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Email From America ... One

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  I am coming towards the end of a three week visit to the United States, my first trip to the country at what is surely by any metric a most significant juncture in its history. These travels take me from New York to Washington DC and back, encompassing a range of other cities in between, and have prompted a large amount of writing and photography, providing me with material for a multitude of projects, far exceeding the one or two ideas I had on setting out.  These include a celebration of my Stateside nature sightings, my thoughts on American railway ("railroad"?) travel, a development of my Night Stations book idea, and a diary of the final week of the Presidential Election and how it seemed to me.   I envisage incorporating these writings into a future book of travel essays, and would like to share a few brief excerpts from them here. With a nod to the late, great British-American broadcaster Alistair Cooke and his legendary radio programme Letter From America (...
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Five Years of Flowers

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I have not felt up to much creativity of late, having lost my mother earlier this year. I have, though, found the completion of various pre-existing projects quite therapeutic, such as this video which I began making late last year and finished today. It is a celebration of five years' worth of flowers, photographed around the Calder Valley and elsewhere in the North of England, and I have dedicated it to my mum, who was a life-long lover of plants and nature, and played a big role in encouraging my own love of gardening and flowers.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-rjv-B91Ng
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Email From America ... Two: Startled by Starlings.

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Sunset in Downtown Detroit. Traffic lights blur into soft dots of red. Wind wraps its self around the spire of the Methodist church, all but whistles down Michigan Avenue. The stocky office blocks and chunky, muscular buildings of the USA's North East were built to last in a climate of bitter winds and cruel cold. Almost as soon as I arrived in Detroit, even though the sun was shining, I felt the pelt of hailstones. And yet, refreshing after the sweltering heatwave of California, I like this weather. It is bracing. It gets me moving. It reminds me of home. Hands stuffed into pockets, I push down Shelby Street, shuffle down the sidewalks with no particular destination. The wind picks up. On Washington Boulevard, the street lights melt into a twilight turning purple. The Ford Building rises like a column of snow. I cross a tasteful square, pass a bunch of old men sitting on a bench playing jolly music. A huge block of apartments stands above us, and from half way up a young man gaz...
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