Kitsch me if you can

The final pictures of Macclesfield as the sun went down. Rest here.

Click on these for larger versions.

Yuck

Neal makes a break for it.

We opted for the pub instead of Evensong

No doubt a salubrious emporium.

At the setting of the sun

We managed to find two top rural real-ale pubs on the way, although sitting down was much easier than standing up… These pictures were taken between the Wild Boar in Wincle and The Hanging Gate in Lansley, which has a terrace looking west over rolling hills. More pictures here.

The world's most pointless stile?

The Bullstones prehistoric stone circle, with Shutlingsloe in the background. Very impressive remains. Some hippies had left money in the rock's hollow. For some reason, I left it there. Now I wonder why. It's probably the remains of a barrow. A Celtic urn burial was found there - not sure where it is now. 

Jodrell Bank radio telescope at sunset

All this said to us was 'this is a great sledging field'.

Camper Dan Beethoven

Have you ever seen a man so camp? (More pics here, or click these ones to engorge).

Cheshire County Council's footpath markings and stiles are brilliant. But this one was confusing…

I knew him, Horatio…

Mmm… gander. Sauce…

Like the saturation and vignetting? One day I'll start talking about bokeh. Then you'll be sorry.

I love rust. And barbed wire.

A spring in my step

More pictures: whole set here.

Post-production makes the day look rather more apocalyptic than it actually was - I got sunburned

That distant odd shape is a curlew. Really.

Neal and Dan were highly amused at an authoritarian Trotskyist finding lambs so cute

Cute now. Tasty later.

Neal on a scheduled, prehistoric ancient monument

Insert your own… joke.

Out and about

I've been too busy to blog today - so much work (thanks to the 5 great students who came to class and talked about Cwmardy this afternoon: I really enjoyed, sod the rest) and planning for the strike on Thursday.

At the weekend, the Map Twats had a day out, at long last. We started at Macclesfield's finest pie shop (mmmm hare and venison and pheasant in one package) and headed along the canal, up Sutton Common overlooking Jodrell Bank Radio Telescope on the Cheshire Plain, along Wincle Minn and Bosley Minn, taking in ruins, prehistoric monuments, sheep and pubs along the way. It was a beautiful day. Lambs gambolled, and kestrels, larks and curlews frolicked around us as we wended our way from ridge to ridge. I'm still aching, to be honest. Here are some pictures - click on them to enlarge, or see the rest here.

Shutlingsloe and clouds

You can take the boy out of the The Dark Place…

Top quality dry-stone walling

Shutlingsloe bathed in sun

Rust tanker

Don't fence me in…

These boots are made for walking

Good afternoon to you all from the Midlands.

You may have noticed that I've been away for a few days - I went walking with some of the Map Twats (Cynical Ben, Neal and James: Dan's away with his girlfriend, the smug git). We started at the Cat and Fiddle pub, perched high up between Macclesfield and Buxton, then walked along to Shining Tor, down round the reservoir, stopped for an effete lunch (fine butties, rabbit, hare and venison pie), then slogged upwards again for seemingly hours, running out of water somewhat inopportunely. I took pictures, of course, and they may be seen here. It's a while since we went out, and I was surprised how exhausted we all were - the unexpected heat sapped us, and our legs ached for several days afterwards. Sunburn was also a bit of a problem.

In the end, it was a glorious route and a good day's walk. Ben's various opinions were amusing and enlightening and as usual, when two or three are gathered, I was the victim. Having discovered a nineteenth-century Jewish ancestor, I outlined my sense that they are all antisemites, to much amusement from my persecutors.

Ben returned home to his wife, who seemed much amused by us as usual, and James took us home to his elegant new bachelor pad in Chester. After a preliminary few real ales, we ended up at a semi-indie night at Telford's Warehouse, a swish bar/club on the canalside. Somewhat predictably, we ended up dancing like fools to all sorts of rubbish. The climax was Neal and James putting on a virtuoso interpretation of 'Hammer Time', which led to them temporarily making friends with a pair of discerning young ladies while I retired from the field - discretion is, after all, the better part of valour.

The next day saw a good deal of snoozing, mooching around town, pool games and more real ale in some astonishing places, before a more low key return to Telford's Warehouse, by which time James's dancefloor exertions had resulted in a pronounced limp. Sunday was very much a day of rest - a fine Sunday lunch in a village pub and a reluctant trek back to Stumville.