So perhaps rather than putting off and feeling dissatisfied, better just to take a photo here or there, and post them anyway, and stop worrying about whether they're good enough or not.
We went for a walk this morning, Molly and me.
Finally, there was a softness in the blue air, the blackbirds were singing. I know that nature has no kind intentions, to me or any other, but at times like this, it's difficult not to interpret a gentleness.
The English people who I don't know and who are hardly ever there, have nevertheless planted some early bulbs in troughs on their front wall. A pity they can't be here to enjoy them, but I can.
Spring has evidently drawn young Hugo and his sisters out into their world of garden fantasy: a makeshift table set for an odd tea-party, rocks and stones for an entree, and a fondue of pebbles and tent-pegs to follow.
Other folk are stirring, we were watched carefully.
When I set off, I had hoped the morning's mist would still be in the hollows, but on the north side of the hill, going down the road, it was already making its exit, though lingering visibly in small, discrete, mobile patches, too faint for the camera.
However, on reaching the ridge and looking south, the country for miles inland, was submerged under opaque blue. The spires and roofs and roads I'm used to seeing were invisible, and the further lines of hills, their wind turbines and grain silos, rose up out of it like headlands or islands across a bay, perspective was confounded along with my familiar sense of the landscape. I thought of the legends of cities lost beneath the sea in punishment, their church bells ringing under the waves, and our modern fears of being drowned for our sins. It was an agreeably melancholy reflection, not a fearful one; the blue ocean of mist seemed to offer a calm and gentle dissolution. But I was on top of the hill, safe in the brightness; down in the villages it must have been cold, grey and dull, hard to imagine a sunlit world above.