Hoods and street photography

I don't like hoods. I don't like the feeling of my face being hemmed in. I especially don't like having only a front-facing view (tunnel-vision so to speak) and not being able to see what is going on - movement at least - to the left and right of me. 

When out and about, good peripheral vision is surely a vital thing to possess, so that one cannot be caught unawares, either by people, traffic or street furniture. Even without a hood, I am constantly looking about and checking where I'm going, and who is on the edge of my eyesight. I can't afford to trip up and fall. Nor do I want to collide with someone and hurt them.

The chances of a mishap seem to have greatly increased in recent years. So many people think they own the pavement or pedestrian area (the concept of 'a pedestrian' must elude them; perhaps it's not taught in schools any more). I'm thinking of kids (or childish adults) on a scooter or bike, or an idiot staring at their phone screen while they walk forwards (effectively deaf as well as blind, because they have their earbuds or headphones in place), or a selfish jogger. But young women with babies in buggies are not always blameless. A too-close encounter with any of these could be upsetting. And, of course, I would be blamed and badmouthed - even if they walked into me, and I was shaken up or injured. 

I particularly want to avoid anyone intent on street robbery or some other harm; beggars as well. 

So I need to have 180-degree vision. And that rules out a deep hood. 

There's also something else. I want people to see my face. I don't want to hide. I think I am far likelier to be treated as a human being if I'm not buried in the shadow of a hood. 

So I'm really happy with hats as an alternative. They give presence, and add height. I walk taller and more confidently in a hat, especially my very latest, but I have others. A good chin-strap stops the hat blowing off in the wind. Combined with a turned-up coat collar, a hat confers the same feeling of warmth and protection from the elements as a hood provides. Furthermore, a hat provides the same psychological benefit as a hood - by which I mean the comforting sensation of having a roof over one's head. 

But a hat doesn't shut the world out. I've long suspected that many people you see around in hoods are rather wobbly about contact with strangers. They might even be afraid of meeting anybody but their similarly-hooded friends. I think that's so sad. 

Then of course there are furtive hood-wearers of the criminal kind who need to keep their faces hidden. They are the ones who give hoods a really bad name. 

Mind you, in a cold arctic gale, none of the above applies. The weather determines what to wear: hoods are going to be necessary if out in driving snow. 

Getting back to what I said above, about staying alert to whatever is happening around one and not relying on only a narrow forward view, I consider this should apply in particular to street photography. People (not necessarily the subject) do sometimes get seriously annoyed when a person with a camera is snatching pictures. They may object sufficiently to harass the photographer, and one needs to see that coming. Then again, most modern cameras likely to be used for quick in-and-out street photography will cost a lot, and are worth stealing. One needs to spot potential muggers before they close in. This is not so much about wearing hoods as squinting into a viewfinder, with the other eye idle or closed. That effectively renders the photographer blind while taking the shot. Most unwise. Especially unwise for a woman. The better alternative is to use the camera's rear monitor at waist level, or even a film TLR (these are starting to reappear in shops). 

It helps if one can look 'official'. A student getting material for a project probably has a licence to grab shots that others wouldn't get away with. So might an obvious professional of some kind. I personally wouldn't indulge in anything fraudulent, but - this is tongue-in-cheek - wearing a hat with a card stuck in the band above the brim with 'PRESS' typed on it, might be a plan!

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I'm on Wikipedia!

Any search on Google or elsewhere using my name will throw up numerous hits - my Blog and my Flickr photos of course, but also some other references and credits. I suppose that will be true for anyone who has been active on the Internet for a while - and I started the Blog, and joined Flickr, way back in February 2009, sixteen years ago. So it's scarcely any surprise that a search for me will produce so much, even though I'm certainly not famous, and have never been in the news. 

But one thing eluded me, something I rather wanted. That's a mention in Wikipedia, the online encyclopaedia. I'd never expect a full article devoted to - say - my miraculous birth and extraordinary upbringing, my exciting career, and my adventurous retirement. No; something much more modest would do, so long as I was cited as a serious source on some serious topic.

Now I have been! In fact since 2021. 

Somebody has listed me as an impeccable source of information on the Wester Pipe Railway in Caithness.

Look at this:

OK, it's only a technical article on an oil pipeline assembling facility, but it references one of my Blog posts. A post called The Long Pipe, published on 4 July 2019. You can if interested look it up.

