Today's sequence of pictures show the rather gruesome but fascinating sight of a paradise flying snake consuming a gecko. Firstly the hapless lizard was constricted, then swallowed whole until the snake then slithered off across the beach to find a shady spot out of the way to consume its meal.

Paradise tree snake or paradise flying snake, Chrysopelea paradisi, is a species of snake found in southeastern Asia. It can, like all species of its genus Chrysopelea, glide by stretching the body into a flattened strip using its ribs. It is mostly found in moist forests and can cover a horizontal distance of 10 meters or more in a glide from the top of a tree. Slow motion photography shows an undulation of the snake's body in flight while the head remains relatively stable, suggesting controlled flight. They are mildly venomous with rear fangs and also can constrict their prey, which consists of mostly lizards and bats.

I really had not planned on visiting St. Mary at all on this past trip to Glacier National Park. The whole east side of the park had fallen off my radar once I had read online that the road to Many Glacier was closed for construction. If you had asked me even the night before, I would have shrugged with mild disinterest and said I figured I would spend most of my time there west of the Continental Divide. I had been over Logan's Pass before but my dim memories of the east side of Glacier hadn't held much that enticed me to explore over there on this trip (closed off Many Glacier notwithstanding). But here we were, driving up and over the pass and heading down the Going To The Sun road on a definite eastbound trajectory. We had slept in that morning, having driven all day the day before and opting for a lazy start. By the time we reach Logan's Pass the parking was was a never-ending circle of slow cars full of hapless visitors all hoping they drew the 1-in-a-100 chance of catching that departing hiker's spot. I wasn't much interested in joining that shuffle, seeing as how I had been in a car all day just one day prior. So we crested and headed down figuring maybe one of the pullouts would give us a place to park and hike back up to the pass. The first pullout was full, so was the second, and the third. Even visiting in the shoulder season was proving to be pretty crowded and I was not even able to imagine what the park must have been like during the summer. After being initially stymied though I figured since we had driven all the way up this far, we might as well keep going. While I did not remember much to entice me on, the vague lack of memories was more than enough reason to go explore. And - spoiler alert - it turned into an incredibly beautiful drive through the eastern stretches of Glacier. The color on the east side was somehow differently vibrant than that on the rugged west side and I soon discovered that all the beautiful clouds were hanging out around St. Mary as well. We stopped here, right at the eastern entrance and gave up several minutes of our lives wandering through this forest combining the yellow of the leaves with that blue sky.

I guess the point I would add, not quite a moral but somewhere in that general direction, is that a certain mental flexibility can come in handy with expectations. I usually only make vague plans just for this reason. Vague plans mean vague expectations and vague expectations are easier to reroute around when obstacles occur. Rather than banging my head on the wall that was the full parking at Logan's Pass, despite my desire to get out on the trails up there, I let the innate gravity of the day pull me off in a different direction. Not that this is advice meant to help guarantee you will end up somewhere like this. It isn't really about where you end up, but - yes, you guessed it - how you get there. And maybe more importantly, how much you enjoy the getting there. That parking lot looked like a kettle of frustration waiting to happen. Then again, getting there too late also could have been. But a leisurely drive down from the Continental Divide toward unknown landscapes and distantly glimpsed destinations? That was well worth the drive.

Hasselblad 500C

Kodak Portra 800

The hapless Needham's Skimmer Dragonfly was lunch for the Pondhawk before it even knew what hit it...

The name Wryneck has been in use since at least 1585 and was the standard name in all the early bird books. Wry means twisted (as in a wry smile, and going awry) from the bird's habit of contorting its neck when threatened. A friend once told me that he went to rescue a bird with a broken neck that had flown into a window. When he arrived it was a stunned, but otherwise healthy Wryneck twisting its neck like a snake and fooling its finder into thinking its neck was broken. By the time he arrived it had recovered and he released it unharmed. Its scientific name is Jynx torquilla, and torquilla comes from the Latin word for twisted, from its serpentine head movements. Jynx is an old Greek word for Wryneck, but named because of an ancient superstition that it could be used as a magical charm to bring back a strayed lover. This was because the Wryneck could twist and turn, so the idea was it could be used magically to turn something back. To achieve this the hapless bird was tied to a string and whirled around the head, or attached to a wheel and turned. Nowadays we use the word jinx to describe something (or someone) who brings bad luck, or as something said when two people say the same word simultaneously. And before we leave jinx, do you remember Mr Jinx, the cat in the Hannah-Barbera Pixie and Dixie cartoons, and also the name of Robert de Niro's cat in Meet the Parents.

