The quality of writing

I have been extremely keen to finish the Georgia Trip Report, you can probably tell I rushed through the final two days. Went here, saw this, whatever. This is not blogging. Blogging is interesting, makes you think, makes you think you had thought about something and written it yourself. Gone are the days when one writer would feel motivated by another's post and pen something in response, but the last few things I have dipped into have felt a bit a like that. 

I have read some wonderful things, some beautiful things, some sad things. I was not aware for instance, until I read a post by Steve Gayle that Dylan Wrathall had passed away a number of months ago. I dipped in from time to time but must have missed that one, really gutting. He commented here on occasion, and I in turn popped onto his pages now and then. Mostly it was about fishing of course. Fishing holds little interest for me, so I was only ever the infrequent visitor but it was honest and forthright fare written from a place of quiet observation. He was much more widely read than me, seemed to keep up to date with a great many things, a real shame that his time came too soon but life is like that, unfair and shocking. His kids seem to be keeping the flame alight with their wildlife observations which is nice. If - well, when - I pop my clogs I don't see my kids continung this one, it will just shut down one day and that will be that and to the extent that any blog readers still exist, they will wonder if I simply gave up. Took up fishing again perhaps? This example came back to me recently, I was on Scilly at the Garrison, and suddenly I remembered Les Harrison (Sir LH of the Garrison, an old moniker, hence my sudden recollection) had one day given up birding almost completely and simply gone fishing instead. I have no idea if that is true or not, I think it is. I hope it is. I like the thought of how one thing can so suddenly and absolutely be replaced by another with barely any break or transition. My hobbies can be like that, there is a wide back seat somewhere behind me, things waiting in the wings for when the time is right. The joy of it is that you don't know when that will be, and unless they nag it doesn't matter. Their time will come again.

But back to the blogging and the [dwindling number of] bloggers who pen them? Who are these mysterious people, some of whom write so beautifully and have a seemingly inexhaustible supply of material? I need to make more of an effort to read this stunning output. Far better than doom-scrolling, indeed any type of scrolling. And in doing so it may encourage me in the way it once it did. What I find particularly interesting is that the content is so relatable that it encourages conversation in a way that trip reports on Georgia do not. And it's simple stuff, no great shakes - local walks, weather, reminiscences, quiet contemplation. And moths... No great thrills, no astounding revelations, no drama or intrigue, no manifestos. Connections are made, bonds are formed and reinforced. I like it. I like it a lot. And it's there waiting for me. And for you. No paywall, no adverts, no pop-ups or music suddenly blaring out. Quiet, stable, friendly, often quite deep and meaningful. In other words the complete opposite of the world that we inhabitat and the regular 'content' that is forced upon us.

Some local graffiti I took a photo of some months ago. I don't know whether this is one work or two, but I can appreciate both versions.

So what's my excuse? I don't have one, or at least not any good ones. I mean I could roll out work and time and one limiting the other but actually I do have time. But rather than read a blog I go down a Youtube rabbit hole and lose an hour. Rather than read a blog I pour a glass of something and potter off down the garden. Rather than read a blog I piddle about on a recreational spreadsheet or I look at offerings from wine lists. Rather than read a blog I add meaningless things to to-do lists. I should add "read good blogs" to the list. In fact I might do just that.