View allAll Photos Tagged Footfalls
It’s a public footpath in Halnaker (pronounced Ha’naker), a hamlet a few miles north of Chichester in West Sussex, in the South Downs National Park. The lane follows an ancient track along the route of Stane Street, the London to Chichester Roman road. Over the years many have walked along this route forming a hollow way, where the path has sunk down, worn away by centuries of footfall.
A little bit of overnight snow & frost along one of our regular dog routes - a welcome relief from the inches of mud caused by the increased lockdown footfall.
hff!
The good dog sat on the porch in the shade, waiting for his master. The master had sat him down and told him to Stay, and he knew from hard experience that Stay was very serious. A dog told to stay did exactly that, and nothing else. Until the master came back to release him.
Morning turned to midday and sun lit up the dog’s corner of the porch. All through the afternoon, the heat got more and more intense.
The good dog panted. Burned in the sun. Thought about water; tried not to think about it. Went to that empty private place in his mind where dogs sometimes go when they have to do a lot of waiting.
Through the afternoon, the dog looked with longing at the shade on the other side of the porch. But he did not go to it. Stay meant stay.
By evening, the sun’s rays were longer and less intense. Hunger gripped the dog’s belly. His mouth and tongue were raw from panting. But… good dog that he was, he stayed.
His heart leapt, and he could almost taste cool water, when he heard someone coming up the stairs.
But he knew almost instantly that it was not his master. The footfalls were too light; the smell was all wrong.
It was a woman. She gasped a little gasp when she saw the dog. Said hello, with some trepidation. Held out her hand for him to sniff, which he did.
She kneeled down in front of him, saw that he was in distress, and went inside the cool dark house.
At the door she turned to him and said, “Come on!”
But he was a good dog, and he’d been told to stay.
The woman brought out a big bowl of water and some leftover chicken from the night before. She put them on the porch in front of the dog and urged him to eat and drink.
He did neither. He’d been told to stay. And he knew the “food and water” trick. The master had taught him that one well.
No matter how thirsty, how hungry, how fatigued, how hot or cold the dog became… he could do nothing – would do nothing – till the master gave the word.
The woman went back into the house and called the newspaper. Placed an ad in the lost and found. Returned to the porch with her digital camera. Took pictures of the dog that she could use on flyers around the neighbourhood.
Three or four times as the evening wore on she came to the porch to check on him. And each time, there he was… sitting in the same spot, the food and water apparently untouched.
She got up several times during the night to check on him, and found the same.
Morning came. The dog had drifted off to sleep at some point, but was now awake… still sitting, still waiting in the corner of the porch.
He was tempted by the water. Oh, so tempted. And the chicken was the best thing he’d ever smelled. But he knew from hard experience that taking even one lap or bite could cost him dearly.
His bowels and bladder strained. But he knew – also from hard experience – that he dare not allow them to evacuate. Stay meant Stay. It meant Do Not Move a Muscle. It meant Do Absolutely Nothing Till I Say So.
The woman came out with her breakfast and ate on the steps a few feet away from the dog. She made some gentle, concerned noises. She touched the top of his head and he allowed her, but he shrank back into himself when she tried to scratch behind his ears.
The next time she came out of the house, she was on her way to work… a stack of flyers with the dog’s photo sitting on top of her papers and folders.
The dog heard her footsteps go away down the stairs, and closed his eyes, and tried not to think.
The dog passed another day on the porch. And another night. And the woman worried. No one called. No one came to claim the dog. And… since he was a good dog, and had been told to stay, he stayed.
By the third day, he had trouble sitting up. His vision was blurred. He choked with thirst. But still he would not touch the water.
On the fourth day, the woman came out of the house and found him stiff and cold and lifeless. And cried. Because it’s always sad when the world loses a good dog.
The National Trust is one of the most important organisations in the UK for bluebell conservation. A quarter of the Trust's woodland is ancient or semi-natural; the ideal habitats for bluebells. Here are six facts you may not know about them:
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.
Regno Unito, West Sussex, Halnaker, Autunno 2021
Il sentiero per Halnaker Windmill nel West Sussex è senza dubbio uno dei tunnel più belli del mondo. Questo tunnel di alberi si chiama Mill Lane. È un sentiero pubblico ad Halnaker, una frazione a poche miglia a nord di Chichester, nel West Sussex, nel Regno Unito. Questo segue un'antica pista lungo il percorso di Stane Street, la strada romana da Londra a Chichester. Nel corso degli anni molti hanno percorso questo percorso formando un avvallamento, dove il sentiero è sprofondato, consumato da secoli di calpestio.
The path to Halnaker Windmill in West Sussex is arguably one of the prettiest tree tunnels in the world. This tree tunnel is called Mill Lane. It’s a public footpath in Halnaker, a hamlet a few miles north of Chichester in West Sussex, United Kingdom. The lane follows an ancient track along the route of Stane Street, the London to Chichester Roman road. Over the years many have walked along this route forming a hollow way, where the path has sunk down, worn away by centuries of footfall
The August heat sat heavily on the air, blistering all that lingered in the sun for too long. Even the shade offered little comfort with the relentless heat. Another sweat droplet streamed from her brow down the side of her face as she watched the heat dance across the horizon, time creeping by, minutes feeling like hours. She leaned forward only slightly to scan her surroundings, trying to see further down the canyon, but knowing without seeing that her partner was just as eager for what was to come next.
As she sat, her horse shifted beneath her, his rhythmic tail swatting the only other movement he offered. He was quiet, even though he surely felt the anticipation that his rider was brimming with.
As they waited, the unmistakable sound of hooves against the packed earth started to fill the quiet, her horse’s head lifting in silent confirmation she was in fact hearing it and not imagining things. It wouldn’t be long now. She adjusted her seat, pulling the reins only slightly to communicate his need to be prepared to go when asked, and she could feel him ready himself in response.
---
Pulling the fabric of her mask up across her face she watched from her hiding place as the coach rushed by, the horses thundering by as the dust filled the air around them. The sound of the wooden wheels of the coach and the footfalls of the fast-moving horses had to be one of her favorites, but perhaps because this was always when she heard them best.
As they passed, she squeezed her mount, and he launched himself forward falling into the dusty path of the coach. She dropped the reins, using her legs to guide him as she raised her pistols, firing off the first shot, which proved successful as the horses ahead of her sped into a frantic run.
It was only moments before the shotgun rider had prepared himself, and returned a shot, to which she pulled back only slightly, sending back one of her own as she did her best to keep her horse from staying too straight for too long.
They were almost into position now, well into the canyon, knowing she’d soon hear Millie’s shots joining the symphony. If there was one thing she could count on, it was her being where she said she’d be.
Thank you Tups for always jumping into my shenanigans with me, I am thoroughly enjoying watching these characters develop as their story progresses, and I look forward to many more with you! You can see her version here!
Credits:
The Horses-
Cheval D'or's Wavy Mane and Tail
Cheval D'or's Bosal
Cheval D'or's Lancaster Saddle & Saddle Pad
Visit Cheval D'or on Marketplace
Cheval D'or's Christmas Spirit Set Harness (Brown)
Available the 20th of November at the Christmas Event!
--
I want to take a moment to remember Andrew Harlan, who I didn't know well, but knew to be a very kind person. I'm glad to have known him and been able to do this image with him. He was very talented and had a unique eye when it came to his SL photography. He will definitely be missed.
For when you're looking...
You never asked me what else lingered. And in my haste to stand on solid ground, I never quite told you. I never quite gave you the recount of what else I carry with me.
Like the unshakable feeling of walking on thin ice – the creaking, the cracking, the visible fractures expanding with every footfall. The fear of the ice giving in, the fear of the frozen dark waters underneath consuming me whole, inhabited by someone else’s monsters of the deep. The apprehension, like a living, breathing creature, sucking the air out and exhaling black, oppressive smoke that made it impossible to see or even breathe.
There’s an omnipresence to it– it echoes in the deepest recesses of my consciousness. Well and truly embedded, that I am robbed of any certainty as to my recoil – is it the memory, or the actual sound? Is it a treacherous footstep, or the imagination of one? Has my foot truly gone through – is it touching those dark waters – or is it just that odd precipice like a night start or a lucid dream?