And back to this Wryneck, which put on a great show at Spurn last Sunday. Here it is posing in a Hawthorn bush.

In 1937, financier Edward Ball took his idea of quiet elegance and placed it gently in the most serene place he’d found on his international travels, Wakulla Springs. He imported marble and tile, hired artisans in iron and stone, and introduced to the world a most unique retreat.

To explore the history of this grand hotel is to take a voyage back in time to Florida’s “land boom”—those glorious days when people and money flowed into the Sunshine State, braving swamps and mud slides with an eye to the future. It started during the 1920s, when Ball was touring Florida’s panhandle looking for land to purchase to grow pulpwood. He found love at first sight at Wakulla Springs. “I knew then that the area had to be preserved,” Ball said, “but I didn’t know exactly how at the time.”

In 1931 Ball bought the Springs and Lodge site from the Christy brothers, who had a small restaurant where the present boat dock stands. He personally handled all facets of the design and construction of Wakulla Springs Lodge, outlining the floor plan, choosing the architects and materials, and insisting on meticulous attention to every detail. Construction of the two-story hotel began in 1935.

The original roof was of wood with steel superstructure. It was replaced after a fire, started unfortunately by a hapless trainee during the Lodge’s use as a military training facility during World War II. The new roof was reinforced with slate and metal on steel to render it totally fireproof.

Ball’s eye to quality and durability can also be seen through his lavish use of Tennessee marble throughout the Lodge on floors, baseboards, thresholds, counters, stairwells, desk tops and table tops in the gift shop, lobby, and veranda. The marble is fitted so meticulously no grout can be seen.

The world’s longest known marble bar, at 70 feet 3 inches, is in the Soda Fountain/Gift Shop. This marble is “face matched.” Eight pieces were cut from one block of marble. This process is known as quarter-sawing: a block of marble is cut in half, cut in half again, and each quarter is again cut in half to get eight panels, thereby producing a matching grain pattern.

The use of “heart” cypress can also be seen throughout the Lodge. Heart cypress is the very interior of the tree. All of the cypress logs used in the Lodge were obtained locally as “dead heads”—cypress that had fallen into water and been immersed for 50 years or longer, making it impervious to rot. The Great Lobby itself heads the list with use of this wood. Although this room is great in size, the height of the ceiling is about 16 feet, a huge expanse of hand-hewn cypress panels is still visible. The expansive transverse “beams” are actually steel girders faced with cypress planks.

The lobby ceiling gets the most attention for its decorative painting of local wildlife scenes. Close examination shows it to be a combination of European folk art, intricate Arabic scroll work, and Native American influences.

Two special features grace the rim of the lobby. The marble and iron staircase and the original elevator are both Art Deco masterpieces. The interior of the elevator walls are walnut, with quarter sewn, face matched grain and marquetry panels—an inlay using varied colored woods. This is the only known surviving period Art Deco elevator still in use.

The staircase’s three landings are massive marble panels with face-matched grain that were cut from one block. The risers and treads also are matched panel of marble and granite. The wrought iron railing was made on site and illustrates wildlife from the river. The limpkins and herons in the balustrade are true to life in outline and size.

True to Ball’s word to preserve the area and to create a serene and peaceful retreat, the Lodge at Wakulla Springs is an example of precise craftsmanship and offers visitors a timeless glimpse into Florida’s pristine and elegant past.

Credit for the data above is given to the following websites:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wakulla_Springs

thelodgeatwakullasprings.com/history-2/

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

Round the back of Heals in Tottenham Court Road, a pack of feral Biffas get ready to pounce on their hapless prey. Soon all that remained of the courier and his bike was an oil stain and a somewhat battered mobile phone.

"I heard of the discovery of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants."

