We went to Manchester and walked along the Rochdale Canal. The water seeping up through the stone sets mingled with the water streaming down from the sallow sky.
A cold and wet night: fog keeps the light from the street lamps close to home, rain shines the footpaths, a bus stop looks forlorn.
The canal in Brighouse flows under Briggate, encased in a stone-sided artery. For over 250 years it has brought life-blood to the town, and even in retirement, it still brings beauty.
An old mill, loomless and quiet; a church spire, bell-less and orphaned; and a busy car park: Halifax on a wet Sunday afternoon.
There is something quite captivating about fireworks: no matter how many times you have witnessed their extrovert performance, their momentary ostentatiousness, you are still drawn to them. This particular display was at Almondbury Wesleyans Cricket Club last night. A cracking good night.
Looking at fine buildings in Halifax can be a bit like looking at paintings in the National Gallery, you get drawn by the famous and casually walk passed what would be excellent in other contexts. How can I have walked by Lord Street Chambers for seven decades without noticing them?
I have so many memories of the Plummet Line Hotel, you could probably fill the old Tap Room with them. Back in the 1960s the family of one of my first girlfriends ran the pub. I remember going to the folk club that used to meet in one of the upstairs rooms. Memories, memories, memories.
It was a bit of a grey day when I took this photograph and therefore I left it up to my mobile phone to add a filter or two of colour. It does it far better than I could do.
The wonderful Halifax Industrial Museum has a loom set up for weaving the moquette fabrics that were used for the seats on buses and trams. The multicoloured threads stretch from the rack of bobbin holders to the loom itself, and the autumn sun illuminates a woollen prism.