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Access to water for agriculture purposes has been a main challenge for schools participating in FAO’s project. The project has therefore provided the school with water harvesting structures (1 per school) to capture rainwater as the rainy season progresses.
Read more about FAO and the crisis in South Sudan.
Photo credit must be given: ©FAO/JC McIlwaine/UNMISS. Editorial use only. Copyright FAO
Sep 17 Cody is moving into his room. I absolutely LOVE the house he's living in. His room is what was the reception/living room. No internet access until October. Hopefully he'll survive :-)
I was born in Norfolk and lived in Suffolk. So I thought I knew those two counties. But of course there is more to Norfolk than Norwich, Cromer, Yarmouth and Kings Lynn, as there is to Suffolk than Ipswich, Lowestoft, Stowmarket and Bury St. Edmunds. And so on My friend, Simon K, runs a fabulous website, which I link to on EA churches, and on his Suffolk Church page he has visited 707 Suffolk churches, and 909 Norfolk churches. That is a lot of churches for two counties to share, and many of those churches are ancient, flint built, round towered or have wall paintings, wooden roof angels or something worth the effort of going to see or seeking out the keyholder to gain access.
What I mean is that there is no way someone who only had their own car until 1984, and had little interest in churches or parishes could have heard of most of the parishes in the two counties, and so a parish church like St George.
I saw St George from the main road, I was taking a short cut to join the A14 and from there to the A12 and south on what I hoped my my last trip of the year to lowestoft as Mother is now out of hospital and in the care of district nurses in order to get put back on her feet.
So I saw the tower of St George from about half a mile away, and thought I had enough time to go over and see inside if I could.
I parked at the end of a cul-de-sac of new bungalows, and as I walk up the bank to the gate into the churchyard, the clean lines of the tower, well, towered over me.
In the porch I tried the door and found it locked, but the keyholder list made it clear that the nearest one, at Christmas Cottage, was just over the road. So, why not try, Ian?
I went to the cottage and rang the bell. I had to fill out my details in a ledger, a sensible measure. But I showed by driving licence to prove that I was who I claimed. Little did I know the small village I lived in had been noticed. More of that in a minute.
Inside St George, you eye is stolen by the fabulous pew ends; animals of all kinds, real and imaginary, and most had not been defaced, only those of obvious human form. One with the body of a chicken but a clear human face had been left alone, thus is the madness of the puritan's mind.
I decided that I would record every pew end figure, and many whole pew ends so wonderful that they were.
There is the feint outline of a huge wall painting, Simon says it was of St. Christopher. It would have been most impressive when freshly painted. There is also a fine set of misericords.
St George's glory is the altarpiece, into detail Simon goes below. It is alarmed, so you cannot look at them too closely, sadly, but such is a sign of the times.
I took the keys back, and the lady of the house came to speak to me as she had been told by her husband that I was from Cliffe in Kent, which is where her family is from. Sadly, I am not from, nor live in Cliffe. For once there was indeed two Cliffs in Kent, one on the Hoo Peninsular, where her family is from, and one near to Dover. Many years ago, Cliffe near to Dover was called WestCliffe to differentiate it from its namesake further north. I explained this to her, but said St Helen in Cliffe is one of my favourite Kent churches, built of alternate layers of black and light flints and stone, in sunlight it glistens and sparkles.
Although St George here in Stowlangtoft is a fine church, it is in a poor state of repair, and is due to be made redundant in the new year. Always sad when that happens to a parish church, but it is likely to be taken over by the CCT, but then who will volunteer to keep it tidy when the old wardens and keyholders are too old.
Stowlangtoft is a fabulous church and so glad am I that I spent 40 minutes of my time to visit it. Go to see it now before it is too late!
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In the summer of 2003, this website became a six-part series on BBC Radio Suffolk. Something I said in the fourth programme, about Hessett, generated a fair amount of correspondence. Referring to the way many churches were restored in the 19th century, I observed that when we enter a medieval church, we are encountering a Victorian vision of the medieval; even when the actual furnishings and fittings are medieval, the whole piece is still a Victorian conception.
People wrote to me and said things like "but in that case, Simon, how do we know what was there originally and what wasn't?". To which my reply was the enigmatic "assume that nothing is as it first appears, as Sherlock Holmes said". And if he didn't, then he should have done.
A prime example of a church that assumes a continuity that may not actually be the truth is here in the flat fields between Woolpit and Ixworth. This part of Suffolk can be rather bleak, especially in late October, but England's finest summer and autumn for decades had left the churchyard here verdant and golden, as beautiful a place as any I'd seen that year. The church is large, and sits on a mound that has been cut down on one side by the road. I walked up the slope, past the memorial to the art critic Peter Fuller and his unborn son, which never fails to move me. It is by the sculptor Glynn Williams, and Sister Wendy Beckett says of it that it cannot be pinned down and encapsulated, it defeats the categories of the mere mind and sings to us of our deeper self.
Overwhelmed as you may be by it, don't fail to spot the broken window tracery that has been used to build the wall here, for thereby hangs a tale.
St George, in case you don't know, is one of the great Suffolk churches. Although it may externally appear a little severe, and is by no means as grand as Blythburgh, Long Melford and the rest, it is a treasure house of the medieval inside. Unusually for a church of its date, it was all rebuilt in one go, in the late 14th century, and the perpendicular windows are not yet full of the 'walls of glass' confidence that the subsequent century would see. The tracery appears to have been repaired, and possibly even renewed, which may explain why there is broken medieval tracery in the churchyard wall. However, it doesn't take much to see that the tracery in the wall is not perpendicular at all, but decorated. So it may be that the broken tracery is from the original church that the late 14th century church replaced. But the wall isn't medieval, so where had it been all those years?