Mary Shelley - 1818

Hey everyone! It was much too beautiful a Spring afternoon to go straight home after work, so I hiked a bit at the local Pitcher Plant bog...we are blessed to have one nearby, and it is amazing to watch the Pitcher Plants develop for a new season! These are the first stage buds of the Pitcher Plant flower...the flowers contain the seeds and assure propagation by attracting bees, and in the weeks ahead, the actual vase-shaped Pitcher Plants will break ground and grow tall, attracting hapless insects that fall into the vase-like structure to be digested for nutrients. The next shot shows a flower already in bloom...

On a bustling downtown street, hapless civilians scan the landscape for a fleeting chance to work. Quickly now, as quickly as humanly possible, no matter the cost. As billions push against each other and their own feral rage, one man challenges the heart of a nation, and fights for the survival of self that will catapult his undulating corpse over the walls of insanity, and into the muddy fjord outside the castle of destiny, where the lettuce of mutilation gathers its ill will.

Stay tuned, upon next inspection I have no doubt that our hero will find himself staring down the recycled paper barrel of a single shot espresso, contemplating the mind frothing madness of beverage transmogrification.

"My mother says I must not pass

Too near that glass;

She is afraid that I will see

A little witch that looks like me,

With a red, red mouth, to whisper low

The very thing I should not know!"

Alack for all your mother's care!

A bird of the air,

A wistful wind, or (I suppose

Sent by some hapless boy) a rose,

With breath too sweet, will whisper low,

The very thing you should not know!"

~Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt - The Witch in the Glass

Boots by Volatile. Dress by Miss Posh.

Bloody Bridge.

Is the name Bloody Bridge based on fact or is it lost somewhere between fact and local legend?

Situated on Driver Christian Road the bridge was built by hapless convicts under the strict supervision of Scotsman who by all accounts was a brutal man to say the least.

He earned the name of “Potato Joe” by the convicts under his control due to his habit of substituting the convict’s rations of bread and using potatoes as replacement.

It is unimaginable for us to even contemplate what it must have been like for a convict shackled with irons of which the average weight was 15 pounds and in some instances and extreme situations weighing as much as 22 pounds.

Along with lashes inflicted from the cat o’ nine tails by the merciless Scot the convicts also had to endure that added burden of dysentery and other ailments.

On one particular day the intolerable suffering became too much for one man who lost all reason and buried a pick deep into the skull of the overseer.

Whilst on one level it was a welcome relief to rid themselves of their tormentor a secondary issue arose and that was how to dispose of the body and avoid what they knew would be a horrific retribution.

The problem was solved by placing the bleeding corpse into the wall of the bridge.

At midday the relieving overseer arrived at the site and enquire

d as the whereabouts of peer.

"Oh!", was the reply, "he went for a swim down there in the bay. We think he must have drowned".

It was as if it was the final act of defiance by the wily Scot that even in death that nobody was immune to his far reaching cruelty.

After a while the blood began to seep through the still wet mortar and in doing so betrayed the events that had unfolded and thus revealing the fate of the overseer.

Over the years there have been many stories that the ghost of “Potato Joe” can be seen at the bridge.

Today the bridge has become a popular location for those seeking a sighting of the ghostly apparition.

Is it mere a local legend or is there some truth into the ghostly sightings?

We may never know but the one certainty is, is that no matter how you view it this is a bloody good story about a bloody bridge.

Kingston.

Norfolk Island.

Naimi (Mily Sandalwood) is ordered to dress as a free woman, in order to lure hapless victims...

From the exhibition "Dancer of Gor", thought up by the Greatest Poet in All of Gor, Praeses Bealtaine (DaySheild)

House of Sjostrom

bald eagle and his hapless dinner.

... when did that bird in my chest stop its singing? when did that bright melody collapse? - the one that sung of life and love and something much like dancing in the sun…

-Helaena Moon hapless-hollow.tumblr.com/

This Saturday morning has restored a familiar happy sensation to me. My legs feel like lead and there's an interesting and unfeasibly large red welt on the inside of the left one. Getting down the stairs this morning was a bit of an ordeal. Just like it used to be for so many years before coming to a grinding halt along with everything else just about fourteen months ago. "Don't do any thing silly!" warned Ali. "You're not trying to get into the England team." It was a shame because I was sure that the phone call from Mr Southgate was imminent as everything was so suddenly curtailed in March 2020.