And there it was, a sense of dread you instilled. A clamping, silencing proverbial hand, because so much as a breath threatened to break the ice…
Yet it broke anyway. Not fractured by my weight, nor by a whisper of an exhale. It was the things that lurked beneath, rearing their heads. I’d glimpsed them, ghost-like, through the thinnest ice. I’d heard their wails. I knew they existed as surely as I knew I existed. And now I saw them, free at long last.
They’d been ravenous, and now they demand to be fed.
Do you truly begrudge me the aversion to being cannibalized by your monsters?
The Octopus Tree, Mt Wellington, Tasmania.
"Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden."
T.S. Elliot, 'Burnt Norton'
"Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden."
T.S. Elliot, 'Burnt Norton'
Regno Unito, West Sussex, Halnaker, Autunno 2021
Il sentiero per Halnaker Windmill nel West Sussex è senza dubbio uno dei tunnel più belli del mondo. Questo tunnel di alberi si chiama Mill Lane. È un sentiero pubblico ad Halnaker, una frazione a poche miglia a nord di Chichester, nel West Sussex, nel Regno Unito. Questo segue un'antica pista lungo il percorso di Stane Street, la strada romana da Londra a Chichester. Nel corso degli anni molti hanno percorso questo percorso formando un avvallamento, dove il sentiero è sprofondato, consumato da secoli di calpestio.
The path to Halnaker Windmill in West Sussex is arguably one of the prettiest tree tunnels in the world. This tree tunnel is called Mill Lane. It’s a public footpath in Halnaker, a hamlet a few miles north of Chichester in West Sussex, United Kingdom. The lane follows an ancient track along the route of Stane Street, the London to Chichester Roman road. Over the years many have walked along this route forming a hollow way, where the path has sunk down, worn away by centuries of footfall
Shrub Hill Station in Worcester, A quiet moment, little footfall but a chance to get some Leading lines in my shot, hope you like it?
Picture Taken at Turtle Cove
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Porter%20Islands/193/148/22
The Cloak, the Boot, and the Shoes
“What do you make so fair and bright?”
“I make the cloak of Sorrow:
“O, lovely to see in all men’s sight
“Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
“In all men’s sight.”
“What do you build with sails for flight?”
“I build a boat for Sorrow,
“O, swift on the seas all day and night
“Saileth the rover Sorrow,
“All day and night.”
“What do you weave with wool so white?
“I weave the shoes of Sorrow,
“Soundless shall be the footfall light
“In all men’s ears of Sorrow,
“Sudden and light.”
-WB Yeats
....another plea to all photographers...DO NOT trample or disturb Bluebells!! ....
Bluebell fast facts
Almost half the world's bluebells are found in the UK – they’re relatively rare elsewhere.
It's against the law to intentionally pick, uproot or destroy bluebells.
Bluebell colonies take a long time to establish – around five to seven 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 because they can no longer photosynthesise.
If you plant bluebells in your garden, make sure you're planting the English bluebell, not the Spanish version. The Spanish species is a more vigorous plant and could outcompete the UK's native flower.
A day when I went dreaming of skies, and ended up with a footfall of ripples. The great thing about beaches is that they're different every day, my wanderings finally led me to these wonderful sand floorboards formed under the vaulting sea and skies. I chose a vertical format and black and white to highlight the wonderful textures of the sand. Floorboards under the bed, by the Twilight Sad is spot on.
While I was taking my shots at this spot, a deer or two silently appeared on the other side of the creek, stared at me and then disappeared. I never even heard their gentle footsteps, but luckily I looked up just in time to watch them watching me. Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, USA is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been to. There was a stunning vista at every turn, and I've never seen so many gorgeous reflections in one place. I'll go back one day...
7 Days With Flickr - landscapes (Saturdays)
A murder of veils spread a splay watch
a casting eye, for none but he were blind to
Yet, the lull revealed a glimpse,
a torrid affair lost and a journey to find anew
Only the resolved measure of footfalls,
desperately grasped at and clung onto
Carried by each craggy, dank sigh,
would be borne of the legend and sung true.
-P.B.
(Inspired by the poetry in this person's photostream: OneLifeOnEarth).
