You get the hum of the M62 the whole time down below Scammonden Bridge, which some would mind. I don't. The notebook records that opinion and I hold it still — a steady hum is company of a sort, and the path down near the water there has always felt more peaceful for the motorway above it rather than less, though I accept that reads odd written down.
Right boot, black, rubber sole, laces in and double-knotted — the second double knot of the year, the first being the Castle Hill trainer in March, and I only know that because I've just read the whole year through. On the day I'll not have made the connection and the book doesn't make it either. It makes it now, for whatever it's worth, which is likely nowt. Two double knots in a year is a coincidence, not a pattern, and I know the difference because I've a folder at home that exists entirely to teach me the difference.
Blustery, with showers moving through fast, and the entry says I got the photographs in between two of them, which is Scammonden weather all over — it doesn't rain there so much as take runs at you. Flask conditions fair. The wind took the heat off the tea quicker than I'd like, and I didn't get the stool out, there being no sense unfolding furniture in weather that wants it back. A brisk, workmanlike entry. Number 252, noted between showers, photographed between showers, and home before the third one landed, or so I'd like to remember it. The book only vouches for the first two.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.