It's official. Friday night five a side football is back at last. Of course it may not last long, but it felt good to be chasing around a sports hall again last night. Some things were the same, others were different. Post match handshakes were replaced by post match elbow pumps. Hapless Tim managed to get himself tangled up in his own goal net before even the warm up had started and crashed to the floor in an untidy heap. Boastful Dave, who makes a point of telling everyone exactly how many goals he scored at the end of every game is beginning to turn grey. Lee, the only one of them I've seen at all since last year received an off target pass from me right in his nether regions and is now auditioning for the new musical about the Bee Gees. And there's always one (Shaun if you were wondering) who still has to give you his subs in cash because he can't cope with online banking. Goodness knows what I'm going to do with the pile of coins I'll amass from him in the coming months and years. Some of the chaps (including myself) had completely lost their fitness and were gasping for oxygen quite early in the game, while former soldier John, who skipped around the playing area as if March 2020 were yesterday, was reported to be bounding energetically around his local golf course at 9am this morning. Quiet teetotal Andy, yes that Andy of the venomous goalbound piledriver from anywhere on the court looked and played exactly as he did before. Mind you he's only thirty. Most of us are in our fifties.

So I'm feeling sore, but very happy at the end of a good week in which I managed to cram two evening adventures at completely new locations. While Thursday evening's attempts to capture the big swell at Praa Sands was completely unsuccessful (too dark and the waves were too distant), Wednesday's diversion to Trevaylor Woods was altogether more enjoyable. I've known of the existence of this woodland, just outside Penzance for quite a while now as some of you have posted your own photos from here. But until this week it had just been another one of those places on the list that I'd get to eventually. I'd spent the day working at our Penzance campus and had half a mind to go west to Porth Nanven. But with sunset approaching 9:30 and a lengthy blue hour to follow I'd decided that getting home after eleven on a school night wasn't a great idea.

The really great thing is that there wasn't time to discover the entire woodland - of course there never is - but this little green glade cut low beneath the path with the stream passing through it caught my eye. It was the only composition I tried, spending the rest of the time wandering happily through the quiet space alone and idly planning the next visit. It's going to look wonderful on a misty autumn day. I wasn't sure about this shot in truth. It feels a bit rushed and cluttered, but I like the mossy surfaces and the way the light floods in from the west.

My budding romance with the magic of woodland landscapes continues, and thanks to my colleague Katie I have a list of them to visit now. She's always texting me photos of another one she's discovered at the weekends. And talking of weekends, I hope you enjoy yours. It's just come to my attention that low tide and sunset arrive at the same time this evening, so back to the coast it is then!

Reddish Egret goes after yet another hapless fish.

Somehow, this hapless little beauty had gotten wedged between the stem and a branch on this wildflower and couldn't free itself...lucky, I came along and with the slightest bend downward on the branch, this guy went on with its day! 😊

This is an Orb Weaver spider. It is extremely sensitive to any vibrations of it's web and will pounce on any hapless insect that happens to come in contact with it. Here it is wrapping up it's latest "victim" . It is totally connected to it's web and it's dinner by the sticky, silky strands it excretes.

At the foot of the sea cliffs a grasshopper is hiding in a small clump of sea campion. As I was photographing this rock pipit it spots the unfortunate grasshopper. Rock pipits don’t specialise in such large prey, preferring smaller insects and sand hoppers rather than a large grasshopper. After a “terrier like” throttling of the hapless insect, the pipit took several attempts to swallow it whole.

Thank you for having a look at my photos. Comments or faves are very welcome and much appreciated.

Dragonflies ensure a kill by flying to where their prey is going to be.That indicates that dragonflies calculate three things during a hunt: the distance of their prey, the direction it’s moving, and the speed it’s flying. In the space of milliseconds, the dragonfly calculates its angle of approach and, like a horror movie monster, it’s already waiting while the hapless fly stumbles right into its clutches.

