Oh look, there's a field full of yellow flowers, I thought to myself as I whizzed past on my bicycle. That looks good. So I stopped and walked back to the point where I'd looked at it from, and looked at it again. It looked good.

And a similar thing happened as I rode past this brown field. Once again I felt it necessary to walk back to the exact point where l had been struck by how good it looked, in order to look at it again. And again it looked good.

I wondered whether it might also look good if I ran across the field. It did.

For some reason or other I was in a deliriously positive mood today. I was noticing that I was (like an imbecile) finding everything good today. My critical faculties seemed to be having the day off. But then again, I thought, maybe it simply was the case that everything was good today. Maybe all I was doing was objectively responding to an unusually high level of goodness. It was a possibility, at least.

Some hay bales wrapped in a slightly unsettling shade of turquoise struck me as something worth paying attention to. Maybe it was the artificiality of their colour, or the notable way in which they were piled two bales high; maybe it was the way their scale seemed utterly arbitrary, or the way their uniform plasticky lustrousness was set against an infinitely variable landscape of natural texture; maybe it was the way the bales invited me to climb them and stand on top of them (which I did), or the way they acted as a chromatic transition between the blue of the sky and the green of the grass; or maybe it was the way the bales seemed to embody something about contemporary man's utilitarian relation to his environment. Mainly though, what was interesting to me was that they looked good.

At this point I realised how much of the day's activity was revolving around trees. Trees where everywhere, and seemed to feature in almost all the images I was making. I remembered the way that I'd originally found this place so compelling because of its lack of trees: the powerful emptiness, the stillness, the sense of an urgent flatness uninterrupted by the banality of verticality. But now I was finding it compelling because it had trees. What did that mean? Had some sort of shift occurred in my attitude? Or had I just not paid attention to them before? I wasn't sure, but what was clear was that I liked it when there were no trees and I also liked it when there were trees. Whether they were there or not evidently made no difference: they just happened to look good if they were. Perhaps trees weren't important after all.

The last time I'd come this way I'd been struck by how much I'd liked this particular stretch of road. I didn't like it so much this time. It was still good, but just not good in such a remarkable way. Having said that, as soon as I stepped off it (to look at something else), I found that my interest in the road was rekindled, momentarily at least.

Finally I decided I didn't want to go any further, since my attitude that everything was good was becoming unproductive. The fact was that I could no longer judge whether any one thing was any more worthy of paying attention to than any other thing, and so ironically I had ended up not really paying attention to anything at all.