Normally they can't be seen, these ghosts who float among the trees. They hide, in brooding anticipation for the one night of the year they're impulsed to appear.
Their hollow shapes mingle with the branches and twigs in the thickness of the woods. They'll mix foolery with fear to any who frivolously come near thinking what a lark to go to the forest at dark on Halloween night.
They feel forsaken and alone, with souls so sore they want more ghosts...more and more and more. The dull thump you feel on the soft floor neath your feet is the beat of their phantom footfalls, and the breeze that in dead calm stirs is the whisper of their lonely words...come meet.
If you go to the forest on Halloween night your mischief will turn to paralyzing fright that will stun you so severe that their ghostly dream comes true.
They'll make a ghost of you.
Happy Shocktober
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.
TS Eliot
Polaroid Week day 2
Of the two sparrow species in the UK the Tree Sparrow has overtaken the House Sparrow as the species I see more often, certainly in Northumberland, when I'm out and about with the camera.
Photographs without feeders or a cluttered background are not quite so easy given their preferred habitat but I found two using a lone feeder in a single tree in the carpark of a local Country Park.
A patient approach got me close as the constant footfall along the adjacent path seems to have got them fairly used to people nearby the feeder was quite low so one always had to take turns and once they got used to me standing there they posed nicely in the queue.
Regno Unito, West Sussex, Halnaker, Autunno 2021
Il sentiero per Halnaker Windmill nel West Sussex è senza dubbio uno dei tunnel più belli del mondo. Questo tunnel di alberi si chiama Mill Lane. È un sentiero pubblico ad Halnaker, una frazione a poche miglia a nord di Chichester, nel West Sussex, nel Regno Unito. Questo segue un'antica pista lungo il percorso di Stane Street, la strada romana da Londra a Chichester. Nel corso degli anni molti hanno percorso questo percorso formando un avvallamento, dove il sentiero è sprofondato, consumato da secoli di calpestio.
The path to Halnaker Windmill in West Sussex is arguably one of the prettiest tree tunnels in the world. This tree tunnel is called Mill Lane. It’s a public footpath in Halnaker, a hamlet a few miles north of Chichester in West Sussex, United Kingdom. The lane follows an ancient track along the route of Stane Street, the London to Chichester Roman road. Over the years many have walked along this route forming a hollow way, where the path has sunk down, worn away by centuries of footfall
....Bluebells, young trees...and rain......
Bluebell fast facts
Almost half the world's bluebells are found in the UK – they’re relatively rare elsewhere.
It's against the law to intentionally pick, uproot or destroy bluebells.
Bluebell colonies take a long time to establish – around five to seven 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 because they can no longer photosynthesise.
If you plant bluebells in your garden, make sure you're planting the English bluebell, not the Spanish version. The Spanish species is a more vigorous plant and could outcompete the UK's native flower.
The National Trust is one of the most important organisations in the UK for bluebell conservation. A quarter of the Trust's woodland is ancient or semi-natural; the ideal habitats for bluebells. Here are six facts you may not know about them:
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-scriptaIt.
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.
Pike Lowe,
the king
of Midhope Moor.
One footfall at a time,
sinking into moss and peat.
Bog wood spiders crawl from the black,
straining into the light.
Bog concedes to rock,
the bones of the hill.
Late in the day, this pedestrianised town centre road appears to be almost empty! Since Covid, the footfall all over the town has never picked up to pre-pandemic levels. Quite a few shops have closed quoting this reason for their demise!
I Think the good looking horse is a Kerry Cob, But not knowing to much about the Irish breed. Please tell me if I am wrong. Has you can see they are very protective of the two young foal's.
The Kerry Bog Pony is a mountain and moorland breed of pony that originated in Ireland. Possibly descended from the Irish Hobby horse, it originally lived a mainly feral existence in the peat bogs of what is now County Kerry in southwestern Ireland. Local inhabitants used the ponies as pack and cart horses for transporting peat and kelp to the villages. The breed developed physical characteristics including a low weight-to-height ratio and an unusual footfall pattern, which helped it move on soft ground such as peat bogs. The ponies were known for hardiness and an ability to survive in harsh conditions.