Another survival from the earlier church is the font. It also asks some questions. Unusually, it features a Saint on seven of the panels, Christ being on the westwards face. Mortlock dates it to the early 14th century, and the Saints it shows are familiar cults from that time: St Margaret, St Catherine, St Peter and St Paul, and less commonly St George. The cult of St George was at its height in the early years of the 14th century. Mortlock describes the font as mutilated, and it certainly isn't looking its best. But I think there is more going on here than meets the eye. Fonts were plastered over in Elizabethan times, and only relief that stood proud of the plaster was mutilated. These are all shallow reliefs, and I do not think they have been mutilated at all. To my eye at least, this stonework appears weathered. I wonder if this font was removed from the church, probably in the mid-17th century, and served an outdoor purpose until it was returned in the 19th century.
The story of this church in the 19th century is well-documented. In 1832, as part of his grand tour of Suffolk, David Davy visited, and was pleased to find that the church was at last undergoing repair. The chancel had been roofless, and the nave used for services. A new Rectory was being built. Who was the catalyst behind all this? His name was Samuel Rickards, and he was Rector here for almost the middle forty years of the 19th century. Roy Tricker notes that he was a good friend of John Henry Newman, the future Cardinal, and they often corresponded on the subject of the pre-Reformation ordering of English churches. It is interesting to think how, at this seminal moment, Rickards might have informed the thought of the Oxford Movement. Sadly, when Newman became a Catholic Rickards broke off all correspondence with him.
During the course of the 1840s and 1850s, Rickards transformed Stowlangtoft church. He got the great Ipswich woodcarver Henry Ringham in to restore, replicate and complete the marvellous set of bench ends - Ringham did the same thing at Woolpit, a few miles away. Ringham's work is so good that it is sometimes hard for the inexperienced eye to detect it; however, as at Woolpit, Ringham only copied animals here, and the wierder stuff is all medieval, and probably dates from the rebuilding of the church. The glory of Stowlangtoft's bench ends is partly the sheer quantity - there are perhaps 60 carvings - but also that there are several unique subjects; you can see some of them below.
The carvings appear to be part of the same group as Woolpit and Tostock - you will recognise the unicorn, the chained bear, the bull playing a harp, the bird with a man's head, from similar carvings elsewhere. And then hopefully that little alarm bell in your heard should start to go "Hmmmm....." because some of the carvings here are clearly not from the same group. It is hard to believe that the mermaid and the owl, for example, are from the same workshop, or even from the same decade. The benches themselves are no clue; it was common practice in the 19th century to replace medieval bench ends on modern benches, or on medieval benches, or even on modern benches made out of medieval timber (as happened at Blythburgh). Could it be that Samuel Rickards found some of these bench ends elsewhere? Could he have been the kind of person to do a thing like that?
Well, yes he could. As Roy Tricker recalls, the medieval roof at the tractarian Thomas Mozley's church at Cholderton in Wiltshire is one that Rickards acquired after finding it in storage in Ipswich docks. In the ferment of the great 19th century restoration of our English churches, there was loads of medieval junk lying around, much of it going begging. But was Samuel Rickards the kind of person to counterfeit his church's medieval inheritance?
Well, yes he probably was. Look at the medieval roundels in the middle window on the south side of the nave. The four evangelists are above and below two superb representations of the Presentation in the Temple and the Baptism of Christ. You can see them below; click on them to enlarge them. Unfortunately, they are not medieval at all, and it is generally accepted that they were painted by a daughter of Samuel Rickards himself. There is something similar the other side of Bury at Hawstead.
Truly medieval is the vast St Christopher wall-painting still discernible on the north wall. It was probably one of the last to be painted. The bench ends are medieval, of course, as is the fine rood-screen dado, albeit repainted. There is even some medieval glass in the upper tracery of some of the windows. The laughable stone pulpit is Rickard's commission, and the work of William White. What can Rickards have been thinking of? But we step through into the chancel, and suddenly the whole thing moves up a gear. For here are some things that are truly remarkable.
In a county famous for its woodwork, the furnishings of Stowlangtoft's chancel are breathtaking, even awe-inspiring. Behind the rood screen dado is Suffolk's most complete set of return stalls. Most striking are the figures that form finials to the stall ends. They are participants in the Mass, including two Priests, two servers and two acolytes. The figure of the Priest at a prayer desk must be one of the best medieval images in Suffolk; Mortlock thought the stalls the finest in England. I was here with my friend Aidan of Sylly Suffolk fame, and he had previously photographed and written about these carving a a couple of years ago. But even he found something new to photograph, and a hush fell on the chancel as we explored.
The benches that face eastwards are misericords, and beneath them are wonderful things: angels, lions and wodewoses, evangelistic symbols and crowned heads. A hawk captures a hare, a dragon sticks out its tongue. Between the seats are weird oriental faces. Some of them are below; click on them to enlarge them.
Now, you know what I am going to ask next. How much of this is from this church originally? It all appears medieval work, and there is no reason to believe it might not have been moved elsewhere in the church when the chancel was open to the elements. What evidence have we got?
Firstly, we should notice that the only other Suffolk church with such a large number of medieval misericords of this quality is just a mile away, at Norton. I don't ask you to see this as significant, merely to notice it in passing. Secondly, I am no carpenter, but it does look to me as though two sets of furnishings have been cobbled together; the stalls that back on to the screen appear to have been integrated into the larger structure of stalls and desks that front them and the north and south walls.
However, if you look closely at the figures of the two Deacons, you will see that they are bearing shields of the Ashfield and Peche families. The Ashfield arms also appear on the rood screen, and the Ashfields were the major donors when the church was rebuilt in the 14th century. So on balance I am inclined to think that the greater part of the stall structure was in this church originally from when it was rebuilt. And the misericords? Well, I don't know. But I think they have to be considered as part of the same set as those at Norton. In which case they may have come from the same church, which may have been this one, but may not have been. Almost certainly, the stalls at Norton did not come from Norton church, and folklore has it that they were originally in the quire of Bury Abbey. Hmm....
