View allAll Photos Tagged Footfall
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
-Sarah Teasdale
Taken October 2007, at Lake Crabtree in Raleigh, NC
Bordesley is served by just one Parliamentary service each week, the xxxx Whitlocks End - Kidderminster service, but on match days, it becomes a busy hub for 'Bluenoses', fans of Birmingham City FC, whose St Andrews stadium is just a short walk from the station. On such days several services call at the station, both before and after the match, substantially increasing its footfall. On 2nd March 2024, Class 172 No. 172344 is at the rear of a five car combination including No. 172006, leading, forming service 2C63 1315 Worcester Foregate Street - Dorridge. Southampton were the visitors, who secured a 4-3 victory, much to the chagrin. no doubt, of the 'bluenoses' seen here heading for St Andrews with optimism. Copyright Photograph John Whitehouse - all rights reserved
Black Redstart. (Phoenicurus ochruros) Full frame.
I have long maintained that of all wildlife photography types/genres, urban birds can be amongst the most difficult or challenging for getting shots that would pass as half decent. When I say 'urban' I don't mean the back garden or park, I mean city centre built up areas with high rises, high footfall, heavy vehicular traffic, heat extractors and windows chucking out wobbly air, smoke from traffic and rubbish floating about like tumbleweed in a spaghetti western. You do not get the luxury of getting the light behind you because the high rise buildings block the light for most of the day, especially when it is early or late and the light is at its sweetest. The bright light you do get is usually harsh overhead sun (not good for bird photography) when you are lucky to get sun at all. Very often you are in shadow so the light is dim but the next second the creature can hop into bright overhead sun. It can get quite windy in the back streets with the 'wind tunnel' effect. The frustration builds! In the summer the heat on the concrete and tarmac creates shimmer even at close range, shimmer kills sharpness. You cannot always use tripods because of vibration caused by the traffic and tripods can inhibit pedestrians seeking passage. Often, when you prepare to take a shot, a bus or lorry goes by, either putting a creature in more shade or blocking the subject altogether, or worse, scaring it off. Very often the presence of pedestrians limits maneuvering your lens when on a narrow path. You get no pre-arranged setups from tour guides or leaders. You have to make your own setups if indeed setups are possible. The buildings and architectural features can throw up very odd intersecting lines especially when shooting upwards. And of course, you have to wait for a bird that may not turn up at all! You have to remain alert and you cannot relax into conversations with members of the public who are determined to converse with you, or those you may feel obliged to engage with. Trust me...when you chat you will miss the bird or action. I have imaged urban peregrines a lot. Probably more than anyone in the UK. You don't get the benefit of a falcon appearing in your peripheral vision or at a distance as you would at a coastal setting so that you can line up a shot...such would be a luxury. You may get a bird for half a second with a clear sky but for the most part, there will be a building making tracking more difficult. Peregrines at the coast in my view are unlikely to be a real challenge IMHO once you get past getting the license (for UK birds in breeding season). Another irritating factor is having to get permissions to use land or buildings and listening to the crass health and safety reasons why you won't be allowed. Occasionally building security staff interupt your day with the usual 'you may be a terrorist' excuse to try and stop you. Sometimes though building owners are sympathetic and I have found some to go beyond being reasonable in order to assist. I thank them.
When I embarked on my first family of Black Redstarts this year, I spent upwards of 15 hours in a stinky hole of a back alley squatting next to rubbish bins in the company of rats and enduring all of the above including the worst of all....people...loud mouthed yobs and drunkards and all the tossers that society can throw at you who just want to ruin your day, if not rob you. A long lens is a magnet, a curiosity, for such people, which I could well do without. However, I did meet some decent folk who did their best to accommodate my needs and I thank them for it. And finally, for me, it's all about the birds and because of the birds...I wouldn't change a thing!
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
~T.S. Eliot
The narrow Calle del Scaleter in Venice still carries a heavy pedestrian footfall as part of the main route between the Campo San Polo and the Campo San Agostin.
Cineworld in Brighton Marina showed its final films last night before closing down for the ‘foreseeable’ future. If only a crystal ball could show us what is ‘foreseeable’. Sadly over half the restaurants in the marina did not reopen after lockdown. Those that have reopened will struggle without the footfall from Cineworld.
Title.
Central Park sidewalk.
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Central Park, Manhattan, New York, USA. 2017. ... 7 / 9
(Today's photo. It's unpublished.)
Images:
The Beatles … Across The Universe
youtu.be/eqUzU552X8A?si=LDd91wXz4ROBUYco
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
Volume 15 😄
The following is still in its draft stage and will be revised further.
Key parts are not disclosed.
The order of the content shown here is mixed.
(Of course, this is not the final version.)
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
The summer afternoon light in Manhattan flashed off the glass faces of the towers; each time the asphalt’s heat shimmered through an alley, the vast edifice of the FBI’s New York field office seemed to inhale the city’s clamor and, while remaining immovably composed, exuded the taut vigilance and tension within. Behind the heavy iron door set at that corner, the countless gazes of surveillance cameras and the movements of guards intertwined, announcing an order that would not be shaken by the heat waves or the bustle outside.
Special Agent Veronica Reeves—bearing a wealth of experience yet possessed of an uncompromising, honed gaze—sat reading, in quiet concentration, through the sheaf of reports that had been compiled so far, spread across the long table by the window. Whenever the summer breeze outside brushed the glass and rippled the air, her thought answered in kind, narrowing to the tiniest details and sculpting, in three dimensions within her mind, the range and consequences of the incident.
Her hands reconstructed the numbers and map symbols on the pages as if to include the city’s heated pedestrian flows, traffic lines, and the density of clustered buildings; her methodical ordering of the initial response bore a cold, tranquil certainty. The white glare of the overhead fluorescents trembled across the papers; even the shadows that wavered at the edge of her sight seemed to be folded into her analysis as unknown variables. With a fingertip she traced a point on the map, instantaneously combining thoroughfares, crowd densities, and building concentrations, rendering a volumetric sense of the scene inside her head.
The ring of telephones, the faint hiss of radios, and the distant wail of sirens in the streets were not mere noise to her but additional strata of information to be quietly assimilated. Her eyes were the very image of composure; yet the slight twitch in some muscles, the tremor in her fingers, betrayed a crisis-awareness coiled within—she displayed no outward emotion, advancing only with facts and inference.
