What do I know about clouds?Very little, that’s what.I dropped Geography in what was then Fourth Year at Grammar School, shortly after I’d been ejected from the classroom for falling asleep during a black and white slide show on irrigation.I didn’t know my cirrus from my stratocumulus – and now that was never going to happen. Actually, the falling asleep episode hadn’t been the first time I’d been in trouble in geography.I didn’t mean to be cheeky but I did believe in justice, and for some reason I always felt the need to go out of my way to ensure everything was fair. It was a hot afternoon in a stuffy box of a badly designed sixties classroom.Mr Packer, our Welsh geography teacher was halfway through a lesson on cloud formations – pretty boring to my fourteen year old ears.Behind me in the classroom, somebody calls my name and I turn around.Instantly, Mr Packer is swiping at the back of my head with a wooden ruler.Ducking, I turn back around to face the front, whereupon Mr Packer spends the next few minutes telling me how rude I have been.The caller is not even acknowledged, never mind reprimanded.With hindsight (and with the draining experience of having since taught pupils who weren’t interested) I realize my turning round was probably the last straw for Mr Packer, who no doubt needed to let off steam.At the time, however, I do remember feeling extremely indignant and hard done by. “But Sir –" I whined, “If someone calls you, you turn around.” Mr Packer was having none of it. “You didn’t have to look round,” he said decisively, and continued with the lesson.I simmered quietly with the unfairness of it all, didn’t listen to a thing, and planned my revenge. Cut to break time and I’m walking along the corridor with a group of friends.I see Mr Packer ahead, about to turn into a classroom. “Mr Packer!” I yell, grinning at my friends.Mr Packer’s head spins around, a split second before he realises he’s been had.I’ll never forget the question he spits out in that distinctive Welsh accent as he glares at me from a distance, “Are you the INSTIGATOR of this little joke?”I go home and look up ‘instigator’ in my dad’s big, red Oxford dictionary. And that, dear reader, is why I don’t know my cirrus from my stratocumulus. These days, as a photographer, I love clouds.They have the ability to make or break an image – and the best part is their names are totally irrelevant.I can marvel at the big white, fluffy, cottonwool shapes; I can swoon at the orange sunsets with those long thin streaks scudding across the horizon; I can feel the weight of the gathering storm clouds, full of dark, impending doom.They all have their part to play in creating drama or tranquility in a shot. One day soon, I shall sit down with my grandson’s geography book and teach myself the names of each type of cloud.And when I’ve done that I shall offer up a silent apology to Mr Packer, who is probably somewhere up there by now, nestled into a great, big cumulonimbus.
Clouds Over Mickleton, May 2016 - Red Snapper Photography
Clouds Over Mickleton Dull sky Black clouds Valley darkens Rain threatens Quietly we close the door Look longingly towards the fire Then - no warning Sun appears Clouds turn themselves inside out Scud across a brightening sky Cotton wool shapes Fighting for prime position Fire abandoned Wellies on Camera seems to wink at me I run outside Stare across the glowing fields And capture a brand new landscape Thanks for reading, Jill. Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to FacebookReactions:
