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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"
I've been fighting the "plague" lately (somewhat unsuccessfully), and in my crashed-out exhausted dreams I've been envisioning home. Particularly the long, windblown summer evenings, the ones that are so chock-full of photosynthesis that you can almost hear the corn growing as it stretches into the pink-hued sky of a sunset that lingers forever. The ones that bring you wandering into fields, in search of ways to capture the nostalgia of childhood, fields where the warm sod yields under each footfall. The ones that see you home, where the mourning doves sing the sun into the horizon, where the lightning bugs spark and fade at arm's reach, where more stars than you could ever dream of blaze across the night sky, winking in and out of existence.
Image made with a Hasselblad 500 C/M.
A build for Lands of Roawia (LoR) online role-playing game. LoR features motivating contests and character-driven stories.
Read more: merlins-beard.com/conversation/1641?page=2#ixzz3cTvn6HiG
The Spirit of Lenfald found anchorage just before nightfall in a wide cove just south of the mountains that loomed over this newfound land. Abner ordered the men to keep the ship some distance from shore to ensure that they would not run aground in some strange tide or come under attack by whomever (or whatever) might inhabit this place. From what Abner could see in the fading light, the waves appeared to break gently onto a sandy beach, which was dotted with palms and which quickly gave way to lush foliage. He could not make out much beyond that, but the land did seem hospitable and, as far as he could tell, uninhabited.
Captain Abner had decided to remain aboard the Spirit of Lenfald until dawn and then take a party ashore to search for water and food. Toliver had informed him that it would take at least a week for the experienced navigator to study the winds and tides here in order to estimate a heading for the return journey to Lenfald. Charting the seas and this new land would take even longer.
Abner was secretly very pleased at this news; he was eager to be back on solid ground where his knowledge and skills far surpassed those of anyone else on board. This was also the most exciting opportunity he had ever encountered- a chance to explore a place where no Roawian had ever set foot.
Scraff joined Abner at the rail. “I hope you’re itchin’ to get ashore half as much as I am, Cap’n,” said the marine merrily, slapping Abner on the back good-naturedly and undoubtedly leaving a large welt.
Abner grinned. “Aye, and if my good sense didn’t tell me otherwise, I’d have landed as soon as we made anchor here.” He looked down onto the fighting deck, where the men had hauled up the launch from belowdecks and were laughing and talking excitedly. “Have you selected your men for the landing party?” he queried.
“Of course,” replied Scraff, “Only the best. And they’re very eager for the sun to rise.”
Abner nodded. “And I with them. I think we will sleep poorly tonight, Scraff.”
It was indeed a restless night for all aboard the Spirit of Lenfald. The watch was set at half the men on deck in two-hour shifts to spot any possible signs of trouble. Many of those not on guard sat awake and talked quietly or threw dice in the dim glow of the lanterns.
Abner lay sleepless in his cabin, listening to the soft lapping of the water around the ship’s hull and the faint voices of his men out on deck. Thoughts raced incessantly through his head, denying him rest. He thought of the new day and what it might hold, if there were people in this new land and if they would be hostile to these newcomers. He thought of Serena waiting for him in Isil Oro, her beautiful eyes forever turned towards the sea. Would Toliver really be able to find a route home? Or would they forever be stranded here in this place, unable to return to Lenfald? That thought rattled Abner more than anything else. He sat up straight and sunk his face into his hands, sighing deeply. A knock came on his door.
“Come in,” said Abner hoarsely. He realized that he had not drunk any water in almost a day.
The door opened and Scraff stepped into the cabin. “I figured you wouldn’t be sleeping much either,” he said, drawing up a chair across from Abner’s bed.
“Nay,” said Abner ruefully. “And I doubted that you were getting much rest yourself. It seems that my mind is unwilling to quiet itself tonight. Sleep eludes me like a clever fox.”
Scraff chuckled. “Yes, much like a wily little fox. I wonder if there is anything much like a fox in this new land.”
Abner raised an eyebrow. “A fair point, my friend. Perhaps there are no creatures here like any we have ever known. And perhaps there are many things here that we have never encountered.”
“It’s the latter that is the greater cause for concern,” Scraff said casually. “Though I daresay whatever we encounter will be more pleasant than all the talk of this ‘royal wedding’ nonsense back home. Who really cares what dress Emmaline is going to wear? I thought declaring our independence would be enough to put a stop to the madness, but it seems to have only increased the gossip in the taverns. And Chartres! Don’t even get me started. We all know he’s a well-intentioned fellow, but who’s going to follow a king whose first act is to put his own ‘true love’ above the welfare of an entire land. I mean, he literally just looked at the young lady once-once! And now he’s in ‘love’ with her?! Um, HELLO! This whole business just has witchcraft written all over it!” Scraff hesitated as Abner burst into laughter. “What’s so funny?!” he demanded.
Abner regained his composure. “Tired of the nonsense?” he chuckled. “Why, you’re going on worse than any old maid!”
Scraff laughed heartily and grinned. “Guess I miss Lenfald a bit after all.”
As the first light of day broke over the eastern horizon, the landing party was already climbing into the launch. Abner took a seat and reached for an oar, but Scraff’s big hand interceded.
“Nay, Cap’n,” he said. “You don’t get to do that kind of thing anymore. Your place is right there,” he pointed towards the prow of the boat, “lead us.”
Scraff’s words weighed heavily on Abner as he moved towards his place at the bow of the boat. He understood perfectly what Scraff had meant. They were no longer going to be at sea, where the experienced navy men could guide Abner’s decisions. Land was solely the ranger’s territory, and the entire party would be dependent upon his skills.
The entire crew of the Spirit of Lenfald turned out to bid farewell to the landing party. The men shouted and waved as the rowers dug their oars deep into the waters and the little boat began its journey towards the shore.
Abner stood at the prow, bearing the colors of Lenfald as they flapped proudly in the wind. On his left stood Toliver, navigational instruments in hand, staring intently at the shoreline. To his right sat Bram, his tool bag slung across his body in case the boat was damaged during landing. Scraff waited near the stern with his marines, whose eyes scanned the shore, searching for any movement or signs of trouble.
It did not take them long to reach the shore. As soon as the launch ran aground, Abner leapt from the prow, his boots landing lightly in the surf. He splashed through the shallow water onto the beach, then raised the standard over his head and planted the colors firmly into the sand.
Scraff came up next to him. “That seemed excessively dramatic,” he quipped. “I should be more careful with my words to you.”
Abner chuckled. “Careful there, Commander, or it’ll be thirty lashings for you!”
Scraff shook his head merrily, glancing briefly around to ensure his marines were in proper position on the beach. “Alright, alright, I relent,” he said. “So what should we call this place?”
Abner shrugged, then pointed at the flag he had just planted on the beach. “ Let this place be known as New Lenfald!”
Scraff couldn’t help himself. “New Lenfald,” he said with a smirk. “How original!”
The rowers moved the launch out of arrowshot from the beach to await the return of the landing party. Abner fanned the men out behind him and began moving inland. The terrain was fairly easy to navigate, as it rose very gradually towards the tall mountains to the west and the foliage was manageable. Grasses and shrubs covered the ground but the trees stood in small clusters and did not impede the group’s passage.
Abner noticed that apart from a few strange-sounding birds calling into the morning air, the land was mostly devoid of sound. A few rustles in the grasses alerted him to the presence of small creatures below, but they stayed mostly hidden from view. Those he saw reminded him vaguely of animals in Lenfald, but they were distinctly different; a brightly colored lizard with an enormous sail on its back, a furry little rodent that took off squeaking through the brush, and some other totally foreign species.