She gathered the documents, exhaled deeply, and, staring out at the summer light and heat beyond the window, quietly contemplated her next move. Slowly she settled into her chair, arranged the bundle of reports before her, and with the city’s wavering heat at her back began to reconstruct the timeline in her mind. The intersections where red and green signals interlaced, the scent of exhaust hanging at street corners, the walking pace of passersby, the shadows of cars parked along curbs—each of these linked to the figures on the page and the marks on the map to conjure the three-dimensional flow of New York within her thought.
Fragments of reports arriving via radio and phone were drawn into the net of her analysis and placed into time and space. At what moment, and in which place, did the flow of people shift? Who might have entered which building? Combining traffic congestion, crowd movement, and the structure of buildings, she sought to reconstruct the entirety of the scene with minimal margin for error.
Her eyes remained calm, yet the fine tension of her muscles hinted at the vigilance beneath. Tracing a point on the map with a fingertip, she called up memories of past incidents and urban-planning data, calculating risk for each scenario. City layout, crowd density, locations of exits—every element was aligned upon a grid of logic, and all conceivable contingencies were hypothesized.
The outside heat warped the window glass; the city’s murmur and the distant siren did not break her focus but rather deepened the realism of the scenario she ran in her mind. Numbers on the page and the city’s tangible image overlapped within a cold rationality, and she prepared to derive the next action with precision.
Her gaze rested on photographs among the documents; she scrutinized the expressions of the crowd, the placement of security personnel, the positions of obstacles. Her look was merciless and exacting, missing no slight incongruity, refusing to be swayed by the city’s heat, attempting instead to enclose every variable within the net of reason.
In the office, where the cool air from the conditioning braided with summer’s heat, her thinking increased in speed—quietly, inexorably. What might happen next? Which routes were safe and which dangerous? Momentary judgments here could determine the safety of the crowd and the candidate’s life. Logic, steady and unyielding, wound through her hands like the thread that could untangle the city’s complexity.
Before her lay not only papers but computer screens and radio displays—sources of fragmented information that gained meaning only after passing through Veronica’s filter. The work of composing the whole from data and observed reality advanced, cool and silent, amid the city’s warmth.
Each time her fingertip traced the map, Manhattan’s streets materialized three-dimensionally in her mind: building density, pedestrian flows, surveillance-camera arcs, guard positions—linked together by a merciless chain of logic that suggested the next moves. Veronica inhaled and exhaled deeply; in that mute rhythm she connected all variables, fixing her attention on the heart of the matter. The distant sirens, car horns, and the footfalls of people pausing at an intersection became pieces of a puzzle that melted into a stream of reason. The city shimmered under heat; light and shadow fractured and scattered—but Veronica’s mind passed through that heat and outlined the incident in its entirety.
She reached for the office extension, feeling the cool resin of the handset between her fingers, and called Deputy Special Agent Elliot. “Put me through to Jack Vance of the Secret Service,” she said.
“Copy. I’ll contact Jack immediately.”
On the other end, his voice feigned calm while carrying a filament of tension. His eyes were on the streets beyond the window, unconsciously tracking intersections and pedestrian flows, instantly computing each possible outcome. Fingers rested on the keyboard; he checked the radio terminal and looped the next potential events into the net of his thought. Elliot’s “copy” was not a mere acknowledgment but a confirmation of steady judgement in the face of urban turbulence—and a quiet testament to his faith in Veronica.
A black Ford SUV tore through the heat of the streets. Jack gripped the wheel; impatience etched his profile. In the back seat, Anna drew herself close, stretching an arm protectively over the children while still forcing her voice out. “Watch the road, Jack!” The vehicle bucked under its own motion; the children’s voices rose—part cheer, part scream—caught between terror and exhilaration. Beside them, Mika bit her lip and, speechless, stitched her gaze to the window.
Behind, a pursuing car growled; bullets kissed the asphalt and left a metallic tang in the air. Sparks flared against concrete facades; gunfire scraped at the city’s skin. Jack’s Ford ignored lights and crowds alike, mounting the sidewalk as if to fling aside the screams of the throng in its wake.
Soon the massive shadow of the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building fell across them. The tower of steel and glass reflected the noonday light with a hard edge, standing high and concentrated like the city’s own tension made architecture. Veronica Reeves stood by the window and followed the car’s black silhouette at her feet. “…No,” she said under her breath. “That Ford tearing along the sidewalk—surely that isn’t you?”
Jack’s voice crackled over the radio, rough and breathless. “We were being chased! We just happened to come here—this isn’t my doing!”
Veronica held her breath and instantly issued orders to Deputy Special Agent Elliot. “Contact the NYPD now. Lock down every street and avenue.”
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My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
There’s still more to come. 😃
(This is not the final draft.)
Set in New York City.
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Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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Title.
