Let's go out walking; I know where to meet.

In five minutes, we will depart for the next village down the Cam. My rural soul leaps up: I love that I live on the very edge of town and that I could reach field or fen with not much travel. But I haven't been in a wide-open yet since arriving, other than the day I started early and had no dog to take. I looked at my camera for awhile, deciding on the focal length I want for the afternoon: the 50mm lens offers its own constraints and challenges, forcing me to frame up a shot without being able to change its parameters. But the 28-105mm offers the possibility of macro shooting, and that's what I'm missing: the closeups of leaves and seeds and flowers, of water ripple and field fold. I don't know what we'll find on our way; part of me wants to go out without the camera altogether, out of some residual embarrassment at being a constantly photographing companion. But I will regret it if I go out without a mechanical eye: I know this with certainty.

Today is our last forecast day of good warmth for a little while; soon we begin dropping to the 40s at night and only coming up to the very low 60s in the day. And it's breezy, breezy enough to bring me the smells of my neighbors' breakfasts, breezy enough to make me doubt the wisdom of wearing my silver Birkenstocks on the walk, even though they're far and away my most foot-friendly shoes, seemingly the best candidates for six miles of walking. But perhaps my clogs would be smarter. Perhaps.

The 28-105 it is. And the clogs. With striped socks, bien sur. Don't leave home without them.


Where we went, and what we saw:

Read Rupert Brooke's poem about Grantchester to appreciate this one more.

And I did do it: I did eat blackberries from a hedge, though I was far less well equipped to reach the ripe ones than my friend, who is so very tall. As I suppose sometimes happens, the one I reached highest for was the least satisfying of all.