The party continued to move north, keeping the ocean in view, the terrain remaining mostly the same. After several hours of walking Abner suddenly held up his fist. He motioned for everyone to get down, and the men dropped to the ground, hidden completely by the grass.
Scraff made his way slowly towards Abner. “What is it?” he hissed.
Abner put his finger to his lips, closing his eyes and turning his ear northward. He smiled with recognition and opened his eyes. “Do you know what that is?”
Scraff was perplexed. “What?” he asked incredulously.
Abner stood up and addressed the party. “There’s water flowing just north of here,” he said triumphantly. Come on, men, it’s probably fresh!”
The men got to their feet and continued cautiously forward, clutching their weapons tightly. Ahead of them grew a thicker line of trees and low vegetation, stretching towards the ocean to the east and far inland to the west.
“That’s got to be a river,” Abner stated, “And by the sound of it, there’s plenty of water for the crew.”
It was indeed a river, and quite a broad one at that. Its water rushed mightily east until it spilled out across the beach and into the ocean. The river was a beautiful sight to behold as it wound its way through the foliage, forming whitewater as it surged through the rocks.
Abner went down onto the bank and bent down, dipping a hand into the cool water and touching it to his lips. He tasted it carefully, then scooped out more of the refreshing liquid with his hands and drank. At that moment Abner thought it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. He turned back to the rest of the party.
“It’s safe, men!” he called. “Come and drink your fill.”
Toliver and Bram eagerly rushed to the water’s edge and were soon joined by half of Scraff’s marines. The others kept watch in the foliage until their comrades had finished drinking.
Abner walked back up the bank to where Scraff stood in the grass.
“We should send some of the men back to the launch so they can fill the ship’s water barrels,” said the ranger. “It’s been too long since the crew had fresh water.”
Scraff agreed. “Yes, we must do this immediately. But you have something else in mind for those of us who do not go?”
Abner looked inland. “I think we have a bit of exploring to do while the day is still young, no?”
“Aye, Cap’n. Let’s get these men on their way so we can continue.”
Bram and half of the marine contingent moved out and retraced their steps south towards the beach where they had landed. Scraff, Toliver, and the remaining marines formed up again behind Abner and they headed west, following the course of the river as it headed inland towards the mountains. They journeyed forward into early afternoon, talking quietly amongst themselves and pointing out various unfamiliar plants and animals as they noticed them.
As they walked the landscape started to change around them. The slope of the ground became steeper, the trees grew larger and closer together, and the undergrowth grew taller and thicker.
“It looks like we might be getting into the fringes of a jungle,” said Abner. “Keep close together and don’t lose sight of the man to the front or the side of you.”
No sooner had these words left Abner’s mouth than the foliage suddenly opened up into a small clearing. The ground was bare except for a strange brown rock and some bones laying about the area.
“Something big died here,” started Scraff, taking a step forward, “Those are some big bones. And what about this rock,” he continued, picking up the brown stone. “It’s a bit lighter than I expected.”
“Scraff!” hissed Abner. “Those bones aren’t all from the same animal. And look! They’ve been scarred by teeth!” He drew his sword quickly.
Scraff dropped the rock he was holding and it hit the ground with a hollow thump. He reached for his sword and a terrifying bellow roared out of the foliage before them. Heavy footfalls pounded towards the clearing from the far side and the men could hear plants and small trees being trampled by whatever approached.
“What in all Roawia…” said Toliver fearfully.
“I have no idea,” replied Abner. “But whatever it is, it’s huge and it’s angry!”
Another deafening bellow pierced the air, much closer this time, and the foliage just ahead of them began to shake.
“Brace yourselves!” yelled Scraff, his sword pointed menacingly at the bushes in front of him.
The beast burst through the curtain of leaves and into the clearing, kicking up a small cloud of dust as it skidded to a halt in front of the men. Two large horns protruded from its beaked head, which protruded from the largest shell any of them had ever seen. It let out another tremendous bellow, turning its head towards each member of the party in sequence, as if demonstrating its superiority.
“What is that thing?!” yelled Scraff, keeping his blade pointed at the massive beast.
“I have no idea, but I think I know how to get rid of it!” replied Abner. “Everybody fall back slowly!”
Scraff look at Abner quizzically but motioned for his men to withdraw from the clearing. The beast stamped its foot but did not move towards them any more. When they were at what the thing considered a safe distance, it moved forward and nudged the rock that Scraff had picked up with its beak. A tiny head poked out of the rock, craning its neck around towards the beast. The rock suddenly sprung to its feet and scurried under the horned beast’s legs.
“It’s a little one…” said Toliver with wonder. “No wonder that thing came running- that’s the mother!”
The two beasts grunted to each other and moved back out of the clearing the way the larger had come. Abner sheathed his sword and breathed a sigh of relief.
Scraff spoke up. “So we just met a giant turtle with horns. Nothing serious,” he said, sheathing his own weapon.
“Tortoise,” Abner corrected. “Definitely a tortoise. And judging by those bones, it doesn’t exactly eat a diet of plants.”
Scraff shook his head. “Excellent. A giant carnivorous horned turtle. And you wonder why I like staying at sea.”
“Tortoise,” replied Abner. “Let’s call it the bull tortoise, since it charged at you like that.”
“I’m touched. You named an animal kind of sort of after me,” said Scraff.
“Don’t start thinking you’re special,” jabbed Abner. “Now I think this is our cue to head back to the launch. We’ll sleep aboard the Spirit of Lenfald tonight and come ashore again at daybreak with a larger party and enough supplies for a multi-day excursion.” He started off towards the sea. “And no more picking up rocks, Scraff!”
Detail of the south window under the tower (and over/around the main entrance) by Powells, 1921. Perhaps my favourite window here. It was sadly targeted on several occasions in the 1990s by mindless stone-throwing idiots and thus certain sections needed to be repaired a few times (on one occasion by yours truly) but is happily better protected now.
St Mary's is the parish church of the town of Kidderminster and a grand affair it is too, still mostly an early 16th century building of impressive proportions, its extraordinary length in particular. The tower is a major landmark on the northern edge of the town centre, though sadly the construction of the modern ring-road effectively cuts the church off completely from the rest of the town and it can only be reached via a rather uninviting subway beneath the dual-carriageway, thus it doesn't get the footfall it deserves.
The church is usually approached from the south and it is this aspect that makes the biggest impression, most noticeably for its handsome south-west tower and the richly glazed clerestories of the nave (which appears to be composed more of glass than wall), all fine examples of the late medieval Perpendicular style. The length of the building is remarkable as beyond the nave is not only a decent sized chancel but a further chapel to the east as well (an early 16th century chantry chapel, formerly detached but now more integrated and in use as a parish room). There has however been much restoration owing to the fragility of the grey and red sandstones used in the construction, and thus much of the external stonework was renewed in the Victorian period (when the south chapel and vestries connecting to the chantry chapel were added). On the north side of the chancel is a handsome memorial chapel added in the early decades of the 20th century.