Information by Wikipedia.
Skylark / alauda arvensis. Dunwich, Suffolk. 18/05/23.
A pebbly, grassy corridor known as The Dingles is sandwiched between the marsh and the beach at Dunwich. It receives a heavy footfall from walkers, joggers and dog owners, so the Skylarks have become generally quite tolerant of people.
Having spotted several birds feeding one beautiful Spring evening, I decided to hunker low down and hope they came nearer so I could photograph them.
This bird was more than obliging and came to within about 3 metres of me. Utterly confiding, despite knowing I was there, it foraged, preened and even sang!
A fantastic encounter lasting for about half an hour and one I won't forget.
BEST VIEWED LARGE.
à regarder et à écouter
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZQzW_QfPew
Recueillement
Charles Baudelaire
Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir ; il descend ; le voici :
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main ; viens par ici,
Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées ;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant ;
Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l’Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal
Be quiet and more discreet, O my Grief.
You cried out for the Evening; even now it falls:
A gloomy atmosphere envelops the city,
Bringing peace to some, anxiety to others.
While the vulgar herd of mortals, under the scourge
Of Pleasure, that merciless torturer,
Goes to gather remorse in the servile festival,
My Grief, give me your hand; come this way
Far from them. See the dead years in old-fashioned gowns
Lean over the balconies of heaven; Smiling
Regret rise from the depths of the waters;
The dying Sun fall asleep beneath an arch, and
Listen, darling, to the soft footfalls of the Night
That traits off to the East like a long winding-sheet.
So light is her footfall
She walks like a bird
She's an angel
Such a familiar stranger
I wish I could help her
She's in danger
She's all alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone
All alone, alone, alone, alone
So light is her footfall
She moves like a ghost
And I lost her
In the mist of dawn
She's already gone
And I miss her
She's all alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone
All alone, alone, alone, alone
And I miss her
And I miss her
She's all alone, alone, alone, alone, alone, alone
All alone, alone, alone, alone
So light was her footfall
So light was her footfall
So light was her footfall
So light was her footfall...
It's odd walking alone through a forest and not making a sound. The White River is racing by to the left providing the soundtrack for the day, but the moss and fallen Autumn leaves are so thick that footfalls make no noise. No wind, no rain, no people, just me and these quiet sentinels standing guard over their fallen comrades. I can't express how much I needed and miss that day. :-)
As always, blow this and step inside and look around. There's so much to see if we only take the time to look.
One of Derby’s Georgian built streets in the Cathedral Quarter, this used to be a vibrant shopping area but since the Westfield/INTU Shopping Mall was built footfall has all but vanished.
I make a point of purchasing most of my camera gear from London Camera Exchange which is just discernible on the rhs about halfway up (count 5 shopfronts).
Some of the properties go back to 1675
This was taken on my birthday last year and given a touch of Luminar 4 ... HSS!
Dusk on the slipway at Knott End looking across the River Wyre Estuary to Fleetwood.
The footprints in the muddy silt were not left by me, they were there when I arrived pre-sunset. The low light reflecting on the slipway highlighted them well and help take your eye along the slipway to the sea and the fading light in the distance!
This slipway serves the Fleetwood - Knott End Ferry which plies across this estuary. Strangely the two floodlights didn't work when I was there, whereas the lights higher up the jetty all came on!
I know of a beautiful flower
With a sense beguiling fragrance
Where nectar like honey flows
With a sting
In ways a heart's deceptions
Lie hidden in words of eloquence
And sacred vows discreetly
Buried in a ring
As liquor sipped is the ginger step
Over unsteady ground
And it's excesses twenty thousand
Falls and highs
It entices a prey lacking guile like canine footfalls
Without a sound
Till you are enslaved in its lust
With swoons and sighs
~ Natasha Ashwe ~
These fences can be a bit of an eye sore in the beautiful landscape, however they are necessary to mange the footfall. On this morning tho they caught the rising sun perfectly and created a nice set of staggered shapes in the composition. Has to be one of my favourite views in the Peak District.
“Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.”
T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets (Burnt Norton)
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It's been 3 weeks since I created any mannequin art! :-)