Other remarkable things in St George include FE Howard's beautiful war memorial in the former north doorway, and in the opposite corner of the nave Hugh Easton's gorgeous St George, which serves the same purpose. It is as good as his work at Elveden. Back up in the chancel is a delightful painted pipe organ which was apparently exhibited at, and acquired from, the Great Exhibition of 1851.
But St George at Stowlangtoft is, of course, most famous for the Flemish carvings that flank the rather heavy altarpiece. They were given to the church by Henry Wilson of Stowlangtoft Hall, who allegedly found them in an Ixworth junk shop. They show images from the crucifixion story, but are not Stations of the Cross as some guides suggest. They date from the 1480s, and were almost certainly the altarpiece of a French or Flemish monastery that was sacked during the French Revolution. I had seen something similar at Baumes-les-Messieurs in the French Jura a few weeks before. There, the carvings are brightly painted, as these once were, and piled up in a block rather than spread out in a line. The niches, and crowning arches above them, are 19th century. My favourite images are the Pieta and the Mouth of Hell. Click on the images below.
One cold winter's night in January 1977, a gang of thieves broke into this locked church and stole them. Nothing more was seen or heard of them until 1982, when they were discovered on display in an Amsterdam art gallery. Their journey had been a convoluted one; taken to Holland, they were used as security for a loan which was defaulted upon. The new owner was then burgled, and the carvings were fenced to an Amsterdam junk dealer. They were bought from his shop, and taken to the museum, which immediately identified them as 15th century carvings. They put them on display, and a Dutch woman who had read about the Stowlangtoft theft recognised them.
The parish instituted legal proceedings to get them back; an injunction was taken out to stop the new owner removing them from the museum. The parish lost the case, leaving them with a monstrous legal bill; but the story has a happy ending. A Dutch businessman negotiated their purchase from the owner, paid off the legal bills, and returned the carvings to Stowlangtoft. Apparently this was all at vast cost, but the businessman gave the gift in thanks for Britain's liberation of Holland for the Nazis. No, thank you, sir.
Today, the carvings are fixed firmly in place and alarmed, so they won't be going walkabout again. But a little part of me wonders if they really should be here at all. Sure, they are medieval, but they weren't here originally; they weren't even in England originally. Wouldn't it be better if they were displayed somewhere safer, where people could pay to see them, and provide some income for the maintenance of the church building? And then, whisper it, St George might even be kept open.
St George, Stowlangtoft, is in the village high street. Three keyholders are listed, two of them immediately opposite. I am told that Wednesday is not a good time to try and get the key - it is market day in Bury.
Simon Knott
A geologically young land, Iceland is the surface expression of the Iceland Plateau, a large igneous province forming as a result of volcanism from the Iceland hotspot and along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, the latter of which runs right through it. This means that the island is highly geologically active with many volcanoes including Hekla, Eldgjá, Herðubreið, and Eldfell.
Iceland has many geysers, including Geysir, from which the English word is derived, and the famous Strokkur, which erupts every 8–10 minutes.
With the widespread availability of geothermal power, and the harnessing of many rivers and waterfalls for hydroelectricity, most residents have access to inexpensive hot water, heating, and electricity. The island is composed primarily of basalt, a low-silica lava associated with effusive volcanism as has occurred also in Hawaii. Iceland, however, has a variety of volcanic types (composite and fissure), many producing more evolved lavas such as rhyolite and andesite. Iceland has hundreds of volcanoes with about 30 active volcanic systems.
The interior consists of a plateau characterised by sand and lava fields, mountains, and glaciers, and many glacial rivers flow to the sea through the lowlands.
Source: wikipedia.org
Ronda, Málaga (Spain).
ENGLISH
Ronda is a city in the Spanish province of Málaga. It is located about 100 km from the city of Málaga, within the autonomous community of Andalucía. Its population is 35,512. It is also accessible by rail from Algeciras and from Córdoba.
Ronda is situated in a very mountainous area about 750 m above mean sea level. The Rio Guadalevín runs through the city, dividing it in two and carving out the steep El Tajo canyon upon which the city is perched. Ronda was first settled by the early Celts, but its Roman and then Moorish rulers are reflected most prominently in its architecture. The forces of Catholic Spain took control of the town in 1485.
Three bridges, Puente Romano ("Roman Bridge", also known as the Puente San Miguel), Puente Viejo ("Old Bridge", also known as the Puente Arabe or "Arab Bridge") and Puente Nuevo ("New Bridge"), span the canyon. The term "nuevo" is a bit of a misnomer, since this bridge was completed in 1793. The Puente Nuevo is the tallest of the bridges, towering 120 meters above the canyon floor, and all three serve as some of the city's most impressive features.
Another important site in Ronda is the Plaza de Toros, the oldest bullfighting ring in Spain that is still used, albeit infrequently. It was built in 1784 in the Neoclassical style by the architect José Martin de Aldehuela, who also designed Puente Nuevo.
The partially intact baños árabes ("Arab baths") are found below the city and date back to the 13th and 14th centuries. Both Ernest Hemingway and Orson Welles resided in Ronda for many years, and both wrote about its beauty, contributing to its popularity.
Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls describes the murder of Nationalist sympathizers early in the Spanish Civil War by being thrown from the cliffs of El Tajo by the Republican forces.
The name of the eponimous Jewish hero of George Eliot's well-known novel Daniel Deronda seems to indicate that his ancestors lived in Ronda prior to the expulsion of the Jews from Spain in 1492.
The Spanish Fir (Abies pinsapo) is endemic to the mountains surrounding Ronda.
Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronda
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CASTELLANO
Ronda es una ciudad perteneciente a la comunidad autónoma de Andalucía, situada en el noroeste de la provincia de Málaga (España). Es la capital de la comarca de la Serranía de Ronda.