Entry is via the porch in the base of the tower at the south-west corner, where the visitor is greeted by a vast interior space whose lighting is somewhat subdued (especially the chancel). the nave is a classic example of the Perpendicular style and of considerable width, culminating above in the bright clerestories and a flat wooden ceiling. There is much of interest to discover here, particularly the monuments which date from the 15th-17th centuries and include several fine tombs, the earliest being a graceful canopied tomb to a noblewoman in the south aisle and a large brass on the north side. The chancel has three more large tombs with recumbent effiges to members of the Cokesey and Blount families, the latter being of post-Reformation date.
Every window of the church is filled with stained glass, mostly of the Victorian period but much of it rather good. The most handsome window is the early 20th century window by Powell's over the main entrance and there is more glass by the same studio in the nave aisles whilst the nave clerestorey has an attractive sequence of angels holding symbols of the Benedicite by Hardmans' installed at the very end of the 19th century. My first encounter with this church was in the late 1990s when working as part of the team that releaded the entire scheme of windows in the nave clerestorey, thus I got to know these angels very well. Sadly however the glass throughout this church suffers from a disfiguring layer of varnish or shellac (applied as 'blackout' at the beginning of World War II and a substance known as 'speltek' according to someone I spoke to at the church). This was smeared over most windows with a rag (the impressions of which were apparent when we worked on the clerestorey windows) and is not easily removed, but small areas where it has detached show how much brightness has been lost while the windows suffocate under this darkening layer. I hope some day the right solvent can be found to remove this stuff with minimal risk to the glass.
Kidderminster's grand parish church rewards a visit and deserves more visitors than it currently receives. It isn't always open but in recent years prior to the pandemic was generally open for a few hours on most days during the summer months (though best to check times before planning a trip). Don't be put off by the seemingly impenetrable barrier of the ringroad, St Mary's is worth seeking out and the nice people who steward their church would I'm sure like to be able to welcome more people to this fine building.
www.worcesteranddudleyhistoricchurches.org.uk/index.php?p...
When he closed his eyes, he could still see her face; her smile still haunted him in the darkness behind lids closed tight against the world.
Her name was Tran. Little girl. She had always come in with the others. The older ones. Walking the long and muddy road into the firebase. Past the barbed wire of the perimeter, the sentries with their M16's. The women had done their washing, erasing the grime from green fatigues, never smiling.
She had smiled though. The child running little errands. Bringing them sweet tea, and carting off their laundry. Coyly begging for sweets. He remembered her smile. Tiny teeth stained brown from chewing Betel nut, dirt on her face, eyes like deep, dark pools. Jet-black hair hanging straight and shining, framing her pretty, round and ruddy cheeks. She had smiled for them, lighting her still-innocent, open, grimy little face. Lighting their dusty, olive-drab world. They guessed her age at around 12, but thinking back on it, she had probably been more like seven or eight. War child.
The humidity dripped fat, languid drops of water from the canvas and palm-frond camouflage coverings of the bunker where they hung out, exhausted from the patrol, just before nightfall. A gentle 'pat' sound into the red mud beside green ammo crates. Then darkness would claim it's inevitable supremacy; darkness into which they deeply feared to venture.
They did not own the night; the night belonged to Charlie. And the night was long.
For countless and uneventful weeks they would walk the jungle paths, hearing the squawk and chatter of birds, the rustle of leaves in the canopy and the crunch and slop of their own footfalls through muddy undergrowth. And the heave of their own nervous breathing as they kept tight in formation, pointman out front, treading as nervously as long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs: "Lima Papa niner-zero, this is Whisky Tango two Actual, sector seven clear, over", and the scratchy-tin radio response from the LT at the forward OP: "Roger WT-2, copy, proceed." Day after goddamn monsoon-drenched day.
At the end of each, they'd return to lounge nervously in the dust back at base, clean weapons and drink shitty coffee or warm beer. If they were lucky to have had it brought in with the weekly Huey dump. The bird was always welcome: in the wake of it's clattering blades it brought letters, chow, ammo, and hope (hope that there was still a world out there). Not the World (that was back home; a million miles away), but just a world more normal than this. Dakto, Da Nang, Hanoi, Saigon. They'd shoot the shit, play their Hendrix tapes and try to 'Relax'. Until the next one: another day, another patrol. Another shit-your-pants fuckin' stroll in the bush. Locked and loaded.
But back at base, before the bloated orange orb of the sun dipped into the humid-haze horizon shimmer, there was always the cheerful little smile that would greet them. The village-child, with the dark pool eyes. And hers was the innocence that remained in this torn, stained land.
LRRP detail. The long range patrol. Dreaded orders. Perhaps a follow-up after an arc-light mission. Such devastation could not possibly leave anything alive? But amazingly, it always did. Days and nights deep in jungle's realm. Dirty fingernails, sweat-salt encrusted webbing, fear-dilated pupils in paint-smeared eyes. Tight bellies never warmed by the C-rations they ate when night fell; no bunker, no base, no refuge but the vigilance of their own loose perimeter sentry duty. They'd alternate watch, a whisper in the ear their awakening, "you're up... 0400... two hours 'till dawn." Quivering, sweating, mosquito tormented nights in which every noise was a nightmare come to kill. After four days, nerves frayed like taught cords, rat-ass-sleep-deprived jumpy with fingers clenched on black triggers slick with perspiration.
On the fifth day, they reached a village. A little palm-frond roof covering one stilted hooch. No bird sounds. No jungle noise at all. All wrong. Tension like a drum-drawn canvas over the nerves of the patrol. The hiss and beat of blood in their veins screaming in their ears.
And as he'd kicked open the door, they saw only the rifle barrel pointing out, the trip-wire on the threshold. Slow motion then, as in a dream, he felt the grenades tumbling past, flung by his squad into the hut. And as the sarge tore him to one side, out of the blast radius, just before the white-hot flash of noise and flame torched the inside of the hooch and it's occupants, roaring it's death destruction, he saw one more thing.
He saw a small, round face, jet black hair framing eyes like dark pools, a little grime-stained face, and pretty grin. Looking at him.
Years after, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her face; her smile still haunted him in the darkness behind lids closed tight against the world.
"Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
yellow moon on the rise.
Big birds flying across the sky,
thowing shadows on our eyes.
Leave us
helpless, helpless, helpless..."
- Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young - 1970.
Passengers from the 1Z43 12:18 Skipton to Appleby 'Tourist Train' arrival at Appleby have either headed towards the town or the platform end to see the train locomotive 47712 'Lady Diana Spencer', with 40145 on the rear, head for the North East Sidings. The body language of those on the platform, enthusiasts, partners and pets alike make for an interesting study during the difficult Covid-19 pandemic time. This was the final day of the 2020 season Rail Charter Services tourist train services, with the Class 40 making a special appearance for one day only and footfall on the service looking extremely promising.
© Gordon Edgar - All rights reserved. Please do not use my images without my explicit permission
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
~T.S. Eliot
To view large robertmillerphotography.smugmug.com/Other/Best-of-Vivid-L...
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.
It has come to my attention that some gullible people believe that the internet came into being in the late 1960’s, mainly through the diligence of American ingenuity. Utter balderdash!
