Very many thanks to all.....

 November 2026.....

It's the little things..... When I first launched my blog (and I still hate that word) I had no plan, and all I was doing was trying to find a way of showing some of my pictures to anyone (or everyone). This then became pictures with words, and developed into my Essays and Diversions, through some Tesserae about Italy. Today, 611 posts later, I have topped three million hits (3,019,310 at the time of writing, and 1,349 already today.....) Here are yesterday's stats:

Any way it is November, and today the Guardian's Weatherwatch (thank you, David Hambling) quoted a number of poets' words on the month.  Thomas Hood, wrote: No fruits, no flowers, no birds/November!  (No!, 1844).  Some ten years later James Clerk Maxwell described, the sad November time/when the leaf has left the lime.  John Clare saw the sun as seamless and pale and round.  Later Emily Dickinson thought November, the Norway of the year.....

Rather more positively, Robert Frost found beauty in The desolate, deserted trees/The faded earth, the heavy sky (My November Guest, 1913)

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

A poem that I always recall at this time of year, despite the differences of every repetition, is November by Ted Hughes, which begins: 

The month of the drowned dog. After long rain the land 

Was sodden as the bed of an ancient lake,

Treed with iron and bridles. 

Well, we haven't had that much rain, yet, but it still resounds:

In the sunk lane

The ditch - a seep silent all summer - 

Made brown foam with a big voice: that, and my boots

On the lane's scrubbed stones, in the gulleyed leaves,

Against the hill's hanging silence;

Mist silvering the droplets on bare thorns

Slower than the change of daylight.

In the last few days, recouping my thoughts and strength from recent travels, I have walked near my home, and caught glimpses of light and colour that interest me, whether natural forms:

Or traces of human development reflecting in the lagoon:

Pink-footed geese overhead:

A lone red kite scanning for worms:

Or the flocks of various sea birds and waders that love the low tides on the Wash:

Even allowing for the powerful windmills in the distance:

It's the little things..... November is, for me, especially, perhaps, this year, a time for thought, when the ebb and flow of the tide, the rise and fall of the sun and moon, remind me of the turning world and how our days are numbered.  But I even love the mud that whorls on the edges of the Wash, curling like a bed of snakes under the grey sky:

And I love the low shafts of sunlight that glimmer through the leaves in the woods, illuminating the passage between green and gold, between summer and winter, casting shadows on the gnarling bark of long-suffering trees:

And then there are the simple pleasures of human life, which, when all is said and done, are what society needs.  The welcoming pub, shining in the gloomy mists of evening: 

And the sea-side chalets, reminding us that there are warm and sunny days yet to come:

Even if they are, for the moment, firmly closed:

November can be a difficult month, and this year is not exceptional in that. But walking in and watching and hearing the world around us, is good for the soul, whatever the news, whatever the sadnesses that seem to be gathering about us. 

Let me share with you the beauties of the woods, and share my thoughts on travel and art and life, as I have done now for a good few years. There's no obligation to read what I write, no need to take any heed, but while I can I shall pursue this diverting path...... 

Thank you for joining me thus far at least.....

But of all the months when earth is greener

Not one has clean skies that are cleaner.

Clean and clear and sweet and cold,

They shine above the earth so old,

November

Edward Thomas

*****

[Dedicated to those who care......]

*****

Addendum: 13/11/26 @17.45

Coming home....

It's not dark yet.....

Shadows are falling.....

Trenitalia Frecciarossa 9626 pulls out of Roma Termini punctually at 10.45.  We outstrip the Autostrada del Sole, reaching speeds of up to 300 kph, while the landscapes slip effortlessly by. The long shadows of grey-green olive trees darken the close cropped fields in the autumn sunshine; yellowing vine leaves tinge the slopes of Tuscany, the mountains hover blue in the background.

After 724 kms (450 miles) and just three stops (Bologna, Milano and Torino Porta Susa) we reach Torino Porta Nuova on time at 15.13, having crossed the mighty Po and its wide valley, Lombardy poplars, church towers and the occasional factory chimney punctuating the orchards and rice fields of the flatlands.

Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain

I have been to Torino several times before - I know I was there on August 25th, 1979, on August 3rd, 1980, (having just passed through Bologna station the day before the bombing that killed 85 people, on my way to join my family camping in the Val Veny, just under Monte Bianco), and again on a bitingly frosty January 1st, 1990 when I took the 06.25 train out to photograph the Abbazia di Santa Maria di Staffarda.....  At the time I wrote about myself as an empty-bellied, thin-clothed, hollow-souled pilgrim, heading vaguely for spiritual and physical comfort, even if the journey is wearisome and awkward. Why?  For a focus, a fireplace in the mind, something to give a gleam of hope in the dark pre-dawn..... The weeds are crisp with thick white frost.... Brina in threads of white on my jacket; stamping, freezing, hands red cold, breath white, all quiet, the countryside shrouded in white; white, crystal chandelier trees, white air, white fields. A dog barks, not much else stirs, the sun like a communion wafer in the white sky..... The photos I must have somewhere, but little else remains.

Anyway, those were not the only times. Amanda and I once were guests here of our friends Chris and Colin McLean, but I am not sure when that was..... And I know that one time I scaled 85 metres of the Mole Antonelliana (whose full height is 167.5 metres).... and on this occasion I wanted to do that again, so I dropped my bag off at the Hotel Roma e Rocca Cavour and hurried through the streets to the Mole, only to find a queue, and to be told that said queue was only for the National Cinema Museum and that the lift to the viewing stage was full..... 

I kicked myself for not having booked in advance, but with my vague memories of visiting this city in the past I had not expected that there would be tourists here.  I remember distinctly being alone atop the vertiginous tower, though I cannot now trace any photographs I must have taken.  How is it that even in the dead of autumn these days just about everywhere is teeming with insatiable tourists?

