And I feel fine

Posted on May 4, 2020


As lockdown extends into its sixth week and tensions fray the isolated and fragile mind.

As health care professionals die through the ineptitude of government.

And we clap to consent to this needless slaughter of the lions led by donkeys.

As the media embarrassingly fawns to our leader like they would in North Korea.

They forget to mention he left his wife scared with cancer to bang up his media advisor.

Twenty three years younger; I’ll sort this out, forget the blood on my hands lets have another,

Seven? It’ll take their minds off the love island chatter.


A poem wot I wrote, today: May the Fourth #lockdown (2020).


While all this shit is going down, life goes on in this beautiful village that I live in on the North Devon coast. There’s no visitors, which makes for a mahooosive difference. It’s great for us to enjoy our home, but for many of my friends who run seasonal businesses in the village, and I genuinely feel so sorry for them, it is shit. When you live in a place like this that is so dependent on tourism to survive, you make a contract; I will enjoy the wild winters, the muddy walks, the  chilly May barbecues, the low wages, the early morning surfs, the bars and restaurants year round (that are financed by the tourist horde in July and August), so that we can all survive.

I’m not on facebook so thankfully I don’t have to witness the idiocy of the effects of lockdown first hand but I can imagine the disgust and uproar that love island has been cancelled, but thankfully a 5G mast has been crucified to appease the conspiracy gods. Shame about the health care staff who are actually dead needlessly, it’s the fourth item on BBC news, give them a clap anyway.

Anyway personally, I’ve got nothing else to do but take photographs, and wash up, and clean my cameras, and walk, and do a little bit of self isolating gardening, and practise drinking, and become a better cooker-type person.

Here’s some photos, what i took over the last few days:

Mrs Mallard @ closely followed by the village via #wildlifewatchwithmarcus on instagram, here she is with five. Today there were two.


Have you ever wanted to SUP? (I never have) but,


A Whimbrel on the high tide line at Woolacombe. Would this migrant from north africa, on its way to north scotland have stopped in Woolacombe if it was full of chips and tourists?


Not everyday is sunny but all paths lead to the beach.


Beachcomber Cafe. All dolled up but nowhere to go.


The song remains the same.


Herring guls from the Stream.


May the fourth be with you, Combesgate, 2 foot and perfect. Locals only.


Last of the bluebells.


The onward march of the garlic.




First of the early foxes (and Putsborough.)


Whitethroat. Combesgate valley.


Rodney the Roe deer, resident of Morthoe parish.