The internet can, in fact, trace its roots to a Welsh outpost of the Order of Cistercians. In the 13th century, this specific group of forward-thinking monks laid the foundations of networking and modern commerce. During the long winter nights holed up in their abbey they wondered how they could improve the revenues from selling their wares to the local communities. The problem was that in the normal model of contemporary trade (contemporary being 1200 and something), the monks would set up a shop in the abbey and expect their customers to come wandering past and buy stuff. However, once the snows set in the footfall would drop and so would their sales. After a very long brainstorming session, accompanied by much mead, and some follow-on research with focus groups (also accompanied by large quantities of fermented honey), they realised they could leverage their core strength of calligraphy and illumination of manuscripts to reach a wider demographic. The new model was simple: they would position some of their number at strategic locations, e.g. the village square, or more often the village pub. These monks would receive packets of data from a central server (the server was actually the Head Abbot who literally served up the packets full of data. By “serve” we mean hit forcefully with a tennis racket, by “data packet” we mean a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string and containing a set of encrypted instructions. The monks used a special code known as Highly Technical Monk Lingo to define the layout of the pages they wanted to show). The packets would pass down a network of relay stations or hubs and eventually find their intended destination. The receiving monk would take his HTML instructions and using a quill and ink turn them into beautifully laid out and illustrated pages of parchment offering goods for sale. These pages would then be shown to the potential buyer who could place orders for said items. Using this network of bat-wielding holy men the speed of commerce was massively increased, as was its geographic reach. The system can lay claim to being the original World Wide Web because it stretched all the way to the other side of the known world (today we know this as Merthyr Tydfil). And the place where it all started? Why, it was Tintern Abbey. And because the Cistercians monks became very rich and famous from their best-selling range of angling supplies (the abbey was on a river and the priests were most keen fishermen), the goods became known by the locals as Tintern’s Nets. Over time the words were shortened and conjoined to Tinternet. And that is why, today, we know the world wide web as the internet. A true story.
Some small footnotes.
-Some of the more enterprising monks also discovered that woodcuts of nuns in risqué poses sold especially well to certain special interest groups. This opened up a whole new industry on the Tinternet.
-The Knights Templar later used the Tinternet to help an unfortunate Nigerian prince move his stranded money into their banking system. Alas, the Templars went bust very shortly after as their security system had been mysteriously breached and all their gold stolen
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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.
Upper Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire located in the Cotswold district located 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Nearby places include Lower Slaughter, Bourton-on-the-Water and Daylesford. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye. The Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Peter. Upper Slaughter was identified by author Arthur Mee as one of 32 Thankful Villages, although more recent work suggests a total of 52. This term referred to the small number of villages in England and Wales which had lost no men in World War I, and was popularised by Mee in the 1930s. In Enchanted Land (1936), the introductory volume to "The King's England" series of guides, he wrote "that a Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again." Although the village was subject to an air raid, it also lost no men in World War II, an honour held by only 14 villages, collectively known as the Doubly Thankful Villages. The parliamentary constituency is represented by Geoffrey Clifton-Brown MP. The name of the village derives form the Old English term "slough" meaning "wet land". The manor of Upper Slaughter is recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086; the Slaughter family acquired it in the late 12th century. The current building, on the site of an ancient building, was constructed over many years, starting in the Tudor era. Its crypt is estimated to be from the 14th century. The largest business in the village is the Lords of the Manor Hotel. The building dates from 1649 and has been a hotel since 1960s. The owners continue to furnish the house with portraits and antiques belonging to the former owner. Other hotels serving the two Slaughter villages include The Slaughters Country Inn and Lower Slaughter Manor. In 1906, the cottages around the square were reconstructed by architect Sir Edward Lutyens.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Taunton reatailers are bouncing back -
But Worcester leads the way:
Worcester shoppers are leading the retail bounce back as figures reveal the city has had the best retail recovery in all of the UK since shops re-opened on April 12.
Based on research from Ipsos’s Retail Recovery Index, footfall in Worcester was found to have increased the most in the UK in the week following non-essential stores reopening, compared to the same week in 2019.
This shot needed some serious "post processing" to straighten it up and get a vaguely presentable picture. shooting from the hip can be unpredictable, it takes me a while to work out where each camera lens combination point when held at the hip. My Nikon D7200 with the 18-300mm zoom is the easiest -but its very big and noticeable (and heavy for all day use). My smallest camera the Panasonic Lumix LX7 is the most unpredictable as the slightest change in how you hold it makes a big difference to what's in the shot.
Acte 6 Retribution
Sub titled : Just Desserts
Still back in time before the Police Constables disconcerting discovery, we rejoin the small party in the alleyway. Sir Edmund had just fallen faint on the pile of alleyway rubbish where he ended up after his rather unfortunate misadventure with the Gypsy youth called Josey, who hiself his sneaking back up in the shadows. . Lord Edmund’s wife, The Mistress , unawares of her Husband’s fate, is still being led by Josey’s older companion deeper into the shadows of the very same Alley.
The now impatient Mistress found herself being led about 25 feet further down the darkened alleyway from where they had left Josey and her husband, the Lord Edmund. Suddenly the tall bearded Gypsy youth stopped, turned, and led her down into deserted court yard, surrounded by backsides of tall, empty looking brick buildings. The place reeked of old garbage , stale beer, and worse smells best left undescribed. The scurrying feet of tiny rodents could be heard , but not seen, in the dim light.
Well, where’s the girl!, the Mistress demands, looking around at the barren courtyard, failing to see anyone else around.
Well mum you see, that’s the bit of a trick I was tellin you bouts, and from his waistband they Gypsy lad draws a long knife, its blade gleaming wickedly as it is caught by the Moon lite just now peeping through the parting dark clouds.
Put that thing down young man, and get me the girl, The Mistress shrilly commands him, unfazed by the blade, not truly understanding what is taking place( the curse of a privileged, overprotected childhood).
Silence, the young gypsy bellows, spitting the words in her face, then leaning in whispers evilly into her ear, his lips moving her shiny dangling earring…lets have that purse now mum. Finally The Mistress realizes the Gypsy lads intent.
Now, never in her life has anything like that ever been dared tried on her, and an even newer, at first unrecognizable feeling is felt, as dread washes over her, making her cower before the youth, no older than her husband’s stable boy, Tim, who had felt her strap earlier that morning. A surrendering moan escapes her lips, no she states, never!. Unheeding her commands, The purse she is holding is callously wrenched from her slippery gloved fingers grasp. She just stares at him, unable to find her tongue as he opens the small purse with its rhinestone clasp, and looks through it, lifting up a ring of keys with rising interest.
At this time the gypsy girl appears out of the shadows behind The Mistress, wearing the sparkling diamonded bracelet, and nonchalantly swinging the gold watch by its chain as she holds its gold fob, coming around she is smiling mischievously at the Mistress, who straightens up as she catches sight of the imp.
The Mistress, loses any vestige of her panic, and in anger and rounds upon the girl as she stands mockingly in front of her. Why you thieving harlot, The Mistress hisses, attempting to smack the girl, who jumps just out of reach. Suddenly The Mistress words are cut off with a meek squeak as the point of the lad’s very sharp knife is pressed under her chin, forcing The Mistress to raise her head, effectively shutting her up. Apologize The Gypsy male snarls wickedly in The Mistress ear, apologies now, tell her you are quite sorry Mum…!
The Mistress stands frozen, a stern look upon her puckish face, her lips pursed in defiance, even with the knife pressing threateningly under her chin. Teach you some manners I will he hisses again, as he raises his hand, slapping her on the cheek, the Mistress’s dangling earrings fire bright glittering salvo as her head is whipped to the side, the point of the knife opening a thin scratch along her chin, which quickly wells up with crimson blood.