La ciudad se asienta sobre una meseta rocosa a 739 metros sobre el nivel del mar. Está dividida en dos partes por un cañón, conocido como el Tajo de Ronda, por el que discurre el río Guadalevín afluente del río Guadiaro. A continuación de la garganta del tajo propiamente dicha también se extiende el tajo sobre el valle de los Molinos. Al este de la ciudad se encuentra el parque natural de la Sierra de las Nieves, al sur el Valle del Genal, al oeste la Sierra de Grazalema y al norte otras tierras más llanas en dirección a Campillos.
Aunque en el entorno de la ciudad se han encontrado restos prehistóricos que se remontan al Neolítico entre los que destacan las pinturas rupestres de la Cueva de la Pileta, los orígenes de Ronda son celtas quienes en el siglo VI a.C. la llamaron Arunda. Posteriormente los fenicios se instalaron en una aldea cercana que llamaron Acinipo. Arunda, tras ser conquistada por los griegos, pasó a denominarse Runda.
Pero Ronda como tal fue fundada como consecuencia de la Segunda Guerra Púnica, durante la campaña que el general romano Escipión llevó a cabo contra los cartagineses que dominaban la Hispania a finales del siglo III a.C. Es entonces cuando se mandó construir el castillo de Laurus el cual favoreció el asentamiento de la población a su alrededor y alcanzando en tiempos de Julio César el rango de ciudad alcanzado sus habitantes, y los de la vecina Acinipo, la cualidad de ciudadanos romanos.
En el siglo V, con el fin del Imperio Romano, la ciudad es tomada por los suevos al mando de Rechila, pasando después por un período bizantino, en el que Acinipo fue definitivamente abandonado, hasta que Leovigildo la integró en el reino visigodo.
En el 711 se produce la invasión musulmana de la península y, en 713, la actual Ronda abre sus puertas, sin presentar batalla, al jefe bereber Zaide Ben Kesadi El Sebseki. La ciudad pasa a denominarse Izn-Rand Onda (la ciudad del castillo) convirtiéndose en la capital la capital de la provincia Andalusí de Takurunna.
Con la desintegración del califato de Córdoba, Ronda se convierte en un reino de Taifas independiente regido por Abu Nur Hilal Ben Abi Qurra, y será durante este periodo cuando se crea la mayor parte del patrimonio monumental con que cuenta el casco histórico de Ronda y los arrabales. Abu Nur Hilal fue sucedido por su hijo Abú Nasar quien tras morir asesinado provocó que Ronda pasará a formar parte del reino sevillano de al- Muthadid
El periodo islámico de la ciudad finaliza cuando, el 22 de mayo de 1485, el rey Fernando el Católico logra tomarla tras un prolongado asedio. Tras la conquista muchos de los monumentos erigidos por los musulmanes son remodelados adecuándose a la nueva situación que vive la ciudad que inicia un nuevo florecimiento que la hace crecer extendiéndose en nuevos barrios como los del “Mercadillo” y “San Francisco”, pasando a conocerse el antiguo núcleo árabe como “La Ciudad”.
En 1572 se funda la Real Maestranza de Caballería de Ronda con fines de entrenamiento para la defensa y las guerras del reino.
En el siglo XVIII la ciudad vive una etapa de importantes construcciones entre las que destacan el Puente Nuevo, que ha pasado a considerarse el símbolo de la ciudad, y la Plaza de toros.
A partir de esa época se crean los mitos románticos de bandoleros y toreros. El Castillo del Laurel, alcazaba de Ronda, es derribado por los franceses en su retirada. Durante los siglos XIX y XX la actividad económica de Ronda sigue siendo principalmente rural, siendo el punto de encuentro para los habitantes de los pueblos de la Serranía y teniendo momentos de esplendor a principios del siglo XX con la llegada del ferrocarril.
En 1918 se celebra la Asamblea de Ronda en la que se fijó el actual diseño de la Bandera, el Himno de Andalucía y su escudo. En esa época se empieza a consolidar la Caja Ahorros de Ronda que ha impulsado fuertemente la economía de la ciudad hasta su desaparición en 1990 al fusionarse con otras entidades bancarias en Unicaja.
Original Caption: Navajo Weavers At Hubbel Trading Post, the First Such Post on the Navajo Reservation
U.S. National Archives’ Local Identifier: 412-DA-1938
Photographer: Eiler, Terry, 1944-
Subjects:
Ganado (Apache county, Arizona, United States) inhabited place
Environmental Protection Agency
Project DOCUMERICA
Persistent URL: arcweb.archives.gov/arc/action/ExternalIdSearch?id=544431
Repository: Still Picture Records Section, Special Media Archives Services Division (NWCS-S), National Archives at College Park, 8601 Adelphi Road, College Park, MD, 20740-6001.
For information about ordering reproductions of photographs held by the Still Picture Unit, visit: www.archives.gov/research/order/still-pictures.html
Reproductions may be ordered via an independent vendor. NARA maintains a list of vendors at www.archives.gov/research/order/vendors-photos-maps-dc.html
Access Restrictions: Unrestricted
Use Restrictions: Unrestricted
Hit 'L' to view on large.
No real history found scouring the internet but my experience is that its harder to get into a prison than out.
The impromptu 2 day tour with camerashy and host to France and Belgium, with some new places, a lot of travel with minimal sleep and some goals being accomplished by getting to a certain school.
Full set here:
www.flickr.com/photos/timster1973/sets/72157633897345028/
Also on Facebook:
www.Facebook.com/TimKniftonPhotography
My blog here:
timster1973.wordpress.com
An inbound Skokie Swift "Yellow Line" train has just departed its initial terminal and is seen passing the old Chicago Rapid Transit Dempster Street Tower, in March 1995. CRT provided local service between Howard Street and Dempster Street until 1948, and had a separate terminal and storage yard that once was located out of view to the right. The tower controlled the interlocking on the CNS&M that provided access to the CRT facilities.