I might add that I went back in September 2022 for another look at this pipeline railway, which runs into the sea south of Keiss. It wasn't active at that time, and seemed to be mostly mothballed, although some kind of work was going on to renew the supports for the double-track underneath the road bridge on the A99. A few pictures will reveal the state of play in autumn 2022.

The plaque on the road bridge had been refreshed.

And (taken from official articles and pamphlets) these pictures show what happens at the sea end of the railway, when the line is active. 

No doubt that huge towhead, when not drawing a length of pipeline into the sea here, is put to work elsewhere in the world.

Well, there you are. Fame at last. (Though as we all know, fame costs...) I'm up in the area in late May. I will definitely return to see what's happening then. Did you know that I possess a yellow hard hat? I'll take it on holiday, just in case the guys invite me to look at the fabrication yards at either end. Now that would be a memorable experience!

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President Trump's menacing signature

Glancing at the BBC News app, I started reading an article about President Trump's first Executive Orders, and there was a picture of him signing one of these Orders.

He was using a big marker pen, so the signature would naturally be big also. Even so, that's a very striking signature. Was it his normal signature? I looked him up on Wikipedia, which often shows the typical signature of well-known people:

It is indeed his normal signature. I wonder what it says about him? For me, these words come to mind at once: wilful, determined, aggressive, impatient, intimidating, uncompromising, ruthless, vindictive, relentless. It's the signature of a man who wants to appear overwhelmingly vigorous and strong - and a formidable and dangerous person to mess with. 

I am not applying any tests drawn from 'graphology', a thing once taken seriously but now rightly discredited as a way to assess 'character' or 'true personality'. Rather, I'm considering the actual physical hand-movements President Trump would have to make in order to write like this. It would be a series of highly-controlled stabbing thrusts, some short, some long; and no trailing off into artistic twiddles or other whimsical meanderings. Certainly, it's the signature of a man who can hold a pen firmly, and is not the vague scrawl of a weak and feeble hand. To compare, I looked up Ex-President Biden's typical signature on Wikipedia, and I think it does reveal him to be a tired old man:

Perhaps the thing President Trump most wants to convey, with the way he signs things, is that he's still a force, and not a man who is being pulled down by old age, as Ex-President Biden clearly was. 

I am sure he must be afraid of encroaching senility, diminishment as a man, and fearful of what will happen when he begins to lose his grasp of events, and with it his grip on power. 

He'll be seventy-nine in June. Once eighty, damaging comparisons with 'Sleepy Joe Biden' are bound to be made, and younger contenders will sense weakness, and start to position themselves. So he hasn't really got all that long to make his mark: maybe only a year and a half to achieve a lasting legacy. Meanwhile, he needs to employ every trick he can to convince his followers that he is robustly in charge, and remains a man to reckon with. So even signatures matter.

I wonder if he consciously and deliberately developed this very sharp, spiky signature for business situations, and then after that, adopted it for his political career, where a particularly 'strong' signature would be an impressive asset.  

Does he employ it in all circumstances? Imagine receiving a Christmas or birthday card from him, signed in this way. Or a love-letter! I know what I would think.

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Brownsea Island - natural beauty and red squirrels

The main reason I'd wanted to visit Brownsea Island was because it was a stronghold of the red squirrel - our native squirrel - in southern England. 

I'd never actually seen a red squirrel in the flesh. Grey squirrels yes - thousands of them; a ubiquitous and vigorous import that had ousted the poor red squirrel from most habitats. I didn't regard grey squirrels as villains, just naturally better at finding food and shelter and breeding successfully, and because of these strengths they had got the upper hand. It's just Nature's way. Grey squirrels were everywhere. Why, they gambolled daily in the trees at the bottom of my garden, ran along my fences, and searched for caches of nuts on my lawns. They even came indoors, as this 2020 poster for a TV comedy show testifies (click on it to enlarge):

But the pretty red squirrels hadn't entirely thrown in the towel. They still ducked and dived here and there. There were some living on the Isle of Wight, although I'd never seen any when over there. There were some in Northumberland, and when driving up the River Breamish valley in 2013, I saw warning signs telling me to watch out for red squirrels. But none showed. 

