A Weather Eye

Tiresome and turbulent grey clouds boiled across our southern skies and their steel, sullen silence made a tedious backdrop to potential photographs. It would be a while before my foray to the Solent to see weekend visitor the USS George H W Bush. First, I went to see my Mum. I am still getting used to the new car and wondered why the cruise control is quite so unpredictable. Greg had trouble with it yesterday and the best I can say is that it works most of the time. There must have been a little ripple in time today, a strange sub-psychic current in the early weekend; first my Mum was convinced that it was Saturday, later Greg and later still, I was similarly misled by the ambience in Gosport and Portsmouth. We got our shopping done with little enthusiasm and I was extremely irritated in ASDA to be asked if I had been taking photographs. I was carrying a camera - I carry one almost everywhere - but had not raised so as to even look like taking a photograph. I suppose the powers of observation of the member of staff who summoned a manager were as limited as their probable IQ. The manager was quite civil but it still stung for a while. We took a time-out to see an aunt whose husband (my uncle, oddly enough) is in hospital with hopefully temporary heart problems. Our help today was limited to buying carrots. When we were free to go to Stokes Bay to see the Nimitz Class carrier, the weather was not at all encouraging. It was certainly interesting to see our visitor but shots on the south coast on (summer!) afternoons are inevitably contre-jour. This coupled with the distance of the mooring was hardly conducive to excellent photography. What I did took place either side of excellent food at the Bayside Cabin Cafe. It was a breakfast but eaten so late it barely qualified as lunch. The quality of food was a surprise. The cafe was revelling in the Bush-viewing crowds. Even with the prospect of continuing poor light, I would have liked to get closer but a ferry trip to Portsmouth and subseqent visit to both likely boat departure points (Dockyard and Gunwharf) was a complete waste of time. I was disheartened by the lack of commercial drive which might have seen at least one tour operate after 1530. The Naval Dockyard is strange place to arrive in Portsmouth well away from most of what one might loosely describe as 'the action'. The sailors - male and female - who were streaming away from the USS Truxtun amongst others - were greeted by a few rather desultory American flags and countless flyers exhorting their participation in various nocturnal activities. They seemed at least to have been properly directed to Gunwharf; I hope they enjoy their stay after the rigours of 'Saxon Warrior'.