Ah well.  I console myself with a walk by the Po, looking towards the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele I, and the Gran Madre di Dio church:

And I admire a heron fishing the powerful waters:

Then I turn to the extraordinary expanse (360 metres long by 111 metres wide) of the Piazza Vittorio Veneto which was completed in 1825. My knowledge of history is sketchy, but I do know that this city was the capital of the Duchy of Savoy, and then, for a few years in the 1860s, it stood as the capital of unified Italy.....  Although it was badly damaged by bombardments in 1943, the Piazza has been restored and is now a popular and significant place for concerts and gatherings, including visits by recent Popes.

Stretching from here to the centre of Turin is the elegantly arcaded 700 metre long Via Po:

Which then opens onto Piazza Castello, with its imposing Monument to the Duke of Aosta, Emanuel Filiberto, who commanded the Italian army during World War I:

On the other side of this is the Piazza Reale, which precedes the Royal Palace, once home to the House of Savoy, but now the property of the State and a museum:

With this behind me, passing the baroque facade of the Palazzo Madama:

I walk down the chic via Roma with its upmarket shops:

To then have a Punt e Mes at Caffè Torino on Piazza San Carlo (il salotto della città):

Where, later that same evening, a lone violinist fills the square with hauntingly beautiful music.....

I need sustenance, and, after a second aperitivo at Il Caffè dei Guardinfanti, I find myself at the Trattoria Cantine Barbaroux (Nel cuore del centro storico di Torino, Cantine Barbaroux nasce con l’idea di valorizzare la tradizione gastronomica piemontese. Un luogo dove cucina, ambiente e ospitalità si incontrano per offrire un’esperienza autentica,) where I am fed Agnolotti Plin al Sugo d’Arrosto accompanied by a carafe of Nebbiolo.....

Outside the air has an autumnal, northern taste, and the shadows are lengthening.....

Torino is a stylish, attractive city, with arcaded avenues to better Bologna, boutiques to match Milan, and while it doesn't have the ups and downs or antiquities of Rome, nor the bustling allure of Naples, it is a fine city in a magnificent setting, between the rushing river and the snow-capped mountains.

However, I have to move on, so, still in the dark, I rise and walk to get the Frecciarossa 9292 at 07.11 from Porta Susa to Paris-Gare-De-Lyon, past the monument to Vittorio Emanuele and the sign that says, Stop and Kiss....

Then through more arcades where the homeless are beginning to rise (Stop and Kiss):

To the shining, modern Porta Susa station where the police are checking ID (Stop and Kiss?)..... 

And then, quickly, we are flashing past mountain-top castles,

Glimpsing snow caps on the high tops:

And through the border post at Modane then easing down into France, passing the Lac du Bourget near Aix-les-Bains,

Well..... I’ve been to gay Paree

I’ve followed the river and I got to the sea

To arrive punctually 581 kms later in Paris at 13.22.....

In the evening, after walking through a moonlit Paris:

And across the Seine to the Île de la Cité:

I finally get to see inside the restored Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris:

As I have a ticket for Lux Aeterna, a concert of Italian baroque music..... Not necessarily everyone's glass of infusion, but a rather fine way of getting to see (and hear) the cathedral without struggling through the crowds as if rushing to catch the delayed 10.54 to King's Lynn....

While the four voices and organ echo in my head, I think about Paris and previous experiences here. I have climbed the heights of Notre-Dame, the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre, the Montparnasse tower.... I have eaten at Bofinger, Le Train Bleu, Brasserie Lipp and La Coupole, and drunk at Les Deux Magots, Le Procope, et al.... I have been to the main galleries and walked in the splendid parks. I used to enjoy Chartier and her sisters Le Drouot and La Commerce (though these last two have gone and the former is not what it was). I was little more than twenty when I first visited the city, and remember drinking (genuine) absinthe, admiring (and no more than that) the girls who lined the streets of Montmartre their arms outspread to give them each a space, and staying in the cheapest rooms (Rue d'Aboukir rings a bell). And over the years I've come and gone with friends and family, taking nothing but photographs, and leaving no trace.....

Time to leave - to leave my memories behind, to face the present, if not the future.....

My Eurostar rolls away from the Gard du Nord, then is soon flashing through the Corot-Countryside:

Before erasing all sense of past, all feelings of nostalgia, all kinds of thoughts as it plunges deep under La Manche.....

I ain’t looking for nothing in anyone’s eyes

And then reality reasserts itself as a wobbly train chugs out of King's Cross on its way to a late arrival at King's Lynn....

All this travelling has tired me, and I am glad to get back. Having left behind the city that was for many years my home (Rome), I have reached a resting place. They say that home is where the heart is, and maybe that is so, as I nibble at a mushroom:

Listen to the pink-footed geese skeining [Is that a verb?  Ed] overhead:

And sit on Amanda's favourite bench while my tachycardia comes down from 173, I know where I want to be......

It's not that I'll go no more a-roving, nor that my days are completely in the yellow leaf (pace Byron), but sometimes you get to thinking that it's time to rest, time to make the best of the moment.  Looking back there is always more to see than looking forward, but the past just fades eventually as it fills with what was the future.....

I have been lucky, so far. And I still have friends:

I was born here and I’ll die here against my will

I know it looks like I’m moving, but I’m standing still

Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb

I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from

Don’t even hear a murmur of a prayer

It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there

Not Dark Yet

Bob Dylan

So here's to the now, the infinitely-expanding present.  The future is illusory.....

The flowers depart when we hate to lose them;

The weeds arrive while we hate to watch them grow.

Dogen

*****

For those I love

*****