Sirens

I reckon it starts around Manchester as you move north on the west side of the network. The huge increase, that is, in the frequency with which police or ambulance sirens clamour for your attention. I'd wondered whether, as we moved across among the peaceable people of Yorkshire and the "Gateway to the Dales", the incidence might decrease, but it doesn't seem to have done so. Nor, I have to say, is Skipton the quietest place I've been in at 2 a.m. It seems to have its own population of party-goers, clubbers and boy racers, released from their evening's entertainment at that point and determined to continue it at high volume in the vicinity of the canal. Loud, raucous singers they were – beguiling sirens they most certainly were not! I suppose it's possible we're on a particularly vulnerable mooring.

The enthusiasm of the singing in the church we joined for Sunday worship this morning easily matched that of the revellers last night, but the style was invigorating rather than depressing, and the welcome was very friendly. Afterwards the promised rain arrived as we walked up to the High Street to find somewhere for a Sunday roast. The rain wasn't heavy but the gloom certainly didn't encourage photography. Undeterred, I decided to snap the cheeriest sight we saw along the way.

Only a holiday cottage, but the baskets and the climbing rose looked pretty against the Yorkshire stonework. And, for a moment, there were no sirens or racing engines to be heard.