The Park of the Alcantara River covers the basin of the Alcantara river located on the northern slopes of the Etna volcano. The source of the river is located in the Nebrodi Mountains near to Floresta. The Alcantara river has a length of around 50 kilometres and, near to the point where it crosses a series of imposing lava flows, the river has created a series of deep gorges characterised by their sheer sides and columns with prismatic bases. The columns surround the walls of the basalt canyon like organ pipes. Inside the gorges small pools and cascades have formed where it is possible to take a swim. Access to the park is located near to Motta Camastra at Fondaco Motta and from this point it is possible to descend into the gorge to the riverbank on foot via a long pathway or, upon payment, via a series of private lifts. In the summer the Circumetnea railway offers a tourist package which includes a guided tour of the Alcantara Gorges. Another feature worthy of a visit are the so-called "Gurne" of small lakes which are formed by the river near to Francavilla di Sicilia.
The Alcantara is a river in Sicily. It has its source on the south side of Monti Nebrodi and its mouth in the Ionian Sea at Capo Schiso in Giardini-Naxos. The river is 52 km long.The name Alcantara is of Arabic origin (al Qanţara - the Bridge) and refers to a bridge from Roman times found by the Arabs.Thucydides called it Akesines Potamos while its Latin names were "Assinus or Assinos" and "Onobala".Cantera was another hydronym adopted by Normans.The Alcantara has its source at an altitude of 1250m in the municipality of Floresta. On its way to the sea, past the north of Mount Etna, it flows through the municipalities of Randazzo, Mojo Alcantara, Francavilla di Sicilia, Motta Camastra, Castiglione di Sicilia, Graniti, Gaggi, Calatabiano, Taormina and Giardini-Naxos.Several thousand years ago, the river bed was blocked by a lava flow from Mount Etna. As the lava was cooled much more quickly by the water than it would have done otherwise, it crystallised in the form of columns. Over the next millennia, the river naturally eroded a channel through these columns, resulting in impressive gorges and ravines such as the "Gole dell'Alcantara".
Il parco fluviale dell'Alcantara è un parco regionale della Sicilia che è stato istituito nel 2001 al posto della preesistente riserva e comprende quella parte di territorio delle province di Messina e Catania che forma il bacino fluviale del fiume Alcantara, ed è situato nel versante nord dell'Etna, allo scopo di proteggere e promuovere il sistema naturale esistente.La sede del Parco si trova a Francavilla di Sicilia, nella struttura costruita negli anni novanta per ospitare un asilo nido e mai usata.Il territorio attraversato dal fiume Alcantara è di particolare importanza in virtù della sua morfologia creata proprio dallo scorrimento delle acque che lo hanno modellato ed inciso creando, nell'attraversamento di un'imponente serie di colate laviche, in località Fondaco Motta (comune di Motta Camastra) delle suggestive e profonde gole a strapiombo, conosciute come le Gole dell'Alcantara. Insieme ad uno spettacolare succedersi di laghetti e di cascate, di acque freddissime, è possibile osservare le stupefacenti strutture laviche colonnari a base prismatica. Disposte a canne d'organo esse decorano per lunghi tratti le pareti di roccia basaltica. Grazie allo studio di tali strutture i geologi hanno potuto elaborare precisi studi sull'evoluzione del vulcano Etna e sulla successione nel tempo delle sue colate più imponenti.Nel 1493 il Bembo descriveva la valle dell'Alcantara come fitta di boschi di platani, querce, roveri ed olmi. Oggi sopravvivono solo rare tracce di Platanus orientalis, mentre predomina la tipica macchia mediterranea con varie specie di ginestra e la Peonia mascula con la sua infiorescenza rossa. Man mano che si scende di quota fitti boschi di nocciolo si alternano agli agrumeti e ai vigneti da cui si ricava un vino scuro e corposo famoso dall'antichità. Ancora boschetti di quercia e pascoli. In primavera le rive sono tutte un'esplosione cromatica: fioriture di viola, papavero, anemone, mirto, rosa canina, ficodindia, terebinto, oleandro e varie specie di orchidee (tra le altre Anacamptis papilionacea, Ophrys tenthredinifera e Orchis purpurea). L'avifauna della valle dell'Alcantara è assai varia, circa 200 specie, tra le quali vanno menzionate tra i rapaci il falco pellegrino, il gheppio e il lodolaio, estinto come nidificante il Lanario. Dubbia la presenza del piccione selvatico ben distribuita la tortora selvatica e il martin pescatore fino ai migratori della foce. Non raramente si incontrano anche la coturnice, la garzetta e il corvo imperiale. Altri animali presenti sono la volpe, il gatto selvatico, la martora, e il ghiro; ed ancora il riccio, l'istrice, l'arvicola di Savi e la crocidura siciliana. Presso le rive può trovarsi il discoglosso dipinto, anfibio tipico della Sicilia e il colubro leopardino, un bellissimo rettile raro ed innocuo. Tra le specie ittiche troviamo la trota iridea che in questo particolare corso d'acqua riesce a riprodursi, il triotto, l'anguilla e il ghiozzo.
L'Alcantara è un fiume della Sicilia orientale lungo 52 chilometri, tributario del Mar Ionio. Il suo bacino idrico si estende per circa 573 km² nelle province di Messina e di Catania.