セントラルパークの側道。
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 7 / 9
(今日の写真。それは未発表です。）
Images:
The Beatles … Across The Universe 和訳
note.com/yutosn/n/na8a3ff93b391
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
第15弾。 😄
以下は、まだ初稿の段階です。まだ推敲します。
重要な部分は公開していません。
公開している内容の順番はバラバラです。
(もちろん最終稿ではありません。)
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
マンハッタンの夏の午後の光が高層ビル群のガラスにぎらつき、アスファルトの熱気が路地を揺らすたびに、FBIニューヨーク支局の巨大な建物は都市の喧騒を吸い込み、どっしりと静けさを保ちながらも、その内部に張り詰めた警戒と緊張をにじませていた。その角に設えられた厚い鉄の扉の向こうでは、監視カメラの無数の視線と警備員の動きが絡み合い、外界の熱波や人々のざわめきにも揺るがぬ秩序を守っていることを告げていた。
ヴェロニカ・リーヴス特別捜査官は、豊富な経験を背負いながらもなお研ぎ澄まされた眼差しで、窓際の長机に広げられた、これまでに起こった報告がまとめられた資料の束を静かに読み解いていた。外の夏風がわずかに窓に当たり、空気を揺らすたび、彼女の思考もそれに呼応するように細部まで集中され、事件の可能性や影響範囲を論理の中に立体的に描き出していった。
書類に記された数字や地図の記号を、熱せられた街の動線や人々の流れ、ビルの密集度までを含めるかのように頭の中で再構築し、事件の初動を論理的に整理していく手つきには、冷たくも静かな確信が宿っていた。
天井の蛍光灯の白い光が、紙面に落ちる影を揺らし、視界の隅で揺れるその影さえも、未知の変数として分析に取り込まれているかのようであった。ヴェロニカは指先で地図上の一点をなぞり、都市の動線、人の密度、建築の密集度を瞬時に組み合わせ、頭の中で現場の立体的な状況を描き出していた。
電話のベルや無線のかすかなノイズ、外の街路で響く遠いサイレンの音も、彼女にとっては雑音ではなく、分析のための情報の層として静かに整理されていった。
瞳は冷静そのもので、しかし微細な筋肉の動きや指の震えは、内側に潜む危機意識を示し、見る者には感情を一切表さず、事実と推論だけを前に進める姿勢が伝わってきた。
ヴェロニカは書類をまとめ、深く息を吐き、窓の向こうに広がる夏の都市の光と熱を見据えながら、静かに次の一手を思案していた。
ヴェロニカはゆっくりと椅子に腰を下ろし、資料の束を前に整えると、窓の外で揺れる熱気を背に、まず事件の時間軸を頭の中で再構築しはじめた。信号の赤や青が交錯する交差点、街角に漂う排気ガスの匂い、通行人の歩行速度、路上に停められた車の影――それらすべてが、紙面の数字や地図上の印と結びつき、ニューヨークという巨大な都市の立体的な動線を彼女の思考に浮かび上がらせた。
無線や電話からの断片的な報告も、彼女の分析の網に吸い込まれ、時間と空間に配置される。どの瞬間に、どの場所で、人々の流れが変化したか。誰がどの建物に潜入した可能性があるか。交通の混雑状況と、観衆の動き、建築物の構造を組み合わせ、最小の推測誤差で現場の全貌を描く。
彼女の瞳は冷静そのもので、しかし微細な筋肉の緊張が、その奥に潜む危機意識を示していた。手元の地図の一点を指でなぞり、過去の事件や都市計画のデータを呼び出しながら、シナリオごとにリスクを計算する。都市の構造、観衆の密度、出口の配置――あらゆる要素を論理のグリッドに沿って並べ、想像されるすべての事態を仮定する。
外の熱気は窓ガラスを揺らし、街のざわめきや遠くで響くサイレンは、彼女の集中をかき乱すどころか、逆に現場の臨場感を補強し、頭の中のシミュレーションに奥行きを与えた。紙面の数字と街の実像が、冷たい理性の中で重なり合い、彼女は次の一手を論理的に導き出す準備を整えていった。
ヴェロニカは資料の中の写真に目を留め、観衆の表情や警備員の配置、障害物の位置を詳細に分析した。その視線は冷徹でありながらも、微細な違和感や不自然さを見逃さず、都市の熱気に流されることなく、論理の網の中に全ての変数を捕らえようとしていた。
冷房の空気と夏の熱気が交錯するオフィス内で、彼女の思考は静かに、しかし確実に速度を上げていく。次に何が起こりうるか、どのルートが安全で、どのルートが危険か。瞬間ごとの判断が、観衆の安全と候補者の命を左右する。論理は揺るぎなく、都市の複雑さを紐解く糸のように彼女の手の中で絡まり合った。
彼女の前には資料だけでなく、コンピュータの画面や無線のディスプレイも並ぶ。それらは断片的な情報の源にすぎず、ヴェロニカの思考というフィルターを通すことで初めて意味を持つ。データと現実の光景を繋ぎ、事件の全体像を構築する作業は、夏の街の熱気の中でも冷たく静かに進行した。
彼女の指先が地図をなぞるたび、都市の街路が脳内で立体的に浮かび上がり、建物の密度、通行人の流れ、監視カメラの視野、警備員の位置が、冷徹な論理の中で連鎖し、次の行動を示唆する。ヴェロニカは深く息を吸い、吐き出すと同時に、無言のうちに全ての変数を繋ぎ合わせ、事件の核心へと視線を固定した。その瞬間、遠くの街路から聞こえるサイレンの音や車のクラクション、交差点で立ち止まる人々の足音が、彼女の頭の中ではパズルのピースとなり、論理的な流れの中に溶け込んでいった。都市は暑さに揺れ、光と影が乱反射するが、ヴェロニカの思考は静かに、その熱気を透過して事件の全体像を描き出していった。
ヴェロニカは、静かに内線電話の受話器を手に取り、その冷たい樹脂の感触を指先で確かめながら、エリオット副特別捜査官を呼び出し、いった。
「シークレットサービスのジャックバンスにつないで」
「了解。ジャックに直ちに連絡する。」
受話器の向こうで、彼の声は冷静を装いながらも、微細な緊張を含んでいた。目は窓の外に向けられ、街路の交差点や通行人の流れを無意識に追い、あらゆる可能性を瞬時に計算する。手元のキーボードに指を触れ、無線端末を確認しながら、次に何が起こるかを思考の網にかける。
エリオットの「了解」は、単なる返事ではなく、都市の混沌を前にした冷静な判断の証であり、ヴェロニカへの信頼を静かに裏付けていた。
黒のSUVフォードは、夏の熱気を押し裂くように街路を駆け抜けていた。ハンドルを握るジャックの横顔には焦燥が張りつき、後部座席に身を寄せたアナは、子供たちを庇うように腕を伸ばしながら、それでも必死に声を張り上げた。
「前を見て、ジャック！」
車体の振動に身を揺らしながら、子供たちは歓声とも悲鳴ともつかぬ声をあげ、恐怖と興奮の境を知らぬままに笑った。その隣でミカは唇を噛み、言葉を失ったまま窓の外に視線を縫いつけられていた。
背後では追撃の車が唸りを上げ、硝煙の匂いを残して弾丸がアスファルトを跳ねた。コンクリートの壁面に火花が散り、都市の皮膚を削るようにして銃声が響く。ジャックのフォードは信号も人波も無視し、歩道へと飛び込み、群衆の悲鳴を振り払うように疾走した。
やがて、ジェイコブ・K・ジャヴィッツ連邦ビルがその巨大な影を落とした。
鉄とガラスの塔は真昼の光を硬質に反射し、都市の緊張を凝縮させてそびえ立っていた。ヴェロニカ・リーヴス特別捜査官は窓辺に立ち、視線を落とした足元に黒い車体の影を認めた。
「……まさか。歩道を突っ走っているあのフォード、あなたたちじゃないでしょうね？」
無線に混じってジャックの声が荒々しく返る。
「追われてたんだ！ たまたまここに来ただけだ、俺のせいじゃない！」
ヴェロニカは息を詰め、即座にエリオット副特別捜査官へと指示を放った。
「すぐにNYPDへ。すべてのストリートとアヴェニューを封鎖して。」
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
舞台はニューヨークです。
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4
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54653035442/in/dateposted...