She turns her face forward, facing the pair of young hooligans, glaring at their insolence to someone of her high stature. She is stubbornly holding her ground, all feelings of distress replaced by arrogance and superiority. Well now, the Gypsy Lad says to the Smirking Gypsy girl, as he points the knife in between The Mistress’s breasts, its prickling point effectively quelling any more feelings of retribution. Looks like what words she won’t give to you, will have to be given in some other manner. The Mistress listens, confused by his words, then what he says next, makes his attentions all too crystal clear.
For lack of an apology my girl, he says to the petit gypsy lass, let’s say we accept some other compensation, shall we? The young girl beams, as her eyes dart to the Mistress, looking her up and down , eyeing the gemmed jewelry the Mistress is wearing, sparkles of which are reflected in her coy doe wide dark green eyes.
The mistress still mute with rage, her hands clenched, her arms rigid at her side as she looks into the Gypsy male’s stern eyes, as he moves his knife up, once again pressing up into her chin. Suddenly, her arms are grabbed by a pair of strong hands and pulled behind her back. Ello, took your sweet time about it, the Gypsy youth holding the knife says to the unseen newcomer. No names are said, and whoever is now holding her remains mute, but the Mistress assumed it was the one called Josey. The Mistress tries turning her head, put is prevented by the knife. Where’s my Edmund, she manages to squeak out the words, but receives no satisfaction.
The Gypsy lad holding the knife reaches out his free hand, grinning! Leave me alone, the Mistress orders him, trying admonish him into obedience, bur the gypsy boy just smirks as he methodically , briskly gropes along her body, admiring and inventorying her plentiful jewels, opening her sable, and the satin Bolero, as he checks her over for anything hidden from view. He misses nothing, even her hair is carefully raked through, undoing the braided bun in the process as a diamonded clip is pulled off and handed to the gypsy lass. Her ladyship, shirking back from his touch, now begins to whimper, no, not my jewels! He reaches up, his eyes bugging, as his hand snakes up between her ample breasts and lifts her necklace, admiring it as she tries to shake her head no, but is unable to do so because of the knife. She tries to say more, but the words of discipline stay dry in her throat, choking her as she realizes, finally, the futility of her predicament. The Gypsy boy then nods to the girl, handing her the purse, the honor is yours he says….
The young girl taking the open silver clutch purse, smirking, her eyes ablaze with delight, reaches up her free hand and takes hold of the necklace, pretty thing this, she says sweetly, mimicking her earlier words. She pulls the necklace from around the Mistress throat so the clasp comes forward, then nimbly she flicks it open with the fingers of one hand, and pulls it , swishing freely along the satiny fabric, until it falls from the gowns’ neckline. Thank you mum, the Gypsy girl whispers as she places it inside the purse, and reaching up touches a dangling earring, I’ll have those next she says, almost like she is talking her herself, and yanks off both, one after the other. She than gets into her work, and soon the Gypsy girl’s invading fingers friskily finish stripping the Mistress quite clean of all her shimmering, expensively large collection of jewels; rings, bracelet, brooches, the entire glittery roster. It had all been carried out like some bizarre rendition of reverse trick and treating, with the Gypsy girl peeling away and placing the jewels into The Mistress purse. When she finishes, the Gypsy girl steps back, looking with interest inside the now bulging purse, now containing a small fortune, quite unseen for the likes of them who inhabit this rea of the great city.
Suddenly The Mistress’s hands are let go, and before she can properly react, male hands briskly grab and slips off the sable from her back. Then the satin bolero is also peeled off and she sees both passed to the waiting hand of the gypsy girl. Still held in her place by the point of the Gypsy’s knife,The Mistress’s eyes grow big with dread, as she feels the back of her long slick gown being unzipped, and allowed to fall freely down to her feet, piling up in a shimmering pool.
This exposes the long, luxurious purple slip she is wearing, complete with small rhinestones decorating its straps and bodice. As the Mistress is standing there, frozen in awe struck disbelief , the knife is taken from her chin, and used to slice each of the rhinestone slips straps, and the mistress grabs the top of the now free hanging slip, and holds if fast to her chest in an effort to preserve whatever remained of her quickly waning dignity.
The Mistress tries to find words of protest, but she is too unbelieving that she , a lady who considers herself to be far superior to common folk of their ilk, is absolutely dumbfounded that they are daring to treat her like this, fails to be able to give any words their proper voice.
The older gypsy lad holding the knife steps back. Now he says, shouldn’t leave a lady standing, and he points his knife to a stack of crates. She stands there glaring. Move it on now mum, he suggests , his voice carries with it a with mocking tone of fake obedience. The Mistress unwillingly does so, and moving to a crate, sits down, the smell of something rotten permeates her nostrils as she faces her aggressor. The other two have seemingly, cowardly, disappeared somewhere into the shadows she notices with thoughts of righteousness.
The Gypsy lad mocks her, there, cannt say we didint leave you nufing, eh mum.( indicating her slip, gloves and high heels)! And by the ways, apology accepted he added sarcastically, mimicking a curt bow.
Then almost immediately her eyes are blindfolded from behind ( they hadn’t run after all) with something made of cloth that reeks of decaying meat, and she hears the pratfalls of several pairs of feet running off. And then, all is silent, except for the beating of The Mistress heart from a mixture of rage and incredulity.
As all is once again quiet around her, and believing she is now alone, The Mistress continues holding up her slip with one hand, while with the other reaches in back, groping for the blindfold. Suddenly her whole being jolts as something furry with sharp claws runs over her feet, and a noise, not quite a scream, but close, gurgles from The Mistress’s dry throat.
Ere now, the mistress hears the voice of an old lady, , whose there? , no rat by the sound of things, she continues on, approaching. What have we here, the old lady says to herself, a damsel in distress by the look of things, whit no dress, and she cackles at her bit of humor. Her dearie, lets get you up and The Mistress feels a pair of cold hands helping her shakenly to her feet.
Then her ladyship feels those hands, not giving her aid, but quite the opposite, as cold fingers began going over her. Then, with a dry cackle, and the old hags words reach the Mistress ears, left you with nothing dearie but a shiny slip, too bad, but old Chizzy will check anyways. The Mistress balks as the pair of cold hands grope her figure, the second time that evening! The Mistress recoils, knowing the old hag is looking for anything of value, when quite unexpectedly the Hags hands shoot up into the Mistress underarms, and The Mistress raises her arms automatically as nerves are pressed, and the slip falls down her figure gathering into a slithering heap at her feet. The Mistress tries to protest, her hands going to her blindfold, but she is pushed, and falls over the crate into a pile of cold ashes. Each of Her hands are lifted and she feels her long satin opera gloves pulled off, and then her high heeled shoes are yanked from her feet before she can begin to offer any type of resistance..
Thenk you dearie! the Hags voice close enough now that the Mistress can smell the wispy oders of whiskey and old pipe, as it reaches her nostrils. Old Chizzy thenks ye, for your contributions this evening, Honey. The Mistress hears the old hags cackling laugh as ‘Chizzy” makes her get away with the last of the Mistress’s pretty possessions.
For a few minutes all is again silent, The Mistress lays upon the pile of asses, dazed by what has befallen her, but then, the cesspool like orders from the garbage surrounding the ash pile start to overwhelm her making the Mistress snap back into the cold reality of her situation.
It was then, that , for the second time, the sound of shuffling feet is again heard approaching, and the Mistress tenses up, now expecting more ill fortune, not that she really had anything left of value to lose.. But then a familiar voice, Edmund’s, calls out. Dear, where are you? The Mistress tries to answer, but, her voice dry and choked has trouble making words. Finally she does manage to call out to her husband, but her voice is noticeably missing its’ usual sharpness.