Plenty were said to lurk in the pine forests of the Scottish Highlands. And indeed, when I visited Alladale in 2022 - a wild estate west of Bonar Bridge - there had been very similar road signs telling me to watch out for red squirrels: 

This looked promising. It was definitely the right kind of location. The right kind of trees. I expected to see every branch sagging with the weight of little red bodies, and the road practically carpeted with the creatures. It was not so. Nary one did I see. Quite possibly they were there all right, watching me in their hundreds (or even thousands) from high tree-tops, cunningly hidden and sniggering with glee, ready to pelt me with larch twigs and pine husks if I came too close. But I departed without a single glimpse of their tufty red ears. 

Such disappointments could have left me bitter and twisted. Or I could have sunk into deep melancholia. But the Melfords are made of sterner stuff than most mortals, so I remained hopeful. After all, there was always Brownsea Island! I was confident that Brownsea Island would be visibly rammed with them. I would be tripping over them at every turn. They'd be constantly at my elbow - as in that comedy show poster - hoping to snatch my sandwich or lick my ice cream, as pesky as hungry seagulls. And for the sake of having some great pictures, I was going to be cool about that kind of naughtiness. Especially if they posed for a series of shots afterwards, and went through an entire dance routine in little top hats.

I should emphasise that Brownsea Island was primarily a nature reserve, a nationally important site for the scientific study of wild creatures and plants. It was not all about red squirrels. The island's diverse natural history was given a special exhibition of its own. I had a good look at it. Habitats included woodland, grassland, a little heathland, beaches, crumbling cliffs, the odd pond, and some salt marshes. I'd thought there might be extensive areas of marsh, and as a precaution I'd come with my anti-midge head-net in my bag, ready to repel those annoying pests. But it wasn't needed. 

Here's sample of what was covered by the exhibition:

Uh-oh. Ants, the sort that bite. Presumably they would attack, or at least attempt to chivvy away, anything in their path. So sitting down on a tree stump to eat a snack while contemplating a serene Harbour view wouldn't be a good idea! Nor would sleeping on the ground overnight under canvas. I wondered whether the boy scouts mentioned in the last post had suffered badly from ant bites. Or their modern counterparts. I did in fact spot some ants, scurrying purposefully. They seemed pretty big (for British ants):

Of course, the famous and super-attractive red squirrels were very much to the fore:

What an amazing picture of a leaping red squirrel! According to the credit on the 'welcome' poster, it was taken by wildlife photographer Mark Medcalf. Definitely beyond my own abilities! 

There was also a video of a very young red squirrel in its nest. How sweet. The woman in the upper shot watched it enthralled. A shame that her husband found his phone more interesting!

Having taken all this in, I set off to enjoy the beauties of the island. The paths were easy to follow, and although there were quite a number of people wandering about, it was easy to keep them at a distance and enjoy the peacefulness and the views. Brownsea Island was basically an elevated rolling wooded plateau with steep coastal cliffs on the south and west sides. I planned a clockwise circuit, keeping mostly to the coastal fringe, although I'd have to use an inland track for the final stage back to the 'village' and then the return ferry to Poole Quay, as the north-side nature reserve for rare birds was out of bounds.  

The interior of the island covered many acres, and on the whole was devoid of visitors, who mostly tended to do a coast-hugging circuit like my own, if they went beyond the 'village' at all. Here are some interior views. Lush meadows in places; otherwise ferny, with abundant trees:

Before stepping forth in earnest, I had a look at the island church, which was set apart from the 'village', up on a hillock. It was a very Victorian affair, with each successive owner of the island leaving a memorial inside, one of them grandiose. 

As you can see, I gave the church interior serious study. In fact, I gave it nearly all my attention, hardly looking at the churchyard, or exploring the immediate surroundings. What a mistake!

With time steadily ticking on, I now headed for the south coast. The sun was out, and it was turning into a lovely day, although it clouded over now and then. I wanted views of Poole Harbour and its islands, and of Purbeck beyond. I got them.

To the east was the entrance to Poole Harbour. This was the northern tip of Studland Heath, with the very sandy Beach hidden behind the trees. 

South-east on the horizon were the Old Harry Rocks - a group of chalk stacks. Swanage lay around the point.

Looking southward now, through the trees at the edge of the cliff. Calm waters, clear enough to see the sand underwater.

