Sunday was cold. Sunday was very cold. Sunday was made of the kind of cold that will freeze any human appendage upon contact and make any ego shrink with severe rapidity. It was that really kind of cold, cold. That joyous kind of English cold, that somehow seems to permeate and saturate even the most ardent of outer layers. For those of you who have not experienced this peculiar kind of British cold, imagine being regularly dunked in and out of an ice bucket whilst simultaneously being poked with a stick. Other places may be colder, but I defy them to have any more annoying kind of cold. But it was sunny, very sunny.
However, I am not trying to waste your precious internet time with inane ramblings about the jingoistic weather. Rather, I am here to berate technology. This Sunday, technology killed my enthusiasm and glee at the prospect at a day wandering around the glorious snow-bound countryside, just me, my camera and a nose I could no longer feel.
I am not the world’s most winter-prepared person. I do not own a pair of gloves on the grounds that I don’t really need them, that is until I really do. I own one thick coat and a scarf that no longer lives at my house. However, none of this was hugely important as I sat and stared at the glowing world outside as I stroked my cat and sipped at my coffee. I wanted to be outside, in the midst of the crisp, white and blue beauty, framing the world through the lens of my camera and ignoring the onset of frostbite.
With a caffeine fuelled sense of childish glee, I packed my bag, pointed my car in the vaguely correct direction and I was off to Castleton in the glorious Peak District. Yes, I knew it would be snowy, but it would be beautiful and I would be free to prance around with my camera and a raffish air or gay abandon. Think of the images PDK, think of the images. Up in the Dales, I was surrounded on all side by a pristine, glory of white-sheet scenery, ripe for the plucking. It was a real bugger that any thought of stopping was interrupted by the mounds of blackened and frozen slush on either side, the 90 degree bends of the road and the rampaging snow-plough up my arse. Never mind, I would be there in the end, I would be at Castleton.
And then my Sat Nav told me to turn left……
Now, as my sense of direction is as accurate as a blind and stoned Badger, I put my faith in technology, in that little arcade game nestled in my dashboard. I followed the little, animated version of my car blindly, for at least 10 miles, down smaller and smaller roads encased between higher and higher banks of snow that started to blot out the sun. And still the glorious Sat Nav told me to continue and who was I to argue? My now I was at its mercy. I could have been in Albania for all I knew. I hadn’t passed a car, a goat or a hunched farm-hand in what seemed like hours and then it all had to stop. the wall of ice and snow glaring menacingly at me from on high this abundantly clear.
Pondering for a moment as I considered where to bed down for the night, I was left with one choice. I put my home address in to Sat Nav, executed a seamless 39-point turn and head home, without a single short in my camera. Snow, Sat Nav and an inherited glut of impatience had killed my childish glee.
to see more of my images visit www.pdkimages.co.uk