Edmund comes to her aid and helps her up. After he undoes the blindfold, she finds herself looking into his questioning eyes, and she actually hugs him. Edmund, startled at the long forgotten display of affection, finds that it takes him a few seconds to regain himself. Hear, cants having you catch your death of cold, he says, almost lovingly. He helps The Mistress find coverings from the piles of old trash in the form of a couple of rough sacks of old, mildewing burlap.
Hair disheveled, streaks of dirt and ash covering their figures that are covered with dirty, rancid rags they make their way down the alley, to where they believe their car and chauffer are still waiting. Edmund and the Mistress are both a smelly, reeking mess, moving slowly as their bare feet hobble tortuously along the cobblestone path. But as they make their way, The Mistress tells Edmund what had conspired. As she does, The Mistress feels more of her old self returning, and begins to chastise the three gypsy youths, and how she will make them pay for their rude indiscretions’. Edmund is in total agreement.
As they make it back to the alleys’ entrance, a figure appears out of the mist. The Mistress squeals in startled shock at the dark figure standing at the end of the alleyway, she grabs Edmund and pulls him in front of her as one would a shield.
----
As the dark figure peers into the alleyways entrance, he suddenly see’s two shadowy forms emerge from the misty pool of light given off from the relit street lamp. The pair is both tottering like being quite intoxicated, smelling like something a rat would have dragged out of the garbage, faces streaked with ashes and muck, barely half dressed. Suddenly, spying him, one of the figures makes a quick move, placing the other in front.
At that moment the figure raises his hand and suddenly the night’s silence is completely shattered by the shrill wails of his street constable’s police whistle.
End of Acte 6,
Watch for the final two actes of this woeful saga;
Acte 7 (Harbinger) and Acte 8 (Footfalls - including the obligatory Epilogue), coming soon….
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Alas, no more trains at Grantown East. The former owners who developed the derelict site into an attractive visitor attraction unfortunately had to close the venue a couple of years ago due to low footfall. Despite featuring the fine restaurant carriages, miniature railway, station shop & events on the showground the numbers just didn’t add up.
The site has now been sold to the Towmore Distillery, we will wait & see what their plans are for the site. However, the two carriages that made up the restaurant were split from each other & are now in Kent, (they were actually Kent Coast Electric trailer cars), to be catering facilities at the ‘One Collection’ based in the old Hornby Model Railways factory building in Margate.
The Courtyard Development is based on an old Lane/alleyway running between the High Street and Church Street in Bawtry, South of Doncaster. Several years ago the whole lane was redeveloped and modernised with new premises and businesses. It is basically the new pasted on top of the old! The businesses there do not do too well as many visitors to the small town appear unaware of its existence and it is a route that leads from a busy street to a very quiet residential side road. If it led from shops to shops, I feel it would be much busy and have greater footfall.
“A job you have to do, or a job you want to do?” I asked as I approached. “Oh I love it.” Was the answer. This is one of the roughest paths on Cader Idris, mostly used as a descent route. Erosion from footfall and weather has taken its toll. The massive chunks of stone are dropped in by helicopter and then chaps like this slowly manhandle then into place. He’s been at this since September and has another year to go. Funding is an issue, having lost some in European money due to Brexit, so if you’re visiting, use the car park, pay the fee, it all helps these guys continue to improve and maintain the paths too many people take for granted.
Commentary.
Strathfarrar is less well known than Glens Cannich and Affric.
It is less visited and more remote because at its entrance
there is a gated system of arrival and departure.
This is to protect the vast herds of Red Deer and other wildlife that roam the glen.
It also limits the detrimental effects of too much human footfall that can adversely affect the ecosystem including plants, trees and insects.
Visitors must sign in and out of the glen.
Its lochs, forests, mountains, moors and rivers are quite stunning, especially in Autumn.
Bronze bracken, yellow and gold Larch and Birch and the
bottle-green Scots Pine and Spruce provide a kaleidoscope of vivid colour.
The upper reaches culminate in two hydro-electric dams creating Loch Monar, beneath the dominant peak of Sgurr na Lapaich, 1,150 metres.
Although, perhaps, Affric takes the gold medal for breathtaking beauty in abundance, for me,
Farrar’s remoteness and tranquillity give an added and vital
dimension that satisfies the soul and senses.
After a little over 2 years I have finally hit the 100!!!!!!
My very first stranger was on the 7th February 2013 and it took me around 4 hours to summon up the courage just to ask someone. My 100th took me a little over 3 hours. So things haven't changed much, but now the time is because I am more particular about what I want.
I had spotted this location a long time ago. It is the Greenwich Tunnel and looks so cool that I knew I had to shoot a stranger here. However this was going to be difficult - firstly in needed to be lit, secondly there is lot of footfall which means its full of people, thirdly the area is full of tourists meaning that there could be a language barrier and also that this is not one of the coolest spots in town. Finally, the best spot for approaching strangers was outside the tunnel, I didn't know how receptive someone might be to me asking them to follow me into a tunnel :-)
However, I felt the stranger gods would be with me today and after the aforementioned 3 hours my luck was in. I saw George sitting there and thought he would be a great stranger. The only problem was he was by himself and I needed 2 people (the second person needed to hold a flash). Soon, his friend Yola arrived. They hugged and sat down while Yola finished her drink. I sat down next to them and Yola flashed me a smile. I knew that they were going into the tunnel and so I just had to wait. it wasn't long before they got upto go and I made my move.
I approached them and explained the concept to them and they both said yes without hesitation. I explained what I wanted and we walked down the tunnel together. As we walked we had a little chat and George asked me what stranger I was on, I said I would tell them later.
The reason for that was that I didn't want to jinx it and I also was going to try something I hadn't tried before. As mentioned above, I was going to have to light this shot but I didn't want this to be on camera flash. Not only that but I wanted to mimic the light coming from the lights in the tunnel. I therefore used a gridded flash of camera in line with the lights that you see in the shot. Yola was brilliant in helping out as my assistant.
I also wanted to challenge myself with using coloured gels to get a more dramatic shot. I set my camera up with a white balance of tungsten and then used a full cut of CTO on the flash to ensure that George's face didn't go blue too.
Given all the knew things I was trying I was far from sure that it would work. However, from the very first go it came out well and most importantly George looked great in it. I showed Yola and George and they really liked the shots too. At this point I told them "You are my 100th!"
We headed down slowly and took shots at various spots. This turned out the best. Although I preferred the light in one of the others this one had a better look overall.
Once you we got to the other side side of the tunnel I thanked the guys and got a picture of us together as a memento to myself. I also asked the guys there happiest moment. George said at first it was his wedding day, but then he changed his mind and said it was getting engaged. Yola's was her niece being born.
So there you have it my 100 strangers project is complete and I could not have wished for a better "couple" to be my 100th. Thank you so much George and Yola for being a part of my project.
Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the
100 Strangers Flickr Group Page
Connect with me on my facebook page: Shooting the Streets
As always any critique welcome
This is Stranger 61/100 in my 100 Strangers Project. See more photos from other photographers participating in this project at the 100 Strangers Project page.
View my progression through the project over at My 100 Strangers Project Set.
Best viewed large, press L!
