Bob the Sailor

Legend has it that a siren lives in this rock puddle. There have been a few times when I've thought to hear a faint call, but I've always managed to dismiss it as a trick of the wind. It's not good to let your imagination get the better of you here. The sea looks so calm - white and fluffy and inviting. There's green grass yonder, tantalisingly close, just a short voyage away. That same legend has it that these engravings are the marks of sailors who succumbed to the lure of the siren. I've often wondered about my namesake and what happened to him.

The day started in brilliant sunshine (although not for most, I know) and ended in rain. In between, I spent the morning on the moor with my camera, the afternoon in the Dales on my bike, and the evening in the city around my writing. I decided to run with my momentum. The sun was actually warm this afternoon. The smell of renewal was hanging heavy in the air. You have to breathe that in while you can and let it feed you. Sometimes it's a shame to have to finally fall into bed. You know you're going to wake up into a very different kind of day, and a different kind of head.