3
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54639396885/in/dateposted...
2
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54628511025/in/dateposted...
1
www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
メモ
1
「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
2
2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3
Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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II. 19
THE HIGHEST IS STILLNESS
Doing is good; far better prayer;
But best of all if thou dost come
Into the presence of the Lord
With quiet footfall, still and dumb.
Traincrew outnumber the boarding passenger as 37407 waits at Somerleyton for the solo gent to board in the fading spring daylight as it and 37716 on the rear work 2J88 1902 Norwich to Lowestoft on Friday 5th April 2019.
To view more images of Lower Slaughter, please click "here" !
Lower Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire, located in the Cotswold district, 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye, which also flows through Upper Slaughter. At the west end of the village there is a 19th-century water mill with an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. There is a ford where the river widens in the village and several small stone footbridges join the two sides of the community. While the mill is built of red brick most of the 16th and 17th century homes in the village use Cotswold sandstone and are adorned with mullioned windows and often with other embellishments such as projecting gables. Records exist showing that Lower Slaughter has been inhabited for over 1000 years. The Domesday Book entry has the village name as “Sclostre”. It further notes that in 1066 and 1086 that the manor was in the sheriff's hands. Lower Slaughter Manor, a Grade-II listed 17th-century house, was granted to Sir George Whitmore in 1611 and remained in his family until 1964. The 13th century Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. Much of the current structure was built in 1866; however, the spire and peal of six bells was recently restored. In May 2013 it was reported in the national news that the Parish Council were fiercely opposed to the presence of an icebox tricycle selling ice creams for seven days a week, six months of the year, citing that the trading times were excessive, increased footfall would prevent the grass from growing and that children could climb on the trike and fall into the nearby river.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Slaughters Country Inn is privately owned and offers a relaxed ambience, a style that is sympathetically balanced between the original features of a 17th Century building and contemporary design. The blend of old and new creates the perfect retreat in a beautiful country location
A second image of the Collared Pratincole currently entertaining visitors at WWT Slimbridge.
This represents a first for the reserve and has undoubtedly increased the footfall (and income) for the Trust!
Playing around with the Sky Replacement facility, in the latest version of Photoshop.
To view more images of Lower Slaughter, please click "here" !
In the early 16th century a chantry of St. Mary, whose date of foundation is unknown, provided in theory for an additional priest, though the stipend was evidently not sufficient to keep the priest in the parish. In 1933 the £150 realized by the sale of the schoolroom was invested in trust for ecclesiastical purposes. The Church of ST. MARY, a building of stone with a Cotswold stone roof, comprising chancel, nave, north aisle, organ chamber, and vestry, and a western tower with spire, was almost completely rebuilt in 1867 by the lord of the manor, Charles Shapland Whitmore, in the Early English and Decorated styles. It contains, however, an early 13th-century arcade of four bays and a piscina of the same period. The arches of the arcade are of two chamfered orders supported on plain round columns with octagonal scalloped cushion capitals; the easternmost bay may be a 19th-century copy. The piscina has a semi-octagonal projecting basin, scalloped inside. The arcade suggests that the rebuilding was roughly to the plan of the earlier church, and c. 1700 the church had a north aisle and a western tower with a saddleback roof. By 1851 there was a gallery. The church contains monuments, from the late 17th century, to members of the Whitmore family buried in the north aisle. Of the six bells, one is thought to be by Robert Hendley of Gloucester , two are by Edward Neale of Burford, 1683, and three were made in 1866. The plate includes a chalice and paten cover of 1576. Baptisms, marriages, and burials at Lower Slaughter were entered in the registers of Bourton-on-the-Water until 1813.
Lower Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire, located in the Cotswold district, 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye, which also flows through Upper Slaughter. At the west end of the village there is a 19th-century water mill with an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. There is a ford where the river widens in the village and several small stone footbridges join the two sides of the community. While the mill is built of red brick most of the 16th and 17th century homes in the village use Cotswold sandstone and are adorned with mullioned windows and often with other embellishments such as projecting gables. Records exist showing that Lower Slaughter has been inhabited for over 1000 years. The Domesday Book entry has the village name as “Sclostre”. It further notes that in 1066 and 1086 that the manor was in the sheriff's hands. Lower Slaughter Manor, a Grade-II listed 17th-century house, was granted to Sir George Whitmore in 1611 and remained in his family until 1964. The 13th century Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. Much of the current structure was built in 1866; however, the spire and peal of six bells was recently restored. In May 2013 it was reported in the national news that the Parish Council were fiercely opposed to the presence of an icebox tricycle selling ice creams for seven days a week, six months of the year, citing that the trading times were excessive, increased footfall would prevent the grass from growing and that children could climb on the trike and fall into the nearby river.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Slaughters Country Inn is privately owned and offers a relaxed ambience, a style that is sympathetically balanced between the original features of a 17th Century building and contemporary design. The blend of old and new creates the perfect retreat in a beautiful country location
Commentary.
Cranleigh has often been called “the largest village in England.”
Certainly, it feels more like a small town,
but has many features associated with a classic village.
It lies below the sandstone hills of Reynards Hill,
Winterfold Forest and Pitch Hill.
It has an extensive cricket green to the west of the High Street.
However, this area of green continues as a strip of wide grassland
on the north side of the High Street, bound on both sides by
a quarter of a mile of mature Norwegian Maple trees.
Towards the eastern end there is a War Memorial,
this roofed water-pump and paved areas outside cafés and restaurants providing an “Al Fresco” patio space for refreshments in good weather.
It used to be served by a railway connecting to Guildford and Shoreham.
