Yesterday I went to Brockholes, a nature reserve on the edge of Preston (the entrance yards from M6 junction 31 aka the Tickled Trout junction). It was developed from the ruins of a quarry, so has a series of ponds/lakes/meres now used by a wide variety of birds. The interesting bit though was the buildings, floating on one of those expanses of water. They are now blending into the landscape, the wood graying with time. A nice bit of eco-technology all round, though they do need to do some planting.
What was more interesting for me, however, was another sign of the age. In the restaurant there were a couple of old gents I'd guess in their mid-seventies. Last of the Summer Wine and all that. But one of them had a touch-screen phone out and was flicking through messages or numbers, totally at ease with it. I worry about my father's isolation, his friends dying off, and his health (and natural inclination) keeping him indoors. This chap was clearly the opposite, in touch and licking the bowl of life clean, technology helping him do so, and good on him for that.
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