Stretching interpretation a little bit this week, perhaps, but sunset here is always deep and purple and blue in my mind’s eye.
All posts tagged cove park
Posted by rowena on July 28, 2012
Posted by rowena on July 22, 2012
I’ve not posted something from Cove Park for a while, but when asked about something that brings a dream to mind, I immediately thought of how beautiful it can be to step out of bed, open the curtains and see this view spread out before me. As it is often shrouded in cloud or obscured by rain, there’s no guarantee that it will visible on every morning, so it continues to be something for which to aspire.
Posted by rowena on July 15, 2012
Sun, but not at sunset. I’ve raided my ever growing Cove Park Collection for this one. I remember taking it just as I had arrived at the centre at the beginning of a fortnight’s stay. The weather in London had been terrible when I left home and hadn’t much improved on the way up, but when I was driving over the hill from Garelochhead towards Cove the sky had cleared.
I took the photo as soon as I got out of the car, before going inside to announce my arrival, as there was always the chance that the sun would have disappeared by the time I came out again.
Posted by rowena on April 23, 2012
Posted by rowena on April 16, 2012
What with all that looking at the view and those days spent learning to draw; with the collection of paper, implements and general bits and pieces, really, I should have a go at sketching what I see, shouldn’t I?
They’re both a bit of a failure, if only because, without the sternness of the teacher to tell me it’s not finished yet, I did reach the point with each of them of thinking that whatever I did next wouldn’t improve them, and that I should just notch it up to experience.
Of course the one thing that was brought home when I was attempting to capture something of the colour of the view was that it changes constantly, depending on the position of the sun and the density of the clouds. That’s fundamental to the fascination of the view, so how would I possibly reflect that, when during the time it took to make the marks on the paper the trees had gone through bright green to purple and dark grey, the loch from grey green to blue black, and the shoreline from invisible to golden? So this combination of colours is not one that really existed contemporaneously (if any of them existed at all.)
One good thing came out of the exercise: it made me revisit Monet’s paintings of Rouen Cathedral…….
Posted by rowena on April 14, 2012
I’m sitting on the side of a hill, looking out over a beautiful view, watching every change in the weather, noticing how the light reflects off the water, or how the sun and clouds are making patterns on the slopes opposite, but I’m also listening to the radio and checking messages on my phone, albeit, holding my arm extended out of the window. When I want full internet access, I only have to walk a few paces up the, admittedly, steep hill, to the Centre, to hook up with the rest of the world as efficiently and expeditiously as if I were at home in London.
A couple of nights ago I eliminated all feelings of remoteness with a journey into Glasgow. It took me just over an hour to travel from this rural idyll, where I had to climb in and out of the car to open and close the three farm gates dividing the fields which confine the sheep and highland cattle, kept here to mow the grass, to get to the bright lights and streets of bars and shops in the west end of Glasgow.
It’s the ‘military road’, built to support the nuclear storage facility at Coulport, that makes the speed possible, built straight across high moorland to link the edge of Loch Long to the main road at the side of Loch Lomond, as if to remind us all not to be fooled that this is untouched countryside.
Oddly, the real reminder of the power of nature came on the outskirts of the town of Dumbarton, where I arrived in what must have been the immediate aftermath of a tremendous hail storm, as the road and pavements were covered with thick white, and each speeding car was throwing up a tidal wave of water.
A couple of miles further on the road was dry, and so my ‘country’ attire of walking boots and cagoule were a little de trop by the time I arrived at my destination, where I met a friend for a drink. We sat in comfy chairs on the upper level of a bar restaurant in a former cinema, studying the patterned stucco effect patterns on the ceiling, raising our voices over the strains of loud music.
At the end of the evening, on the journey back, the differences were more marked, possibly because by then it was after dark, and there is a clear demarcation lines between ‘city’ and ‘country’ at the point where the street lighting stops. It was deep dark when I returned to the site and had to open and close all those gates again. Approaching them, at least I had the illumination of the headlights, but closing them again once I’d driven through, with only the red rear lights to guide me, then, I did feel remote.
But not so remote that it didn’t cross my mind that, with my slow, brightly lit progress down the track, I was probably attracting attention from anyone who chose to watch me.
Posted by rowena on April 13, 2012
I have been writing, but I would probably have written more if the weather here wasn’t so compelling. It requires that I watch it, and when it becomes colourful, I have to get on my hands and knees at an uncomfortable angle to take the optimum shot of its reflection in the pond outside my cube.
I took this after a day that had started with torrential rain, and snow covering the tops of the hills opposite, which had extended through an afternoon when I had the window open as otherwise I was too warm, into an evening when the sun peeped tantalisingly through the clouds. Had I taken a photo at the moment of purest, brightest pinkness? Would the next moment be better? I’m not sure. Who knows what this evening will bring?
Posted by rowena on April 12, 2012
I’m in Scotland this week, back in my cube at Cove Park, and, even though I’ve already taken scores of photographs of the view across the loch, before I’d been here an hour I’d scored several more.
While I’m here, I’m afraid you will have to indulge me in my fascination for the things that catch my eye in the damp, loamy environment.
On Sunday I went for a walk in the woods that border the northern edge of Helensburgh, where it turns from suburban commuter town to wild moorland. I’d say that it was unmanaged wild woodland, if it were not for the occasional sign of a fallen tree cleared from the path, its cut branches showing fresh saw toolmarks.
It’s a strange hinterland of knobbly trees, boggy ground, dog walkers, and moss. The moss, puffy cushions of green, is enveloping every surface; I thought there was some country craft rule that said you could locate north from the way moss grew on a stone, but here all sides are covered, providing no assistance to the lost wanderer.
I don’t know what this fungus-like growth is, but it was only on this tree
Posted by rowena on April 11, 2012
Is it an objective or a subjective measure? Is it necessarily a good thing? Might it be the quiet before the storm? Might we just be projecting our own feelings onto a scene?
Would this little pond look so pleasant and reflective to a person afraid of ducks?
The scene looks peaceful, but Loch Long is home to Trident and the weapons silos at Coulport. Opinions differ about the level of contribution made by the nuclear deterrent to world peace.
I remember the day I took this photo, I had been pacing my room struggling with writing a scene for my novel, a scene I’d had to dig deeper much to write in an convincing way than had been comfortable, and which had churned up memories of past tumult which required several cups of tea to quell.
The apparent serenity of the scene was broken a few moments later too. It was mating season and with a ratio of 1 to 5, the female duck wasn’t having a peaceful time of it at all.
Posted by rowena on January 16, 2012