L'Alcantara anticamente era chiamato dai Greci Akesines e dai Romani Onobola. Il nome attuale deriva dal termine di origine araba Al qantar (il ponte).Nasce dai Nebrodi a circa 1.400 m dalla Serra Baratta in Provincia di Messina. Dirigendosi impetuoso verso sud entra in Provincia di Catania giungendo in breve nella parte Nord della cittadina di Randazzo: qui muta bruscamente direzione grazie alla "spinta" del suo principale affluente di destra: il fiume Flascio. Rimpinguato notevolmente nella portata dall'affluente l'Alcantara si dirige verso est compiendo praticamente un angolo retto (è da precisare che sulle carte il fiume principale parebbe essere addirittura il Flascio e non l'Alcantara tanto è netto l'angolo di confluenza). Da qui il fiume prende a scorrere tra il massiccio di origine vulcanica del monte Etna a sud e i contrafforti meridionali dei monti Nebrodi e Peloritani a nord, fungendo sino alla foce da confine tra le province di Messina e Catania. Dal comune di Moio Alcantara in poi il fiume inizia a scorrere per lo più incassato, lambendo i centri di Francavilla di Sicilia e Castiglione di Sicilia. Presso Motta Camastra in località Fondaco Motta, dopo aver ricevuto da sinistra il torrente Zavianni, il fiume si inforra in uno spettacolare tratto ingolato costituito da lave basaltiche delle colate dell'Etna, le cosiddette Gole dell'Alcantara, meta assai celebre e frequentata ogni anno da migliaia di turisti. Da Gaggi fino verso Calatabiano il fiume amplia l'alveo per tornare a restringersi in prossimità della foce, nel territorio di Giardini-Naxos, dove solcano le campate del famoso ponte di origine araba Al qantar (il ponte), dal quale derivò il nome di questo meraviglioso corso d'acqua. La foce avviene nel Mar Ionio e precisamente in loc. San Marco.Il letto dell'Alcantara, sotto il profilo vulcanologico, ha visto in epoche preistoriche e protostoriche, il passaggio a più riprese di colate laviche che ne hanno ostruito e modificato il percorso. Il corso d'acqua ha così creato localmente delle caratteristiche forre con pareti alte diverse decine di metri, caratterizzate da strutture a colonne subverticali detta a canna d'organo o leggermente arcuate ad arpa e a ventaglio o disposte orizzontalmente a catasta di legna o, infine, disposte caoticamente e fratturate. Nel comune di Motta Camastra, sul versante Messinese, si trova l'unica grotta di scorrimento vulcanico: difficile da raggiungere ma splendida da ammirare viene chiamata Grotta dei Cento cavalli a testimoniare le sue enormi dimensioni.L'Alcantara è uno dei principali fiumi siciliani per portata media d'acqua in quanto seconda solo a quella del Simeto con circa 9 m³/s. Ove però si considerasse la regolarità di regime delle portate il fiume è sicuramente il primo della regione in quanto assai più regolare rispetto al Simeto. Ciò grazie alla collocazione dell'alto bacino che si estende in una delle aree più piovose della Sicilia unitamente all'approvvigionamento dato dai nevai dell'Etna e al carsismo dei terreni di origine lavica del medio bacino, spiega la sua cospicua portata annua e la presenza di acque anche nel periodo estivo. Non mancano in ogni caso piene eccezionali dovute a piogge insistenti, come avvenuto recentemente nel dicembre 2003, durante le quali l'Alcantara può mostrare un'impressionante irruenza soprattutto nel tratto ingolato.
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The Erie Bluffs are behind me in this picture. Some areas are 80+ feet above the shore. If you're into outdoor activities this is a place that you could easily spend the whole day doing a variety of things.
Some advertised access points aren't all that accessible. This access on Conetoe Creek poses an adventure in itself.
The former Wrysgan Slate Quarry in the Moelwyn Mountains, by Tanygrisiau, Blaenau Ffestiniog, Gwynedd, North Wales.
Wrysgan sits high on the flank of Moel-yr-hydd, to the south of Cwm Orthin. It was separated from Cwm Ystradau by a sharp ridge, through which the quarry bored an inclined tunnel in order to connect to the Festiniog Railway.
On the north side of the tunnel a tramway led to the mill and stacking area, which stood on a small area of flat ground high above Cwm Orthin. To the south of the mill an incline led up to the main floor 3 adit which led west into the chambers underneath Moel-yr-hydd. Further adits lay to the south, accessing other levels.
The first slate was worked at Wrysgan in the 1830s. In the 1850s the quarry underwent a substantial expansion, including the construction of a mill on the site. This mill was replaced with a larger facility in 1865 which was powered by a waterwheel supplied from the LLyn Wrysgan reservoir above. Electricity was introduced in 1920. The quarry closed and the incline was lifted in 1946.
Information Source:
Washington Metro has a handful of these VPG MV-1 vehicles that it uses for Metro Access paratransit service.
Christoph Kainz, Mayor of Pfaffstätten Municipality Baden County, Lower Austria, delivers his opening remarks at the Inauguration of the new access road to the IAEA laboratories Seibersdorf. 12 April 2016.
Photo Credit: Dean Calma / IAEA
Veteran oak by rideside,Windsor Forest and Great Park, Berkshire
Credit:© Natural England/Des Sussex
Summer 2016
IAEA Director General Yukiya Amano arrives at the inauguration ceremony of the new access road to the IAEA Seibersdorf laboratories on 12 April 2016.
Photo Credit: Dean Calma / IAEA
Cookie on Left - I used Wilton Decorating Tip 2. It was too big.
Cookie on Right - I used Wilton Decorating Tip 1S. A little better.
Here is what I did to create these Star Wars cookies...
I used Wilton gel colors for frosting - leaf green and black.
www.wilton.com/store/site/product.cfm?id=3E30B2D9-475A-BA...
I used silver dragees for Yoda's eyes.
I also used Williams Sonoma's Star Wars Cookie Cutters.
Here's the recipe I used (from my coworker Jen Fritzler)...
Sugar Cookies
(NOTE: This recipe doesn’t make many cookies, so I made two batches of this recipe.)
Ingredients:
1 3/4 cup flour
½ teaspoon baking powder
1/8 teaspoon salt
¾ cup sugar
1 stick of butter
1 egg
3/4 teaspoon vanilla
* Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
* Mix flour, salt and baking powder in one mixing bowl and put aside.
* Soften butter
* Mix butter with the sugar in another mixing bowl. Then mix in egg and vanilla until everything is thoroughly mixed.
* Slowly mix in the flour mixture into the butter/sugar/egg mixture.
*Wrap the dough in cling wrap and put it in the freezer for an half hour or so. Bake the cookies the same day you make the dough or else the dough gets dried out and it is difficult to roll out if you are cutting out shapes. You want the dough chilled so the cookies retain their shapes.