The Beeching cuts of the 1960’s closed the line.
Fortunately, its course has been preserved in the form of
a footpath/bridleway/cycleway called the Downs Link, that enhances footfall in Cranleigh.
Its been quite a while since my last stranger portrait and i didn't
realise how hard it would be approaching a stranger again and with a new lens to try out. I found a background that i quite liked but with not much footfall, with it been early, windy and freezing. I was about to go when i saw Magda who is from Poland. I explained the project but Magda wasn't really up for it as she'd only just got up and on her way to an appointment, anyway Magda agreed if it would help me. I really didn't need a rejection after so long without a stranger portrait.
Thank you once again Magda.
This picture is #26 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849).
My inspiration
Part 3
It is places like this that I love the most, this beautiful glacial desolation. Ancient forests are magical and lakes are beautiful, but neither compare to this.
After getting the sunrise shot from several different angles with multiple different foregrounds I explored closer to the foot of the mountain, to where a waterfall tumbled down from where the glacial remnant still existed. From a distance I could see that the waterfall was gilded by golden flowers and as I got closer to where it flowed into this tarn I came to a field of tiny yellow monkey flowers , the same that graced that waterfall. Further on the earth beneath my feet became a jumble of moraine cemented together by the super fine grained glacial sediment.
In between gusts of wind that howled through the high peaks my footfalls echoed among the rocks...
part 2 flic.kr/p/2mrgcVH
Larger Mountain Monkeyflower (Mimulus tilingii)
Among the Pines. There were several, all were being attacked by other fungi. Walking through the pine trees was magical. The pine needles soften footfall making it eerily quiet and the track is winding, you cannot see far ahead or behind.
Cannock Chase Staffordshire UK 17th July 2019
To view more images of Lower Slaughter, please click "here" !
In the early 16th century a chantry of St. Mary, whose date of foundation is unknown, provided in theory for an additional priest, though the stipend was evidently not sufficient to keep the priest in the parish. In 1933 the £150 realized by the sale of the schoolroom was invested in trust for ecclesiastical purposes. The Church of ST. MARY, a building of stone with a Cotswold stone roof, comprising chancel, nave, north aisle, organ chamber, and vestry, and a western tower with spire, was almost completely rebuilt in 1867 by the lord of the manor, Charles Shapland Whitmore, in the Early English and Decorated styles. It contains, however, an early 13th-century arcade of four bays and a piscina of the same period. The arches of the arcade are of two chamfered orders supported on plain round columns with octagonal scalloped cushion capitals; the easternmost bay may be a 19th-century copy. The piscina has a semi-octagonal projecting basin, scalloped inside. The arcade suggests that the rebuilding was roughly to the plan of the earlier church, and c. 1700 the church had a north aisle and a western tower with a saddleback roof. By 1851 there was a gallery. The church contains monuments, from the late 17th century, to members of the Whitmore family buried in the north aisle. Of the six bells, one is thought to be by Robert Hendley of Gloucester , two are by Edward Neale of Burford, 1683, and three were made in 1866. The plate includes a chalice and paten cover of 1576. Baptisms, marriages, and burials at Lower Slaughter were entered in the registers of Bourton-on-the-Water until 1813.
Lower Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire, located in the Cotswold district, 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye, which also flows through Upper Slaughter. At the west end of the village there is a 19th-century water mill with an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. There is a ford where the river widens in the village and several small stone footbridges join the two sides of the community. While the mill is built of red brick most of the 16th and 17th century homes in the village use Cotswold sandstone and are adorned with mullioned windows and often with other embellishments such as projecting gables. Records exist showing that Lower Slaughter has been inhabited for over 1000 years. The Domesday Book entry has the village name as “Sclostre”. It further notes that in 1066 and 1086 that the manor was in the sheriff's hands. Lower Slaughter Manor, a Grade-II listed 17th-century house, was granted to Sir George Whitmore in 1611 and remained in his family until 1964. The 13th century Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. Much of the current structure was built in 1866; however, the spire and peal of six bells was recently restored. In May 2013 it was reported in the national news that the Parish Council were fiercely opposed to the presence of an icebox tricycle selling ice creams for seven days a week, six months of the year, citing that the trading times were excessive, increased footfall would prevent the grass from growing and that children could climb on the trike and fall into the nearby river.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Slaughters Country Inn is privately owned and offers a relaxed ambience, a style that is sympathetically balanced between the original features of a 17th Century building and contemporary design. The blend of old and new creates the perfect retreat in a beautiful country location
Here are some shots that did not make it into the last chapter of Edrelle's tale, glimpses of the tall pines wrapped in a cloak of mist their hue of the deepest green, of the group of friends sharing a few words among the sounds of the waking forest the worries of the night before swept away with the breeze and of a wanderer with bright wings as if made of intricately embroidered silk fluttering near the shore of the lake where Edrelle and Dimitri went for a swim.
Kinematic ENB Extensive
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Candid street photography from Glasgow, Scotland. Clearly confident of her footfall as she has her head buried in her mobile phone screen. As much about the graphic pattern of her backdrop as her, I simply loved the composition that I could pull from this shot with a widescreen crop. Added grain and contrast for a stylised look, enjoy full screen by pressing 'L'.
Stony Stratford Christmas market 2/2
In fairness the rain eased off by lunchtime, but a lot of footfall had been lost…
"A silent forest, so green, so lush
sudden struggle breaks the hush
footfalls quicken
body gets stricken.
Attacker upon me
bright red eyes are all I see
fangs glimmer in moon light
blood gushes from the bite.
Petrified with her terror
to her teeth flesh bits adhere
jaws smacking
bones cracking
devours my body alive
unsure if i will survive.
Feels the organs rip from body
ensues great agony
as it empties the cavity.
Thinking as I bleed out
I'll die now, no more doubt.
Relaxes, no longer cares to fight
knows letting go would be alright...
Wakes with a start,
violently beating heart
sweat saturated skin
a dream this all has been.
Knowing my mind has merely mislead,
it was all just in my head...." -Viktor Marion
Day 4 and stop No 1 was Svartifoss.
After negotiating the icy snow covered roads. Then the car park knee deep in slushy snow. A car parking charging system that tried to make me pay for every car in the car park! it was only the start to reach this stunning waterfall!
