The Fin Fest took place in the Knights Templar pub in London on Friday 7 February. It was a chance to meet friends, colleagues, from a long time ago, but I missed it. Because I was having a leisurely lunch with some of those friends and it took rather longer than we anticipated. One of our number is losing his hearing, so he didn’t want to go into the very noisy pub where he would not be able to understand a word said to him. I wasn’t that keen to go to the pub because it is owned by arch-Brexiter Mr Martin; and anyway it was very pleasant eating and drinking in the Natural Kitchen restaurant, although the bill turned out to be a bit of a stinger . . .
Two drone shots (using a Mavic Air), one of Gamlingay’s new churchyard and one of trees in Southill. Both views are a refreshing change from being on the ground.
And a “bug hotel” near the Gamlingay churchyard, followed by a bus shelter in St Neots. The latter has “Lest We Forget” on the perspex, along with poppies, but their existence the whole year round probably means that we have forgotten already . . .
And the UK-EU flag is an example of how we might well have forgotten: the combatants of the Second World War would have been proud to be part of a union of European nations, not desperate to leave as we did (nominally, at least) on 31 January 2020. An act of self-harm.
Turbine Tour: a school group wanted to see our wind turbine, the Gamlingay Community Turbine. The students were carrying out a project designing a turbine generator and I was able to provide them with the background to our turbine, for which I was the aviation adviser while the installation was planned.
It was also time for marmalade; this can be made only with Seville oranges, my expert tells me, so we have to take advantage of the supply from Spain at this time of the year. And sourdough bread . . . my expert is good at this as well.
A visit to the Algarve, east of Faro, to visit my mother. Boarding in Fuseta, a fishing village with holiday accommodation, the weather was cool, but mostly fine. One morning was orange, recalling the effects of the Australian fires.
The night shot is of the pub next to the church in our village. It is often the case, it seems, that the churchgoer can visit the pub after church; on the other hand there used to be a rule in devout communities that you couldn’t visit a pub unless you were a traveller, and a traveller was someone who had travelled at least three miles. So if a pub was at least three miles from any other habitation, every visitor was a “bona fide traveller” (see Playboy of the Western World by Synge).