This is the same Ferruginous Hawk seen two days ago making a low pass to check me out. It flew to the top of a pole, and then a moment later swooped down to snatch a hapless vole from the snow. Actually I think there are two voles in its grasp. So it goes.

Photographed near Val Marie, Saskatchewan (Canada). Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission © 2018 James R. Page - all rights reserved.

I have been unlucky (so far) in getting even a fairly close, recent shot of a Short-eared Owl, so thought I'd post a close-up of a tiny, popcan-sized or fist-sized Northern Pygmy-owl from almost a year ago, taken in not the best light.

On 22 February 2015, we got another chance to see the tiny, popcan-sized Northern Pygmy-owl in Fish Creek Park. When I arrived, people who had been there for some time had already found the owl, perched in a smallish tree. Within a very short time, it suddenly flew down to where we were standing, maybe six feet away from my feet, and then returned to the tree. We were surprised that it sat for so long before eating the brains of its prey and then we began to wonder if perhaps it needed to bring up a pellet first. Sure enough, eventually, that is what it did.

"Northern Pygmy Owls are 'sit and wait' predators, that hunt mainly by vision, diving down onto prey on the ground and driving the talons into the prey's throat. They will also attack birds in shrubs, crashing into the hapless victims. Most prey is carried off in the feet to feeding sites. Birds are usually plucked before being consumed. They often eat only the brains of birds and the soft abdomen of insects. One of these little owls can carry prey weighing up to 3 times its own weight.

The Northern Pygmy Owl feeds on a wide range of small prey including small mammals, birds, and reptiles and amphibians. Voles make up the bulk of their diet, with birds comprising most of the rest (mainly songbirds, but as large as a California Quail). Other small mammals include shrews, mice, chipmunks, bats, moles, young rabbits, and weasels. Insects may be very important when they are most abundant. Other prey taken are toads, frogs and small lizards and snakes.

During winter, surplus prey is cached in a cavity, often in large quantities. Summer caches are usually much smaller.

Pellets are very small, averaging about 3cm long. They are formed only occasionally as these owls don't consume large amounts of fur, feathers, or bone. The pellets tend to fall apart shortly after ejection." From OwlPages.

www.owlpages.com/owls.php?genus=Glaucidium&species=ca...

"The Northern Pygmy-Owl may be tiny, but it’s a ferocious hunter with a taste for songbirds. These owls are mostly dark brown and white, with long tails, smoothly rounded heads, and piercing yellow eyes. They hunt during the day by sitting quietly and surprising their prey. As a defensive measure, songbirds often gather to mob sitting owls until they fly away. Mobbing songbirds can help you find these unobtrusive owls, as can listening for their call, a high-pitched series of toots." From AllAboutBirds.

www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Northern_Pygmy-Owl/id

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_pygmy_owl

On my way out of the park, an enormous flock of Bohemian Waxwings swarmed around the tall coniferous trees along the edge of the road. Hundreds of them landed at the tops of these trees and then they would swoop down to the snow-covered ground and eat the snow for a few seconds before flying to the other side of the road and back again.

I have never seen such detail on the poor little hapless fishy! He actually looks like he's complaining, but I know he's not!

A Snowy Egret snaps up another hapless fish from his perch over Armand Bayou. He was fortunate to find a branch that reached out past the pesky water hyacinth. I was not so fortunate to be sitting in a part of the bayou where the waves coming across Mud Lake can cause the canoe to bob up and down like a cork. Taken some time ago and on the same day they were spraying for the hyacinth.

DSC_5596uls

Thanks for viewing my story of this hapless male Kestrel looking for his space. Just a little more to this story, with a happy ending!! Stay tuned for more.

Title dedication: AC/DC

Uploading on flickr after ages.

Clicked this one last year as part of the still life photography project.

It was Valentine's Day yesterday and I learned a couple of things:

1. Girls do not wish their boyfriends a Happy Valentine's day first.

2. A boyfriend should NOT sing Oshikuru the first time he sees his girl on 14th Feb!

3. Girls can sometimes derive sadistic pleasure in being angry with their hapless boyfriends.

Quality prints, greeting cards, puzzles and many lovely products can be purchased at >>

kaye-menner.pixels.com/featured/kingfisher-emerging-from-...