* Roll the cookies out to about 1/3 inch. Make sure you don’t overly flour the dough as you are rolling it out, or it becomes more difficult to reroll again.
* The recipe says the cookies should be in the oven for 10 minutes (on an ungreased baking pan - I use a silpat), but make sure you start checking on the cookies about 6-7 minutes in. You know the cookies are ready if you start seeing the bottom edges of the cookies start to slightly turn a light tan (if it is darker than a light tan, they are burning).
* Move the freshly baked cookies off of the baking pan as soon as it comes out of the oven, or else it will stick to the pan (unless you're using a silpat).
Royal Icing
Ingredients:
(NOTE - you must sterilize all of our equipment and materials when making Royal Icing. If there is a speck of grease or fat on anything, your icing will fail and not set)
4 cups of powdered sugar
3 tablespoons of meringue powder (you can get this at Meijer’s and Michael’s in the cake decorating section. This is what hardens and makes the icing shiny)
~6 tablespoons of warm water
1 plastic “ketchup” bottle (you can also get this at Meijer and Michael’s in the cake decorating section. It costs less than a dollar.)
Dye (if you want the icing to have a color)
* Use an electric mixer and mix powdered sugar, meringue powder and warm water together. Make sure you don’t over mix…you don’t want the icing to be “whipped.” Mixing it for about 1 minute is perfect.
* Check the consistency. (Use the 10 second rule! Read here.)
* When you think you have a good consistency, add the dye and mix for another 20 seconds. For Yoda I used Wilton's leaf green gel color with a little bit of black.
* Now it's time to frost the main color of each cookie. Take the plastic ketchup bottle and cut the very edge of the tip off (so that you have about ¼ inch diameter of an opening on the tip). Open the bottle and start spooning the icing into the bottle. (You might not want to fill the bottle in case you discover the icing is not the correct consistency.) Make sure that you put a damp paper towel over the remaining icing in the mixing bowl, or else it will dry up.
* Take a cookie and squeeze the icing bottle and trace around the perimeter of the cookie. If the icing is oozing off of the cookie, it means that you have too much water in the icing. You will need to dump the icing back into the mixing bowl and add more powdered sugar.
* After you have outlined the perimeter of the cookie, go back and “flood” in the rest of the cookie. If you are finding that the icing isn’t really flooding around the perimeter well (even when you try to help it along), it means you have too much baking powder. You need to dump the icing back into the mixing bowl and add a little more water.
* After you have iced the cookies with their main color (yoda = green, darth vader = black, storm trooper = white), you need to lay the cookies out overnight to dry and adding the final details.
* After the base color is dry, it's time to add the facial details. I used Wilton round decorating tip 1L or 1S. I found round 2 decorating tip to be too big.
* You can lightly lay wax paper or paper towel over the cookies as long as the top layers of the frosting is relatively dry. If you completely cover the cookies so that they don’t have access to air, the frosting won’t dry and the frosting tends to “wrinkle,” thus, ruining the cookies.
May the force be om nom nom no
Estimates of people who have ever or never used the Internet, Quarter 1 2013
www.ons.gov.uk/ons/infographics/q1-2013-internet-access/i...
A Grove National telescopic crane mounted on a Volvo FL7 chassis displays the tilting cab with the telescopic boom still sat in the boom rest support. An official Grove picture
Governor Kathy Hochul and MTA Chair & CEO Janno Lieber are joined by other officials at a groundbreaking ceremony at the future Parkchester Metro-North station, part of the future Penn Access project, on Friday, December 9, 2022.
The Point Community Development Corporation.
(Marc A. Hermann / MTA)
A few days ago, at the beginning of December 2024, celebrations televised worldwide heralded the coming back to life of the Notre–Dame Cathedral in Paris, after the accidental and disastrous timber roof fire of April 2019. This joyous occasion was an opportunity to vaunt the vastness of the cathedral.
Well, today and over the following days, I invite you to discover a much-less known, but much more surprising, church, the abbey church of Pontigny, in the equally little known département of Yonne (a part of Burgundy), about 150 kilometers southeast of Paris. There, at the edge of a small village and framed by the tall trees of a dark forest, an enormous vessel of stone stands in the middle of wheat fields, towering above everything else, even though it doesn’t have towers nor spire...
It has two things in common with the cathedral of Paris: at 120 meters, the length of its nave almost that of Notre–Dame (130 meters), and in addition to being an abbey church, Pontigny is also a cathedral... It is also the oldest, as when the first stone of Notre–Dame was laid in 1163, Pontigny was already built.
The abbey of Pontigny was founded in 1114 by a group of monks led by Hugues of Mâcon. For the second time after the foundation of La Ferté the year before, monks of the Cîteaux Abbey left the mothership to found a new monastery. Pontigny thus became and will forever remain “the second daughter of Cîteaux”, an important claim in an order than will number more than 2,200 monasteries of monks and nuns.
Donations flow in. Counting more than a dozen Kings of France among its benefactors, not to mention a good half-dozen Kings of England, the abbey will also give refuge to three archbishops of Canterbury, two of them saints: Thomas Becket and Edme (or Edmund) of Abingdon, whose relics are still buried in the choir of the church.
Built largely thanks to generous funding by Thibaut the Great, Earl of Champagne whose daughter Adele will marry King Louis VII, the church we can still admire today is built between 1138 and around 1150, although additions will be made to it as late as the early 1200s. It is mostly Romanesque, but the influence of the Gothic style can be seen in the latest rows of the nave, and of course in the ceiling, which is rib-vaulted —the first time this architecture was ever used in Burgundy.
During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the abbey will be one of the richest and most powerful of the Western world, counting more than forty priories, vast lands and assorted properties in many different cities. Its library was also famous.
Listed as a Monument historique (Historic Landmark) on the very first list drawn up in 1840 by Minister Prosper Mérimée, the abbey church is almost all that’s left of the abbey, which was severely damaged during the Hundred Years War, then during the Wars of Religion, and finally during the French Revolution.