We set off up bank through some lovely wilderness. We were the first to set foot in freshly laid snow but the previous day's footfall was still easy to follow. We passed some gorgeous gorges with some minor attractive waterfalls. The surrounding vistas were jaw dropping.
Some 45mins of deep snow hiking we could see Svartifoss in the distance. The path however remained somewhat elusive! Alas tho, we were caught up by a young fit attractive German couple who looked like they meant business! Taking in turns to break the snow and following each others footprints. So we set off following them. Keeping up with them was nigh on impossible. So we just chilled out stomping into there ready made footprints.
10 mins later they had turned back to our horror! On passing they said they had lost the path and it was too dangerous to continue! Damn, what to do now? The alternate path was back to the car park and take a different track! No way were we fit enough for that! So we looked around for a safer way down to the waterfall. Nothing was apparent until 2 British couples in jeans, trainers, Ugg Boots and some classy shades joined us.
Feck it one of the lads said, I'm going down the bank! Now this is some 100ft up above the river bed Svartifoss falls into. There are huge snow drifts around the banks and the odd shrub clinging on! Off he goes followed by his girlfriend and the other couple. Sliding down on their backsides making us adventurers look a little tame!
Mike looks at me, big stupid grin on his face and dives head first down the bank following the arse prints of the girls before him!
Anyway, we made it down with little drama. The river bed was wet and tricky in places but we managed it. 5 mins later we were joined by the Germans! They had hiked back to the starting point, set off back up hill and come from the other side of the valley. They didn't even have a sweat on! Unlike us who were a tad moist!
So Svartifoss, is in Skaftafell in the Vatnajökull National Park. It falls some 40ft with the basalt rock formations surrounding it providing a stunning backdrop. Some pretty spectacular icicles to be found here too!
In Norse mythology, Gleipnir is the binding that holds the mighty wolf Fenrisulfr. The Gods had attempted to bind Fenrir twice before with huge chains of metal, but Fenrir was able to break free both times. Therefore, they commissioned the dwarves to forge a chain that was impossible to break. To create a chain to achieve the impossible, the dwarves fashioned the chain out of six impossible things:
The sound of a cat's footfall
The beard of a woman
The roots of a mountain
The sinews of a bear
The breath of a fish
The spittle of a bird
Therefore, even though Gleipnir is as thin as a silken ribbon, it is stronger than any iron chain. It was forged by the dwarves in their underground realm of Svartálfaheim.
Gleipnir, having bound the Fenrisúlfur securely, was the cause of Týr's lost hand, for the Fenrisulfr bit it off when he was not freed. Gleipnir is said to hold until Ragnarök, when it will break and Fenrir will devour Odin.
Commentary.
Hascombe is a rural and picturesque and charming village
tucked into the beautiful Sandstone hills of Surrey, south of Godalming.
The village consists of two clusters.
A small group of dwellings surround St. Peter’s Church
and the “White Horse” Public House.
The main village stands less than half a mile north.
A fresh-water spring feeds a village fountain on
the main High Street and nearby is a Village Hall and Green.
There are no General Stores or mini-supermarkets, so residents
must visit nearby Godalming, Bramley or Cranleigh for such services.
There was a church on the present site as far back as the 13th. Century, but the present building was constructed in the mid-19th. Century.
Its interior is colourful, ornate and well cared for.
To the south-east of the village rises Hascombe Hill.
The summit has the remnants of an Iron-Age Hill-Fort
that existed at least 2,300 years ago.
The defensive ditches and dykes are still evident, though lower and shallower, due to erosion and footfall.
The hill is graced by magnificent Beech trees, many well over 100 feet tall, as well as a full range of deciduous and coniferous species.
From the southerly point views extend over Dunsfold,
many Sandstone ridges and as far as the South Downs.
Eastwards stand the taller Pitch, Holmbury and Leith Hills.
More distant still, is Black Down, 280 metres, north of Haslemere.
Still in winter, beige is the dominant colour of leafless trees in tens of thousands.
A place of glorious vistas, an arboreal heaven.
The bluebell has many names: English bluebell, wild hyacinth, wood bell, bell bottle, Cuckoo’s Boots, Wood Hyacinth, Lady’s Nightcap and Witches’ Thimbles, Hyacinthoides non-scripta
It is against the law to intentionally pick, uproot or destroy bluebells
If you plant bluebells, you should make sure it's the English bluebell, not the Spanish version. This is a more vigorous plant and could out-compete our delicate native flower
Almost half the world's bluebells are found in the UK, they’re relatively rare in the rest of the world
Bluebell colonies take a long time to establish - around 5-7 years from seed to flower.
Bluebells can take years to recover after footfall damage. If a bluebell’s leaves are crushed, they die back from lack of food as the leaves cannot photosynthesise.
Here is a shot of Edrelle with Elouen watching her back among snowy ruins, the cold wind whistling among crumbling stone, the night sky hidden by a swirl of clouds painted in stormy hues. Will be writing the next chapter of Edrelle's tale tomorrow so this is a bit of a teaser shot for it.
Kinematic ENB Extensive
The booking office at Tyseley is rarely open and during lockdown I have not seen it occupied. Most people using the station are railway workers travelling to and from the depot. The shiny floor has been mopped over by a contract cleaner who put his mop into a Transit and drove away.
What a change from the bustling station of our trainspotting days when railway vans were fully occupied bringing and collecting parcels from the covered frontage and the platforms saw a constant footfall from shift workers employed at the many local factories.
172335 arrives with 2J49 the 13.26 Stratford-upon-Avon to Stourbridge Junction service, five railway staff got on, no-one got of, the floor remained pristine.
"Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped."
Ulysses (that 'Good News'), Chapter 2: 'Nestor', P. 28, The 1922 Text
The word 'Foot' appears 139 times in Ulysses. 'Feet' appears 86 times. 'Terra Firma' is conspicuous by its absence. Call it 'the Diaspora', call it 'the Wild Geese', call it 'Exile', call it 'Footfalls'. It's the same difference.
"a trio of barbels from his megageg chin (sowman's son), the wrong shoulder higher than the right, all ears, an artificial tongue with a natural curl, not a foot to stand on, a handful of thumbs, a blind stomach, a deaf heart, a loose liver, two fifths of two buttocks, one gleetsteen avoirdupoider for him, a manroot of all evil"
'Finnegans Wake', P.230
While family commitments meant I couldn't make the meet up in London yesterday, I had an hour free so decided to have a walk around Andover instead.
