2014-06. M40 barrier.          Hubby and I spend quite a lot of time on the road with our various visits to here there and everywhere, on route to holidays, sports competitions and just general days out and about.  Since I don’t drive, and unless I’m sleeping, I spend a lot of time just gazing out of the window. As a driver with his mind occupied with the hundred and one things it takes to get from A to B in the big mechanical box he’s often asked me what I look at.

          Well, there’s the obvious answer of the other road users, the odd number plate or two catch my attention and although I’m not a fan of the posh or sporty cars, an old-fashioned jag will always raise a smile.  The lorries thunder along with ever varied advertising shouting at you as they pass, and of course, the Stobart fleet with their female names proudly displayed on the front.

          I passingly glimpse the other occupants of the mechanical monsters, the odd “girlie ” (as Hubby would say) driving “Daddy’s” convertible,  the “boy racer” with his shiny wheels and shades,  the “Sunday driver”, seventy if a day,  with a tight grip on the steering wheel, hogging the middle lane.  Never trust a driver wearing a hat Hubby would say.

          As for the scenery,  this is ever-changing with the seasons.  Spring is my favourite, the green haze appearing on the softening trees, the blossom opening up as fluffy pillows along the highway.  

          After the splash of yellows from some very welcome daffodils, daisies appear on the grass verges in town and the greenery deepens into a lush sound barrier next to the motorway, the giant electric pylons peer down on us as we squint through any gaps in the trees at the yellow and green patchwork fields beyond.

          Autumn brings a multitude of colours, reds, yellows,  and oranges, the ground speckled with daisies gives way to a fresh carpet of crunchy leaves. I find travelling in the wintertime strange  and I’m still on unfamiliar ground here.  I used to hate winter… Hate is a strong word but my vocabulary fails me at the moment for a word which describes the oppressive, depressing feelings winter used to invoke in me but since starting to see the world through the lens of my camera I’ve learned to see through the trees to the pictures beyond.  Without the lush green screen,  you can see rivers and mountains, fields and farms, all hidden from view in the warmer weather.

          We pass through tiny villages and big cities, people bustle about their business unaware of my eyes picking out a pretty coat here and a nice dress there. Shop windows offer a glimpse of more goodies on sale inside and all the time Hubby is making the metal machine do his bidding, pushing pedals and steering the wheel to deposit us safely at our destination.

          I have seen him distracted by a pair of tight jeans or a headful of pretty flowing locks,  but then, I’m not always looking out of the window either, sometimes I’m just looking at it.



2 thoughts on “Passenger

  1. Sallyann, I like this post, both the pictures and your words – this is a little bit of you, and its wonderful to read. And its good to know that photography has helped you over winter’s burden – maybe I had a touch of that this last winter past, winter seemed never to end, I was actually quite surprised when the days started getting longer. Adrian

    • Thanks Adrian, I did notice we had a lot of dark brooding pictures from you during the winter months. Maybe next year you should task yourself to find something bright and cheerful, just once a week?
      Winter through the lens of the camera here is the result of yet more successful manipulation from Hubby.
      The pictures?
      The first was an hour long stop on the M40, a not too pleasant accident up ahead had us all parked up for a while, after wishing hundreds of times that I could stop on the motorway and capture what I see, this was the result.. another reminder to be careful what you wish for.
      The last picture, a fly we picked up as a hitchhiker for a while in the Isle of Wight.

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