Went to Imber yesterday. 

Imber; village on Salisbury Plain, unoccupied since 1943 when the villagers were dispossessed at short notice by MOD to provide a training ground for American troops to practice house-to-house fighting in preparation for D-Day (youngsters please Google). Albert the local blacksmith is said to have been seen sobbing over his anvil, and coincidentally was the first resident to die and be returned to his village for his funeral. Sad.

Typically, the promise of return after the war ('for the duration' was a phrase commonly used at the time) has not been kept by MOD in spite of several legal actions taken on the local's behalf since then. But looking at the state of the village now, no-one would want to.

Lovely day though, sunshine and just the right temperature. No official organisation (hence no-one asking you for a fiver to park on the verge) -- how refreshing. Lots of people there, all apparently having innocent good time (different from sad residents in 1943), many delivered there by ex-London red Routemaster buses, freed temporarily from their retirement, from Warminster. Even one open-topped. Made Brexit seem a good idea after all; that and the Olympics, but shut up; mustn't talk politics, sex or religion. 

For ease of transport I took along the Fuji S3 which has been adapted for infra-red; it gives lovely pink files that can then be neutralised to B&W in Photoshop and ticked to taste. Try these:

All pictures © John Bigglestone

Another year, another birthday.

August 10th; been and gone. Another one; where do they go? Where do birthdays go when the Cinderella Clock reaches 24.00? The carriage turns back into a pumpkin, the fine white horses into white mice; don't ask what the birthday cake turns into. But the eleventh of August has no charisma at all; not for me, anyway. Daresay it means a lot to those born/married/died on that day but not for me. Just one day can make all the difference. 

Now that's a concept worth considering: just one day can make all the difference.

JB

Another year, another birthday.

August 10th; been and gone. Another one; where do they go? Where do birthdays go when the Cinderella Clock reaches 24.00? The carriage turns back into a pumpkin, the fine white horses into white mice; don't ask what the birthday cake turns into. But the eleventh of August has no charisma at all; not for me, anyway. Daresay it means a lot to those born/married/died on that day but not for me. Just one day can make all the difference. 

Now that's a concept worth considering: just one day can make all the difference.

JB

Funny old life, this. Everyone knows that our time on this stage has book-ends, the finish one being just a mirror-image of the start one, both giving the physical and emotional support that each phase of that life demands; parents doing it for their babies, children for their elders, most with care, patience, commitment and occasionally affection. Nice thought.

I should stop there but can't help suggesting to you that the accepted advice of looking forward rather than back isn't always the best. I'm reminded of that by two things that happened recently: first, my son David, for whom I have the greatest respect (in spite of his having inherited some of my characteristics) as well as deep affection, spoke quite glowingly of some of my previous work. He'd been reading some of my articles, published in photo magazines such as the BJ and Professional Photographer and referred me to an ability he said I had to put words together. Thanks David; that means a lot. Some weeks before we had been looking at a boxful of old photographs of mine which, in their haphazard way, plotted a route through my professional life. "There's a book here" he said, and being susceptible to a bit of flattery, I concurred. 

The second trigger happened yesterday as I listened to something on radio; 'The Purpose of Life is to Pass on Something' someone said. Who the someone was and in what context he (for it was a 'he') said it escapes me (my short-term memory was always poor -- I used to ask my opponent how many snooker points I had scored at the end of each break, though often it didn't tax their maths too deeply) but I took note of that proposition and decided to push it further. What had I to offer that could justify my life, this term on the planet, that I had adopted as my own?

Looking at the box of prints and assessing my previous worth proved to be a good exercise, and I would recommend that emotional journey to anyone reading this -- if you've got this far that is. Look at what you have done, good and bad. Don't ignore the bad, as it's there and you did it, but conversely don't beat your breast about it till the blood runs.  Concentrate more on your achievements; be honest, be modest, be balanced but above all, give yourself the credit you deserve.

You'll feel better. I do.

John