A few days after shooting portraits around the campus of Kutztown University, I got home from work and had an hour or two to kill. The sun was out with a slight breeze, beautiful 60* fall weather. I decided to head over to another college campus, but one that is less than a 5 minute drive from my house--Muhlenberg College. I really enjoyed shooting over at KU as a college campus offers a myriad of background opportunities, as well as a good amount of footfall throughout the whole space of it. Right by where I parked on the street was this classroom building that had once been covered in some sort of ivy. Almost all of the plant matter had been removed but a ghost of the ivy remained as the secretions the plant uses to stick to the wall leave a stain. I thought it looked pretty neat and decided to use that as my first backdrop. It took maybe 15 minutes until I finally came upon my Stranger 61, who stood out to me first because of her highly graphic, black and white striped pants.
Kelley agreed very warmly and did not mind walking back to my original backdrop which at this point was a few minutes away. When I began describing this wall Kelley knew exactly what I was talking about and said she used to admire it during class through the window of a building that is adjacent to it. Kelley said it was not a problem at all to walk back over there because she could walk across the entire campus in a matter of a few minutes if she had to. Kelley described to me the buildings along the way and we both agreed that it's a beautiful campus; Kelley loves it. Kelley is a Muhlenberg senior studying dance. Thanks for being so kind Kelley!
Headshot in the comments.
So last night I met up with Barbara to try and get some 100 stranger portraits. I felt that I had regained my 100 stranger virginity and needed to get out there and get going again. I didn't get any last night with Ed's milkshakes winning out in the end. However, I promised Barbara that I would get 2 this weekend. Well I got just the one so far and this is the shot.
I had spotted this colourful spiral a while back, the only problem... it's in the middle of bloody nowhere with barely any footfall. I decided that today was the day that I would just be patient and hopefully find a suitable stranger. I did have a specific type of stranger in mind but when I saw Camilla standing nearby I decided that she would be great for the shot.
I approached Camilla and she was intrigued but was a little sceptical too. I showed her my flickr stream and she commented that she liked the shots I had taken so far which was nice to hear. She agreed to have some pictures taken but I had to wait for her friend Chloe. She wasn't feeling photogenic having been on a 15 hour flight back home from Rome (another good reason never to fly Ryan Air) and would only do shots with both of them in it. While we waited it was nice to chat with her for a bit. After taking some fun shots Camilla agreed to do the shot I had in mind.
Now positioning for this shot was a difficult and I ended up having to make some sacrifices to get the shot. The main one was that I had an 85mm lens which would mean going onto the middle of a busy roundabout to get the whole background. The second problem I had was that the centre point of the spiral was a little too high and while I got down a little lower and didn't want to go too far as it would distort the angles of the background. I got her positioned as best I could and then added a reflector to bring in some catchlights.
Camilla was also in the middle of a "100" project being "100 happy days" although she stalled at around 50. She is on her way to Australia soon though so that's one more reason to be happy. Thank you Camilla and Chloe for being a part of my project. Please get in touch if you want the high res pics as well the other shots.
Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the
100 Strangers Flickr Group Page
Connect with me on my facebook page: Shooting the Streets
As always any critique welcome.
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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.
Upper Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire located in the Cotswold district located 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Nearby places include Lower Slaughter, Bourton-on-the-Water and Daylesford. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye. The Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Peter. Upper Slaughter was identified by author Arthur Mee as one of 32 Thankful Villages, although more recent work suggests a total of 52. This term referred to the small number of villages in England and Wales which had lost no men in World War I, and was popularised by Mee in the 1930s. In Enchanted Land (1936), the introductory volume to "The King's England" series of guides, he wrote "that a Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again." Although the village was subject to an air raid, it also lost no men in World War II, an honour held by only 14 villages, collectively known as the Doubly Thankful Villages. The parliamentary constituency is represented by Geoffrey Clifton-Brown MP. The name of the village derives form the Old English term "slough" meaning "wet land". The manor of Upper Slaughter is recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086; the Slaughter family acquired it in the late 12th century. The current building, on the site of an ancient building, was constructed over many years, starting in the Tudor era. Its crypt is estimated to be from the 14th century. The largest business in the village is the Lords of the Manor Hotel. The building dates from 1649 and has been a hotel since 1960s. The owners continue to furnish the house with portraits and antiques belonging to the former owner. Other hotels serving the two Slaughter villages include The Slaughters Country Inn and Lower Slaughter Manor. In 1906, the cottages around the square were reconstructed by architect Sir Edward Lutyens.
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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
To view more images of Lower Slaughter, please click "here" !
Please do not insert images, or group invites; thank you!
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.
Upper Slaughter is a village in the English county of Gloucestershire located in the Cotswold district located 4 miles (6.4 km) south west of the town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Nearby places include Lower Slaughter, Bourton-on-the-Water and Daylesford. The village is built on both banks of the River Eye. The Anglican parish church is dedicated to St. Peter. Upper Slaughter was identified by author Arthur Mee as one of 32 Thankful Villages, although more recent work suggests a total of 52. This term referred to the small number of villages in England and Wales which had lost no men in World War I, and was popularised by Mee in the 1930s. In Enchanted Land (1936), the introductory volume to "The King's England" series of guides, he wrote "that a Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again." Although the village was subject to an air raid, it also lost no men in World War II, an honour held by only 14 villages, collectively known as the Doubly Thankful Villages. The parliamentary constituency is represented by Geoffrey Clifton-Brown MP. The name of the village derives form the Old English term "slough" meaning "wet land". The manor of Upper Slaughter is recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086; the Slaughter family acquired it in the late 12th century. The current building, on the site of an ancient building, was constructed over many years, starting in the Tudor era. Its crypt is estimated to be from the 14th century. The largest business in the village is the Lords of the Manor Hotel. The building dates from 1649 and has been a hotel since 1960s. The owners continue to furnish the house with portraits and antiques belonging to the former owner. Other hotels serving the two Slaughter villages include The Slaughters Country Inn and Lower Slaughter Manor. In 1906, the cottages around the square were reconstructed by architect Sir Edward Lutyens.
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Are thousands of Silver-studded Blue Butterflies. Every footfall releases waves of this magnificent butterfly across the New Forest heaths. Some places are better than others, usually those places where humans rarely tread.
This one is a female.
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
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 Postchaise Hotel, Bishop Auckland is long-term closed.
Historic Listing
Originally designated Grade II on 23 May 1994
Delisted on 17 September 2024 after assessment determined it no longer met listing criteria
Architectural Description
Built in the late 18th century with 20th-century alterations, the former coaching inn features:
Painted render facade with ashlar plinth and dressed quoins
Welsh slate roof punctuated by rendered brick chimneys
Three storeys and six-window arrangement, with two pairs of wide double-door entrances flanked by pilasters
Upper floors retain casement and sash windows set on simple stone sills
Gable coping with rounded kneelers at roof ends
Redevelopment Plans
The Post Chaise, alongside the derelict Queens Head and Monaco buildings at 32–38 Market Place, is slated for demolition
Durham County Council approved a scheme to replace these pubs with a new 59-bed hotel featuring a bar, restaurant, and parking
Backed by over £3 million of public and private funding, the development forms part of a wider town-centre regeneration led by The Auckland Project
Future Outlook
Aims to support Bishop Auckland’s target of 1.5 million annual visitors by 2029
Projected to add £4.7 million per year to the local economy and create around 30 permanent hotel jobs plus 65 construction roles
Expected to breathe new life into the north side of Market Place and bolster footfall for nearby businesses.
