who, what, where?
28/03/08
Memory is a funny thing, something we mostly take for
granted especially in this day and age of digital
photography, instant communication and online instant
sharing of photo's and videos. We all experience how
music can often trigger memories, for me The Pixies
are forever entwined with days traveling round
Cornwall looking for surf or likely skate spots and
Afrikaa Bambata's planet rock will always remind me
of younger days spent painting little dungeons and
dragons figures in the house in Netherhay. Just the
first couple of bars of a tune is all it takes to
bring back distant memories as if they occurred
yesterday.
What I often forget however is that smells can do the same. I was walking along a stretch of the upper Wylye the other day and well, it just smelt of spring. Hard to describe the smell as it was something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, perhaps as much as anything it's the smell of optimism, of the promise of the summer sun, days on the river bank, bbq's and lazy evenings. Just that faint smell on the breeze is all it takes to be all geed up, willing the winter to finally be over.
It made me think a bit more about the smells of my childhood and I came up with a relatively short list; freshly baked bread at home, breakfast frying at my grannies cottage in Hertfordshire, cut grass, Hay on a hot summers day, mud (just in general although this one covers thousands of different scenarios). I know, it all seems like a rural idyl, very darling buds of may, but the smells that really bring back memories of growing up for me are somewhat grittier. The faintest whiff of petrol, diesel or grease and I'm yanked back through time to sedgemoor plant hire, able tool hire, yph, the big barn at the Yews and Pete's tractor shed. With the places come names and faces; Dick Colbourne, Frank Biddlecombe, Phillip Forsey, Ralph (who I've only ever met once in my life when he wasn't slightly covered in oil) and countless others. Most of all however, there was always dad. Thanks old boy, you didn't do half bad :)
What I often forget however is that smells can do the same. I was walking along a stretch of the upper Wylye the other day and well, it just smelt of spring. Hard to describe the smell as it was something that I couldn't quite put my finger on, perhaps as much as anything it's the smell of optimism, of the promise of the summer sun, days on the river bank, bbq's and lazy evenings. Just that faint smell on the breeze is all it takes to be all geed up, willing the winter to finally be over.
It made me think a bit more about the smells of my childhood and I came up with a relatively short list; freshly baked bread at home, breakfast frying at my grannies cottage in Hertfordshire, cut grass, Hay on a hot summers day, mud (just in general although this one covers thousands of different scenarios). I know, it all seems like a rural idyl, very darling buds of may, but the smells that really bring back memories of growing up for me are somewhat grittier. The faintest whiff of petrol, diesel or grease and I'm yanked back through time to sedgemoor plant hire, able tool hire, yph, the big barn at the Yews and Pete's tractor shed. With the places come names and faces; Dick Colbourne, Frank Biddlecombe, Phillip Forsey, Ralph (who I've only ever met once in my life when he wasn't slightly covered in oil) and countless others. Most of all however, there was always dad. Thanks old boy, you didn't do half bad :)
The inconsequential angler
10/03/08
Sometimes I wonder why I ramble on and on here. I
don't get any financial reward (infact I was trying
out google ads and have made a sum total of $2.74 in
the last 2 months I guess I'm not retiring any day
soon), I don't have sponsors knocking on my door
offering me free stuff, I don't have hordes of
fishing groupies (does such a thing exist?) and I'm
still no closer to writing for print.
I may not be as important, recognised or lofty as some who write but I suppose I am a part of a growing movement of amateur (some would add, rank) writers using the internet as a vehicle for their meandering thoughts. I know that people read this at least as I still get thousands of unique visitors each month and I know for a fact that I don't have that many family members with internet connections.
Maybe I write as it's cheaper than a therapist?
The storm that wasn't is raging away outside as I write this, to be honest it is a bit windy, there's the odd branch on the roads but we seriously didn't need the emergency, panic, chaos, danger-will-robinson warnings that we have received over the weekend. The Nadder is once more a raging chocolate torrent today, swelled by downpours, hard to believe that there are only a few weeks to go to the start of the trout season. I'm starting to get itchy feet, waiting not-so-patiently for the clocks to change, the weather to warm and to allow the Nadder to weave it's magic through my soul for another summer.
I'll leave you with the view from my office.
I may not be as important, recognised or lofty as some who write but I suppose I am a part of a growing movement of amateur (some would add, rank) writers using the internet as a vehicle for their meandering thoughts. I know that people read this at least as I still get thousands of unique visitors each month and I know for a fact that I don't have that many family members with internet connections.
Maybe I write as it's cheaper than a therapist?
The storm that wasn't is raging away outside as I write this, to be honest it is a bit windy, there's the odd branch on the roads but we seriously didn't need the emergency, panic, chaos, danger-will-robinson warnings that we have received over the weekend. The Nadder is once more a raging chocolate torrent today, swelled by downpours, hard to believe that there are only a few weeks to go to the start of the trout season. I'm starting to get itchy feet, waiting not-so-patiently for the clocks to change, the weather to warm and to allow the Nadder to weave it's magic through my soul for another summer.
I'll leave you with the view from my office.