Not every morning is a pleasure and the notebook doesn't pretend this one were. Blowy, rain on and off, the kind of day where you take your photographs between showers and don't linger — the notebook's own words, and they'll stand. The track off New Hey Road at Outlane, heading up toward the golf course, is exposed enough in fair weather; in a wet October blow it's a place you conduct business briskly and leave.
Left trainer, white gone grey, laces tied. Condition poor, the upper split at the little toe side, which is where trainers go first — I could have told you that in 2022 and twenty-odd trainers since have only confirmed it. Two photographs, both came out, which given the conditions I'd call a professional result.
And then the flask, which gets an entry I respect the notebook for making: conditions fair only, as I'd not screwed the cup down proper and lost some heat, which were my own fault and I noted it as such. The register works because it's honest, and it's only honest if it's honest about me an' all. A man who blames his flask on a windy day will end up blaming his camera, and then his district, and then he's not keeping a record any more, he's keeping excuses. So: my fault, some heat lost, noted then, repeated now. Home by half eleven and glad of it, the notebook finishes, and I remember the gladness. Some finds you sit with. Number 232 I logged, saluted in a manner of speaking, and left on its hill in the rain.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.