Acte 8 Footfalls (and the obligatory Epilogue)
Subtitle (striking the irons)
It had indeed been a trying day for The Mistress, as had the whole affair actually, and she was just too tired to continue putting up with it.
Exhausted after being run through an entire gauntlet of emotions, some of which had been entirely new to her and which she had found to be quite distasteful to someone of her carefully orchestrated upbringing, The mistress took some heavy sleep sedatives and had one of the downstairs servants( Maggie being shunned to the barn) put her to bed.
Later that evening as Edmund and her ladyship lay fast asleep in the separate rooms that extend out on either side of the large, shared sitting room, a most rude intrusion is made upon their chambres.
A pair of dark figures, moving silently as cats, walk up the stairs from the first floor, where they have spent some time lifting various pieces of silver, but now it was time for their main objectives:
They enter Edmunds room first, spending about twenty minutes as they expertly locate and removed his lordships valuables from their various hiding spots, some of which had been unlocked from a ring of keys in the possession of one of the thieves.
The pair then enters her Ladyships bedchamber, spending twice as much time inside as they had in Edmund’s chamber. They take great pains to make sure all of her hiding spots are located and relived of the valuables contained within; trying all the remaining keys out from the chain they have in their possession. Their torches touch upon many cases which when opened, contain a dazzling collection of colourful jewels, brite gold and pearls,( white black and coral.) Having been given a sleeping draught, The Mistress is blissfully unaware that all of her expensive jewelry and knickknacks are being collected and placed in a large black carpet bag. And since the Mistress liked to keep are of her most expensive possessions close at hand in her Boudoir, it was quite a large and extremely valuable collection that was being stolen from right under her pointed, upturned nose.
They lastly work around the large canopy bed where her ladyship is sleeping peacefully.
One of the dark shadowy men peel back the blue satin coverlet, exposing the mistress in her long black nightgown. Thin, dark fingers feel carefully along her satin clad figure checking for anything of value er the Mistress may have worn to bed. A jeweled ruby ring is located, one she always wears to bed feeling that it is the safest place for it, and is ever so gently pulled off her finger.
Her silver rhinestone sleeping masque is then lifted off, as are the pair of tortis shell clips holding up her long hair. As they are pulled away, she turns in her bed, saying a name( her lawyers as it so happens) exposing a black string protruding from the bottom of her pillow. The string is pulled, and out comes a black silk pouch. ( later that pouch is found to contain a letter for a certain solicitor along with a healthy wad of fivers!)
A long thin knife is pulled out, and for the second time that evening, the thin straps of her negligee are slit, and the negligee is slowly pulled coff of her figure.
The two shadowy figures leave with their loot, and make their way back outside. They almost get away undetected, but for one female servant, who had watched the pair from the servants quarters. And said servant, instead of sounding an alarm, may have chuckled a bit as she hobbled back to her bed and soon had fallen peacefully, innocently, back to sleep….
The Obligatory Epilogue :
All’s well that ends well, one can suppose:
Edmund and The Mistress, the robbery effectively relieving them of the last of their savings, and facing the loss of their estates, attempted to get back the money they had paid the crooked magistrate. He immediately had the pair charged and arrested for intimidation of a judge. Unable to pay the fines, they both were sent to debtors prison, where Edmund expired of a heart attack 8 months later, giving Errol the opportunity to inherit the family title.
The Dowager Aunt paid the debts of the Estate ( but not those of Edmund and The Mistress), acquiring Staghurst in the process. She set up Errol and his wife in the great estate as overseers; eventually Errol was bequeathed the estate upon the Dowagers passing some 6 years later. The Dowager was buried at Staghurst, and her mausoleum, even though overgrown and buried by vines, can still, not easily, be found..
Now it is known that The Mistress was quite inconsolable at Edmund’s funeral, so one would like to think there were some embers of love giving minute bits of heat to an otherwise seemingly soulless heart.
Lady Elisa apparently took pity on the poor creature, and convinced His Lordship Errol to forgive the Mistress’s debts. He apparently took money from his own household and finally got her release from debtor’s prison a year after Edmund’s passing. The Dowager Aunt allowed her to rent out one of the estates small cottages. Elisa sent Fanny to teach the Mistress how to be a seamstress so she could earn her keep. It was recorded in the family chronicles that her first order of business was taking some of her own stunning gowns that the Mistress had left behind at Staghurst and altering them to fit Elisa and Maggie to be worn by the ladies at various functions.
Sadly, Maggie’s scratches on her cheeks became infected and left her with some rather nasty scarring. Elisa brought the poor creature into Staghurst to be her companion. It is not chronicled whom Maggie eventually wed, but it was recorded in the Staghurst manor’s archives that one of Maggie’s daughters married a younger son of Lord Errol’s. A bloodline that carried the title of the house of Staghurst into modern times.
As for Staghurst itself, the great house still looms, standing in commanding atonement! But times have changed, and like so many great estates of the day, the majority of the manor has been re-envisioned into a rather upscale overnight, run by the current Lord and his family, direct descendants of Errol and Elisa.
As for the Assault and Robbery, no one was ever caught and punished. But one can imagine, without naming names, that those who had a hand in obtaining the small fortune acquired, soon found their positions in life elevated, and one can always hope that some good came of it…
The pub mentiond, The Poet and the Peasant, is the name of an actual welsh pub, and the 400 year old building it is located in has been the site of many drinking establishments over the years. Although its part in this story is fictional, one who has been there can well imagine that if its darkened and smoky walls and chambers could talk, therein would lay many tales, both rude and glorious.
The team journeyed on, deeper into the valley's embrace. The air hung thick and heavy, a tapestry woven with the scent of damp earth and the ghostly perfume of unseen blossoms. Towering cliffs, their faces scarred with the chronicles of centuries, clawed at the sky, casting long, dancing shadows that shifted and writhed with every rustle of unseen life. Beneath their feet, the path, a ribbon of grey stone, wound tortuously onward, swallowed by the encroaching wilderness. An unnatural silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the craggy peaks, pressed down upon them, a palpable weight that seemed to amplify every footfall, every breath. The very air hummed with an unspoken power, a palpable sense of mystery that both beckoned and warned. Ahead, the valley beckoned, a dark maw promising both wonders and terrors unknown.
A well spent hour in Cathedral Park about a year ago, spent listening to the snow sparkle on lamp-lit branches and crunch under each footfall.
Taken with my Nikon FM.
Another in the series of legs and feet on the hairdresser's floor. Beautiful texture by Skeletal mess called Ruffled. Happy Friday everyone
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
—TS Eliot
Explore
#45
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Street candid and social commentary taken in Glasgow, Scotland, on 'Panic Saturday'. As hundreds upon hundreds of people footfall their way along Buchanan Street on a last minute Christmas shopping spree they bypass those less fortunate folk shivering on the sidelines. I deliberately aimed for a low POV to get the mass of legs passing by the homeless guy in his sleeping bag, I had the 16:9 cinematic crop in my mind as I took the shot. I have to say that this shot is actually level, the paving is on a slope.
Buchan services have been hard hit but snow drifts and high winds of late but even in the city centre the lack of footfall made Union St pavements very poor to walk on for prospective passengers of late. 54243 picks up for Fraserburgh.
Rat Race sums up this busy corner in Shoreditch, where traffic and footfall is heavy. A couple of times I've had to move pretty smartish to avoid being mown down!