feels) I’ve dragged myself out of bed at first light to see how things are. Every day it has been the same old story, windy. No, that’s not strictly true – very, very windy. There is a deep weariness building up as each day goes by that compliments perfectly the frustration I’m feeling at not getting the conditions that I crave.
It’s bluebell season and I have my eye on a particular patch of woodland. I’ve pre-visualised the image that I want, but I need particular atmospheric conditions to get it. One of which is no wind. Experience has taught me that a wind-free period can often be experienced before sunrise and for a short while afterwards, and that is what I’ve been living in hope of and dragging myself out of bed for.
The fact that I know with each passing day my chances of ‘getting the shot’ lessens doesn’t help. It won’t be long before carpets of bluebells will begin rapidly fading away, succumbing to the seasonal progression that makes nature photography so interesting. I can’t help feeling that every blustery morning is a missed opportunity and another shovel full of coal heaped onto the fires of my frustration. But there is nothing that I can do about it. Weather-wise it’s been a very atypical year so far, so I shouldn’t really be surprised to be experiencing Mad-March winds in May.
Finally it happened – no sign of any wind.
Within minutes of rising I was driving along empty roads and disturbing bleary-eyed sheep. I had no time for eating or washing, they would take up precious minutes and I can sort out such niceties on my return. On location, things weren’t quite as I would have liked, but I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity that I had and quickly set to work.
Time was short and getting shorter by the second. I was racing against the wind. My first warning sign was a shaft of bright sunshine slicing through the bluebells. My second was a gentle breeze that tickled my cheek. Within 15 minutes of sunrise the wind was back and building fast, destroying the tranquillity that I’d been enjoying. I took what pictures I could before I waved a white flag of defeat and headed home for breakfast.
As for my dream shot, that will now have to wait until next year.
This occasional blog is a tasty serving of nature and wildlife photography, with a side dish of my experiences out in the field and lightly seasoned with any random thoughts that occur to me along the way.
Yellow Peril
2011 2 Comments
Daffodils = spring, spring = daffodils. Or so it seems. Maybe it’s something to do with bright yellow blooms catching the eye after a drab winter. Maybe it’s because that upon appearing they lift the spirit and let us know that better weather is just around the corner. Maybe they are alien life-forms intent on bending us to their will and taking over the world. Whatever it is, there seems to be more and more of them every year.
I sympathise with the often noble aspirations of guerrilla gardeners, bringing life into the concrete jungle where they can. But surely, there must be limits. Artificially beautifying an area is nothing new. In the late 1800’s railway stations along the North York Moors’ Esk Valley Line were liberally planted up with the yellow peril, from Middlesbrough to Danby, as part of a marketing exercise, with plans to plant all the way to Whitby and call it “The Daffodil Line”. The name was dropped, but amazingly a lot of daffodils still remain. And of course, there is the annual “Britain in Bloom” competition.
I’ve reluctantly accepted daffodils surreptitiously planted along rural grass verges as an extension of the guerrilla’s mindset. Despite how out of place they often look. But when out recently on an early morning foray, exploring the rolling North York Moors, I came across a bunch of gaudy and over-the-top-yellow daffodils that had been planted up high amongst heather. No doubt this act of horticultural self-expression was well intentioned, but it’s so misguided. If yellow was what the planter wanted to see they only had to look around. Not more than ten paces away was a small broom shrub with its bright yellow flowers bursting forth.
Folk seem to be mindlessly driven to bring their gardens into the countryside, when it would be so much better for us all if they let a little of the countryside into their gardens instead.