There, close by, was Furzey Island, with its oil well and its pier for exporting the oil to the mainland.

Most of the buildings still standing on Brownsea Island clustered near the 'village', but there were a two houses in the trees on the south coast of the island. One was being done up as a bothy. What a great view it had.

The clifftop path was very pleasant indeed. Especially so when the sun shone. Beyond the Outdoor Centre (see the previous post), there were glimpses of other islands, and boats lazily at anchor, or speeding off somewhere.

I found the way to the beach where the pottery factory had once stood. It was a failed enterprise, and was pulled down long ago. But the beach was still littered with pottery fragments. The owner's ambition had been to produce high-class china, but the clay on the island was only suitable for ordinary household waste pipes.

A pier was built to take the pottery away - now rickety, and visited only by private yachts and boats at their own risk. 

The path had become more of a forest track. It had once led to Maryland, where cottages were built for the workers. All gone now; they fell into disrepair, became dangerous, and were demolished for safety reasons. But when lived in, their inhabitants considered themselves fortunate. 

It was by now mid-afternoon, and I began to think about how long I might have left before I'd have to take the ferry back to Poole Quay. A nagging inward voice said 'Start back now: cut inland, and head straight for the village - you won't be able to run if you need to hurry!' But another said 'You can't turn back before you've seen everything in the west part of the island'. I listened to the second voice. But there was something else to think about. A couple of people I'd bumped into had mentioned that red squirrels had been seen behind the church. Well, that meant taking a detour to get some souvenir shots of the creatures I'd come to see. And detours use up precious time. Ah, I'd be all right. My right knee was still good. Surely I could see everything I wanted to? 

Next, I arrived at a mindfulness and calming trail in Cambridge Wood. What was this all about? 

 

The trail was meant to be followed slowly, allowing one to experience green growing things through the senses, and be refreshed accordingly. There were a number of boards which gave directions how to do so, such as this one:

I'm sure that leaning against the tree was OK as well! (By now I could have done with a sit-down somewhere)

Here are other boards:

Well, I did close my eyes and I did listen. Did I hear the scampering of red squirrels, or their chirps and chatter? I did not. I looked up. 

They must be up every tree, keeping still and silent, looking down at me and no doubt mocking my efforts to see them. Maybe pulling faces and mooning. The little beasts. 

Near the above board was a stout swing on which one could rest and meditate. 

There was a girl on it, and we got talking about the island and how nice it was. She kindly gave up the swing to me, and I had a three-minute rest, all I would allow myself. Getting on my feet again, the girl's friend came into view. She was less athletic, and was lagging behind. We had a chat too. Then I was off down the remainder of the calmness trail, and then out onto a broader, straight and well-surfaced track that led back to the 'village'. However, I still had the length of the island to walk before I got there, plus that detour to check out those red squirrels behind the church.

The track wasn't very interesting, and questions started to form in my mind as I walked along. When was my car parking session back at Poole Quay going to expire? Which hourly return ferry would I need to catch? Could I catch it? I slowly did the calculations, and then to my horror saw that I had only half an hour left in which to rush back to the village and catch the ferry boat I needed. If I missed it, I'd be well overdue at the car park, and in line for a thumping penalty notice! Now that would spoil the whole day.

This made me walk a lot more briskly. I ignored the protests from my right knee. I had to get that ferry! As the minutes passed, it became clear that if I could keep up this cracking pace, I should be all right. But then another thought: no time for a detour to see those red squirrels behind the church! Damn. But there was nothing to be done about it. 

I reached the village with five minutes to spare, and joined the boarding queue. 

The queue was very long. But amazingly the ferry boat was big enough to take us all. While shuffling forward, I had ample time to contemplate Sandbanks and its 'multi-millionaire' homes, just across the water. I had an even better view once were under way.

The return ferry was packed. But I got a seat next to two young girls who were showing off the videos they'd each taken with their phones. One of them told me she'd seen the red squirrels behind the church, and had a video of them. Oh, could I see it? Well, it was amazing. She'd concentrated on one squirrel in particular, and the creature - which was playing on a log - had let her get really close. It was astonishingly good footage. But of course I can't show it here. 

Oh well. I'll just have to go back to Brownsea Island and make seeing the red squirrels my number one priority (apart from lunch). Unfinished business, then!

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