I love the joy of 'being in the moment' with my camera.
We visit Anglesey Abbey for lunch on the way home from Norfolk and the bright winter sun lights up the gardens spectacularly. Shapes, forms, textures and patterns spin before my eyes in rich kaleidoscopic colour.
It really doesn't have to be summer to see the beauty in nature!
It's difficult to say much about the football.
Sheik Mansour bin Zayed al-Nahyan has invested well over £1.3 billion in Manchester City since he took over ownership in 2018. Undoubtedly, his funding has helped create one of the most gifted football teams in history and Sergio Aguero's hat-trick on Sunday is richly deserved. However, with that level of financial clout it hardly seems a level-playing field.
For me the real story of the game is not the football but my son's reaction to a complete evisceration of his beloved Villa. I'm so proud of the young man.
Ben is learning disabled. He's nearly thirty four but with a mental age probably around five or six. Come half-time we're four goals down with the Villa goal serving as little more than target practice for a rampant City. I see Ben's shoulders begin to shake and tears of frustration start to form in his eyes as we make our way up the steps to the concourse.
A bottle of Zero coke and a generous portion of chips later he's beginning to calm down. 'Time to go, do you think, Ben?' He nods. 'Yes, dad'. He could have chosen to cry and bawl but no - he's putting on his brave face. We'll be back again at Villa Park soon and he'll be cheering with the best. My son, my hero.
Our expedition this week is to Newport - not in Wales, but just over the border from us in Shropshire. We catch it on a bleak, grey January afternoon.
Fittingly, there are roadworks in progress which necessitate us parking-up a little outside town. We travel the remainder of the way on 'Shanks' Pony', dragged behind an increasingly muscular flat-coated retriever who, sensing bones in the offing, sets a brisk pace.
We reach the grounds of St Nicholas Church in good time for my dear wife to decamp in search of the quilting shop over the way. I'm left seated on the 'Happy to Chat Bench', an ecclesiastical naughty-step adjacent to the churchyard, with strict instructions to look after Roscoe and desist from bothering the locals.
Roscoe, of course, has different ideas. As soon as his mistress departs, credit card at the ready, he pulls me to my feet and we're off on a whistle-stop tour of the shopping emporiums of Newport. It takes but a few moments to reach the ineluctable conclusion the natives are hirsute tan-seekers with eclectic eating habits. This small but picturesque market town boasts no less than five barbers, four beauty parlours, a 'wok'n'roll' cafe, a Shakespearean inn and a well-stocked Asian store.
My dear wife emerges from the quilting shop bearing fresh supplies. She finds me surreptitiously feeding Roscoe illicit dog-treats in the vain hope I can convince her I really am in charge. She's far from convinced and I'm frog-marched back up the high street past the sadly darkened 'Merry Christmas' neon-signage. It is, perhaps, a fitting summation of our short visit.
alone
where shrouded men
walk
lost in time
their paths
crossing
by the bracken pool
reflections