I walked into town and was impressed to see it fairly well packed with a bustling market, I don't really venture in on Saturdays and during the week its a bit of a ghost town.
My first approach was a refusal, but undeterred I decided to wait at the entrance of a shopping centre with a fairly heavy footfall.
I only really caught a side on glimpse of Freya as she walked past me but with her hair and nose piercing I knew she'd make a great subject.
I approached and made my introductions, Freya was with her father and was happy to have her photo taken.
We stepped into the adjacent alley, which I had decided to use a long time ago when the opportunity arose, and feel it may be a little busy now, but its crossed off the list.
Freya, who shares her first name with my daughter, was fantastic infront of the camera and so relaxed. She had popped into town with her father and I had intercepted them at the start of their day. We all chatted for a while, Freya is 19 and works for a local company with a love of all things equestrian.
I shot off a few images with my canon fd 50mm, then introduced a silver reflector and switched to the Petzal 85mm Art lens.
In post I went through my usual edits but the end result didn't wow me like the image that flashed up in the viewfinder of the a7 after making the exposure did. I went back to the raw file and all I had to do was slightly sharpen the eyes, no further retouching has been done.
Thanks Freya for being part of the project it was great to meet you and your Dad, get in touch if you would like high res copies. I may upload the canon 50mm shot later as a comparison for lens buffs like myself :-)
This picture is #24 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page
Here are some shots that did not make it into the last chapter of Edrelle's tale, glimpses of a curious wanderer with painted wings watching the group pass, of the group sharing a few kind words near the imposing sihouette of Whiterun's keep, of a guard standing watch at an outpost among the swaying grass whistling a tune and of a less walked path among frosted pines under falling snow.
Kinematic ENB Extensive
The humid air of the jungle planet clung to Captain Ta-Shia's skin like a second, suffocating layer as she emerged from the gaping maw of the ancient temple. Moss-covered stones, slick with perpetual dampness, crumbled under the crew's boots. Her voice, sharp and laced with impatience, crackled into her communicator. "Where are you, Seela? Get here now!" A moment of static-laced silence stretched, taut and heavy, before the speaker sputtered to life. "The Pyke Syndicate are here, boss! I'm trying to shake them now!" The reply was a frantic burst of static, punctuated by the whine of engines pushed to their limit. Then, a thunderous roar ripped through the jungle canopy. The Raptor, a sleek, gunmetal grey ship, screamed across the sky, leaving a trail of displaced leaves and terrified shrieks in its wake. Its engines spat fire as it danced a desperate ballet against unseen aggressors. Back on the ground, Ta-Shia's jaw tightened. "Well, hurry up!" she barked, her gaze flicking to the encroaching jungle. "The rancors of this planet are closing in, and they don't look happy! We're not going to last long down here!" The air vibrated with the guttural growls and heavy footfalls of approaching beasts, a primal counterpoint to the futuristic war unfolding above. Their shadows, grotesque and distorted, stretched from the dense foliage, promising a brutal, close-quarters fight. The clock was ticking.
The roots of the forest are exposed by thousands of footfalls over many years.
This scene was taken on a trail in southern Yukon that I have walked with my family, and my dogs hundreds of times over more than thirty years.
This photo was taken with the Olympus OM-D E-M1 and M.Zuiko 25mm f/1.2 Pro hand held. Post processsing was performed in DxO PhotoLab 5.4.x and Nik Silver Efex Pro 3.
~ Cerberus ~
Abandon all Hope You Who Enter Here
Myth about Cerberus dog which guards the entrance to the Underworld inspires many artist.
One of most beautiful story is about
Orpheus and Eurydice
Orpheus was the son of Calliope, oldest and most beautiful of the nine muses. Before he could walk, Opheus could play the lyre and had a voice that was so enchanting that even the mightiest river would stop to listen. He fell in love with a nymph named Eurydice, and before long the two were married. They lived happily for a while, but their happiness was not to last. One day as Eurydice was walking near a river she accidentally stepped on a snake that was sunning itself on the bank. The snake bit her, and Eurydice died. Orpheus was heartbroken. Not wanting to live without his beloved Eurydice, Orpheus decided to go down into the underworld to bring her back. With his songs he entranced all of the monsters and guardians of the underworld, and was soon in the presence of Hades and Persephone. At first they would not consider Orpheus' pleas to allow Eurydice back into the land of the living, but Or[heus sang of his saddness to them, and their resolve melted. They agreed to allow Orpheus to bring Eurydice back with him, but he could not look at her until they were out of the underworld. Orpheus readily agreed to this and began his descent. At first he could hear his beloved's footfalls behind him, but as his journey progressed they became fainter and fainter. When he was only a few meters from the exit he could no longer hear Eurydice following him. Ignoring the warnings, and fearing a trick by the gods he looked back to see if Eurydice was still behind him. Eurydice's spirit gave a small shriek and dissapeared back into the land of the dead. In anguish, Orpheus tried to re-enter the underworld, but it was closed to him. He spent the rest of his days scorning women, not willing to love another so to stay true to the memory of Eurydice. He wandered the earth before being torn appart by the women of Thrace, who were angry at him for spurning their love and companionship.
In the quiet between breaths of winter,
our branches remember everything.
We’ve stood through storms and silence,
watching footfalls vanish in snow,
listening to stories carried on cold winds.
If you wander close,
you may feel our thousand pale eyes
studying you gently,
curious… ancient… awake.
The Frosted Trees collection includes
• Summer, Winter, and two Fall versions
• 4 tree styles, each with 4 variations
• 2–14 LI per tree
• Copy/Mod
Available now at HISA
➤ maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Hisa/114/178/1000
Part of the DRD Advent 2024 Event
More info: deathrowdesignsres.wixsite.com/website#drd-advent
To view more images of Lower Slaughter, please click "here" !
