On the road (III): A penny for one's thoughts

He got wind of my presence and glanced over his shoulder. Keeping still and pointing the camera slightly upwards, I adjusted my eyes to the right and said hello. I thought I had inadvertently cut his reflections adrift and he might have felt I was invading his privacy. On the contrary, he acknowledged with a nod and a smile before turning to the left and letting his gaze drift back to boats, diving ducks and squawking gulls.

A couple of minutes later, I approached him, pretending I needed directions. I sat next to him and did what I am notorious for: chatting. It is amazing how few words it sometimes takes to paint big pictures, but even more amazing how quickly mirthless-looking people can turn humourous once the barriers of speech have been broken down. He is a born and bred Abingdonian, an old-age pensioner. Hardly blessed by the Age of Affluence, he worked hard on buildings and farms all his life and paid off his mortgage. He saw off his loving wife some years ago and keeps in touch with his grown-up sons who have sought pasture new miles away. He and his generation epitomise the coarse and crude, rough and ready, no nonsense grafters, men of unwavering fortitude who never reaped the benefits of academia, yet helped materialise the dream of modernisation. This is his favourite spot, as he described it. Weather permitting, he comes here same time, every day. I could see why; it is a good spot.

I never told him he was in my 16-35mm wide-angle lens field of view and, for my sake, I hope he is not on Viewbug. He did tip me off on some good spots in the town and outskirts before biding me farewell. I told him I will see him again and buy him a beer in the Old Anchor Inn, only a stone’s throw from the spot. He beamed from ear to ear…
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