Since 1954, the abbey church is also the legal seat and headquarters of the “Mission de France” territorial prelature, which inspired the so-called “worker priests” which are quite well known in France. For that reason, the abbey church was granted by the Pope the status of cathedral of that prelature.
I’ve had the pleasure to visit this grandiose church, the largest ever in the Cistercian order, in late May 2024, within the scope of a photographic mission for the Fondation pour La Sauvegarde de l’Art Français, one of the not-for-profit organizations I work for as a pro bono photographer. I was given access to what’s left of the cloister, a part which is normally off-limits.
The base of some columns in the nave has been decorated, while most of them remain bare. I have used the rotating and tilting possibilities of my lens to restrict sharp focus to the two bases I meant to showcase in this photograph.
St Michael's at Felton was refreshingly easier of access after the previous church I'd visited nearby! How nice to have a normal peaceful approach to its peaceful secluded churchyard without having various obstacles to get in and out (especially the live ones!).
The church was rebuilt in 1854 so what we see is today is an entirely Victorian vision, but done with some humility so that it still has the feel of a rural Herefordshire church without the usual flamboyant excesses of the period.
The interior is a fairly simple but prayerful space, its lighting subdued by various examples of Victorian and later glass that enliven a few of the windows.
I found this church open and welcoming and while it shows nothing of its earlier history it is a pleasant place to drop by for a short visit.
Toni’s brain injury changed her life.
Eleven years ago, she was working as an operating room technician, a vocation that requires mental acuity and physical stamina. After she sustained a brain injury, her cognitive and physical challenges meant she was unable to return to her job.
An acquired brain injury is damage to the brain caused by a traumatic event, such as a blow to the head, or a non-traumatic event, such as a stroke. Brain injury is one of the leading causes of disability and can completely alter the way people live their lives.
Learn more: news.gov.bc.ca/releases/2020SDPR0033-001007
When it opened in 1968, The Hampshire Shopping Centre was one of the first of a new type of 'out of town' shopping centre, and was one of the first in the country..
The Woolco department store was it's flagship tenant, Woolco being part of the Woolworths empire, with its trademark own brand goods being sold under the Winfield label.
Woolco was very much like a modern day supermarket, selling groceries, clothes, toys, records and books.
When you entered you had to check your personal bags in at the bag storage desk, receiving in return, a numbered disc on a small loop to put around your wrist for safe keeping, an identical one having been wrapped around the handle of your bags.
After shopping you would reclaim your bags before going to the checkouts.
At the opposite end to Woolco was a shop called Williamson and Treadgold, grocers who had branches in Bournemouth for many years.
A few short years later Williamson and Treadgold had given way to Kelsall who, if i remember correctly, were also grocers who also sold other goods as i can remember looking at those Top of the Pops LPs in the early 1970s. They had the glamorous girl in a bikini on the cover and contained the big hits of the day, however, not by the original artist, as the small print on the back cover would reveal.
Kelsall also had an escalator as it was on two floors..
Between Woolco and Williamson and Treadgold, later Kelsall, the middle section of the centre was made up of a dozen or so smaller shops under a covered walkway area that had some two sided benches and a pond / fountain surrounded by glass panels that always had an impressve collection of coins, mainly copper ones, on the bottom, shoppers having been encouraged by a sign to throw in their small change for charity.
Sometime in the late 1970s / early 1980s the western end was remodelled and Sainsburys, and a few other new tenants, moved in.
The centre was also given a facelift, with a clock and large multicoloured panels being added to the front.
Woolco closed in 1986 and that unit became a Gateway supermarket in 1987, and not many years later Asda moved in.
A B&Q warehouse opened within the centre's grounds in the mid 1980s..
In 2001 work began on demolishing the Hampshire Centre and replacing it with the much larger Castlepoint shopping centre..
During much of the work the Hampshire Centre Asda remained trading until the new Asda building opened in April 2003.
Also in April 2003 Barclays and Nat West Banks in the Castlepoint West Shopping Village, that fronted onto Castle Lane West, and Sainsburys at the western end of the centre, and B&Q and the afforementioned ASDA at the eastern end, opened.
The rest of the centre opened in latter 2003 / early 2004..
The new centre's car park gave cause for alarm when pieces of concrete began to fall off, revealing the steel reinforcing beneath.
The whole centre was forced to close over Christmas 2005 whilst the safety of the car park was assessed and some remedial works carried out.
The centre reopened and the long legal battle to find out who would be responsible for rebuilding the car park began.
As of 2012 the issue remains unresolved.
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SOME NOTABLE HAMPSHIRE CENTRE TENANTS.
WOOLCO
WILLIAMSON AND TREADGOLD
KELSALL
NAT WEST BANK
FADS - DECORATING SUPPLIES.
OLIVERS - SHOE SHOP
RUMBELOWS - HOME ELECTRICAL RETAILER
CURRYS - HOME ELECTRICAL RETAILER
MILLETS - CAMPING AND OUTDOOR CLOTHING / EQUIPMENT.
LAUNDORAMA - SELF SERVICE LAUNDERETTE
ASDA
GATEWAY - SUPERMARKET
SUPERBUYS - DISCOUNT STORE
IN X CESS - DISCOUNT STORE
BARCLAYS BANK
THERE WAS A TYRE BAY ON WOOLCO END OF THE BUILDING, I CAN'T REMEMBER THE NAME, BUT IT HAD A LARGE TRACTOR TYRE SET INTO THE CONCRETE OUTSIDE.
THERE WAS ALSO A PETROL STATION AT THE FRONT OF THE CENTRE, SET BACK FROM CASTLE LANE WEST, IT WAS BETWEEN THE TWO ACCESS ROADS THAT LED IN AND OUT OF THE CENTRE FROM CASTLE LANE WEST, DIRECTLY OPPOSITE CATTISTOCK RD.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!