Lower Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire, located in the Cotswold district, 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye, which also flows through Upper Slaughter. At the west end of the village there is a 19th-century water mill with an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. There is a ford where the river widens in the village and several small stone footbridges join the two sides of the community. While the mill is built of red brick most of the 16th and 17th century homes in the village use Cotswold sandstone and are adorned with mullioned windows and often with other embellishments such as projecting gables. Records exist showing that Lower Slaughter has been inhabited for over 1000 years. The Domesday Book entry has the village name as “Sclostre”. It further notes that in 1066 and 1086 that the manor was in the sheriff's hands. Lower Slaughter Manor, a Grade-II listed 17th-century house, was granted to Sir George Whitmore in 1611 and remained in his family until 1964. The 13th century Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Mary the Virgin. Much of the current structure was built in 1866; however, the spire and peal of six bells was recently restored. In May 2013 it was reported in the national news that the Parish Council were fiercely opposed to the presence of an icebox tricycle selling ice creams for seven days a week, six months of the year, citing that the trading times were excessive, increased footfall would prevent the grass from growing and that children could climb on the trike and fall into the nearby river.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The Slaughters Country Inn is privately owned and offers a relaxed ambience, a style that is sympathetically balanced between the original features of a 17th Century building and contemporary design. The blend of old and new creates the perfect retreat in a beautiful country location
The State of Tennessee was only 25 years old when a town was chartered in the center of the "Western District" between the Tennessee and Mississippi Rivers. It was appropriately named "Jackson" because several of the family of Andrew and Rachel Donelson Jackson were the original settlers. They were gentle people who brought with them their love of the good things of life: books, music and art. The adolescent little town shook with the rest of the Confederacy in the 1860's and experienced the footfall of Union soldiers on its streets and the presence of General Grant's headquarters in its midst for a time. History records that the nurture of the mind through literature was not overlooked in those early days. Notices of the Jackson Reading Room appeared in the newspapers during the 1830's. In the 1880's there were "book entertainments" to raise money to purchase books for the library. Study groups such as the Shakespeare Circle and Mutual Improvement Club, still in existence today, were formed. On January 4, 1900, Rev. Mark Matthews, "that far-sighted and civic-minded minister of the Presbyterian Church", appeared before the City Council asking for $75,000 to be matched for building and equipping a library. As a result, the building stands today on College Street at about the center of the original northern boundary of the city as laid out in 1821. Its corner stone reads "Jackson Free Library, 1901". For almost three score and ten years, until a larger new building was opened in 1968, the picturesque and much loved building served the literary needs of the citizens of the city, county and the surrounding area. It does not lay claim to contributing to the education and spiritual enrichment of any internationally known great name like Washington, Jefferson, or a Lincoln; but it does proudly boast that from the many who climbed the total of thirteen steps to enter its stately portals, there have been Congressmen, professional men, successful businessmen, writers, artists and musicians among its patrons. This now adult city, nearing classification as a metropolis, does not have too many historic buildings left. Most of the old pre-war residences and public buildings including the old opera house and vaudeville theaters have given way to the new through demolition, fire, or simply time.The unique Jackson Free Library still proudly stands within a thousand yards of the original Courthouse Square where Davy Crockett, smarting from defeat at the polls, called the citizens together for a "speech" and announced, "You can go to hell, but I'm going to Texas." Possessing architectural significance in a city that has lost most of its buildings of architectural value, this old library building of 1901 vintage lends itself with little change to the needs and desired uses of the Jackson Arts Council; as a permanent art display, a museum, space for small concerts, recitals and intimate theater, as well as meeting rooms for member organizations. Put to such uses, this now empty building attracts many people to utilize and enjoy the nostalgic past as well as the ever changing present. This building was listed on the National Register of Historic Places on June 25, 1975. And, all of the information above was taken from the original documents submitted to the NRHP for listing consideration and can be viewed here:
npgallery.nps.gov/NRHP/AssetDetail?assetID=84eed270-4971-...
Three bracketed photos were taken with a handheld Nikon D7200 and combined with Photomatix Pro to create this HDR image. Additional adjustments were made in Photoshop CS6.
"For I know the plans I have for you", declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." ~Jeremiah 29:11
The best way to view my photostream is through Flickriver with the link below:
A famous series of waterfalls in East Java, very popular in social media for its myriad of dramatic angles for self portraits. Footfall is intense during the peak period, so I had to wait quite a bit to get nobody in the frame.
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Fujifilm GFX100s with GF20-35mm, vertorama of 3 frames with CPL and 3-stop ND filter
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Shippea Hill, on the Breckland Line from Ely to Norwich, is one of the least used stations on the national network. It may be due to location, as it is in the middle of nowhere, or the train service, whIch offers just one early morning working from cambridge to Norwich. In the financial year 2015/16 it recorded a stunning 12 passengers, but has since become busier, with a footfall of 432 recorded in 2018/19. Efforts have been made to promote the station, which probably account for the significant increase in usage, albeit probably out of morbid curiosity. On 23rd June 2012 a Abellio Greater Anglia Class 170 'Turbostar', No. 170208 hurries by, forming a Norwich - Cambridge service. The signal box and hasted level crossing have since been replaced, as the new barrier arms are already in place and await commissioning . The effect of the resignalling is that the location is now totally unmanned. Copyright Photograph John Whitehouse - all rights reserved
© 2012 Loren Zemlicka
5 AM. One-quarter past.
Distant chimes inform me this.
A bell peal knells the mist.
And sunlight’s
not yet bludgeoning.
But some light gets blood going.
Last night it was snowing
and now
every path’s a pall.
Though mine the only footfalls
at this hour of awe. Above
hangs a canopy of needle leaf.
Below, the season’s
mean deceit—
that everything stays
white and clean.
It doesn’t, of course,
but I wish it. My prayers
are green with this intent,
imploring winter wrens
to trill and begging scuttling bucks
come back.
There’s something that I lack.
A wryneck
bullet-beaks a branch.
His woodworm didn’t have a chance.
What I miss,
I’ve never had.
But I am not a ghost.
I am a guest.
And life is thirst,
at best.
So do not strike me, Heart.
I am, too, tinder.
I’m flammable
as birch bark, even damp.
Blue spruce, bee-eater—
be sweeter to me.
Let larksong shudder
to its January wheeze,
but gift these hands a happiness
just once.
It is half passed.
And I am cold.
Another peal has tolled.
I’ve told the sum of my appeals.
I need not watch for fox.
They do not congregate at dawn.
But I would,
were I one.
- Jill Alexander Essbaum, "Would-Land"