Meanderings on a long journey south...

It was a pretty grim journey back to Sussex, 7am to 7.30 pm with stops of course, including lunch with my sister in Lancashire. There were glimpses of the sun, but mostly it was drear with lots of spray. All the huge lorries in Britain chose the M6 today I think.

Around Birmingham was inevitably horrible and the acres of pylons drive me to distraction. We put up with these monstrosities striding all over the countryside yet raise a great hullaballoo about quite elegant wind turbines. Sheenagh Pugh, Welsh poet, describes wind turbines as 'that sudden grace on the skyline' .....

Eat your heart out, Donald Trump.

[ok, long travel leaves me bolshie!]

Wind Farm Angels

I'll never forget my first sighting:
one alone, on a distant hill
- they prefer hills. There was no wind
that day, none at all, and it stood
quite still. Its top arm, pointing
at the sky, blended into its body:
it was just this tall streak of white.
The two other arms stretched out
left and right, like the statue of Christ
in Rio harbour. That was how I knew
it was an angel. That, and the calm
that came off it. It didn't speak
or make a move: it just was,
intensely, and I felt better for it,
which is what they do, right?

After that, I looked out for them,
that sudden grace on the skyline,
whenever there seemed no point
in anything.

extract from Sheenagh Pugh