Description

Kingfishers live all over Australia, but predominantly in coastal regions. We have 10 native species, including the Kookaburra, which is the largest.

Kingfishers nest in tree hollows, in burrows in riverbanks and in termite nests. They feed on small animals, including fish, frogs, yabbies, snakes, insects and nestlings of other birds.

Cloaked in stunning green, blue, turquoise and orange plumage, some kingfishers were once in danger of being hunted to extinction for their feathers.

Despite their elaborate garb, these stocky birds are tough, and hunt by darting upon prey in a flash of colour from branches above the river or forest floor. The kingfisher’s heavy beak is the perfect tool for despatching victims quickly – they smack their hapless prey against tree branches before swallowing them whole.

A digital art creation by Kaye Menner and edited in Photoshop.

Dreaded by sailors across the globe and throughout the centuries, sea serpents are the most fearsome monsters of the unknown deep. Long before the corners of the maps were shaded in, these legendary creatures lurked in uncharted waters, emerging through the roiling waves to swallow hapless seamen and destroy entire ships.

It is difficult to know the origins of the legend; tales of sea serpents spread from port to port over thousands of years, taking particular hold in places such as the Middle East, North America, Scandinavia and Great Britain.

This is the fifth model in my Legends and Lore series. It is comprised of 6,438 elements, took four weeks to design and create and was completed in February 2020.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Here There Be Serpents!’ ©Jessica Farrell February 2020

"Punta de los Reyes…. God help the hapless mariner who drifts upon her shores."

Probably the story behind this specific boat is much less dramatic but the coasts of Point Reyes are dangerous and filled with ship wrecks.

This fish boat got stranded in Inverness.

A well know photography topic under magnificent late afternoon skies.

I used all kinds of Lee stuff and the photo is almost the same as on the CF-card, so almost SOOC. Much better than yesterdays owl photo that had purple fringing around the branches.

Could've chosen for a 16:9 crop?!

Judging by the ragged feathers on this hawk, it appears he's tangled with those vicious looking barbs a few times. Actually, he's feeding on some hapless critter he's carried up there for breakfast.

From my archives and converted to b&w through Topaz Studio 2.

Last year, I had posted the image I'll bite your head off of a dragonfly munching on a hapless creature. It looked like it would bite the head off - hence the title. It never did, though. This one here did. When it was done, it flew off leaving the empty shell behind.

This image is the exclusive property of its author, Roger P. Kirchen, and is protected by Canadian and international copyright laws. The use of this image, in whole or in part, for any purpose other than the private online viewing, including, but not limited to copying, reproduction, publication (including web sites and blogs), "hotlinking", storage in a retrieval system (other than an internet browser as part of its normal operation), manipulation and alteration (digital or otherwise), transmission in any form or by any means (such as, but not limited to: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, photographing, recording) is expressly prohibited without the prior written permission by Roger P. Kirchen.

All artistic and moral rights of the author are hereby asserted. Copyright © by Roger P. Kirchen. All Rights Reserved.

IMG108615-Edit-Edit

The first thought was that someone had thrown a football at my head. It seemed unlikely – I didn’t know anyone around here and I’d absented myself from five a side that evening because after nearly a week of incessant rain and doubtful grey skies I wanted to go out into the sunshine with the camera. But in those split seconds of this unwanted exchange it dawned on me. Footballs don’t have wings and feathers but seagulls do, and everyone down here knows about their famed air raids on innocent souls carrying food in an obvious manner. Even Belgian Chocolate ice creams are considered fair game by those scavenging sky hyenas, and most of mine was now lying on the ground in front of me. It was a double scoop as well. I now had two options – I could either return to the hut past all of the amused spectators and buy another one, of which I’d take much better care in open spaces, or I could adopt a nonchalant air, as with pace unbroken I strode to the nearest sand dune to sit and sulk in the sunshine. I chose the latter course of action. And you thought this stuff only happened to unwary tourists didn’t you? We locals smirk quietly behind our hands when hapless visitors get mobbed by Herring Gulls in pursuit of pasties at St Ives, so in truth it makes us look all the more idiotic when we're subjected to the same fate. I can still almost taste that lost dollop of Belgian Chocolate lying melting on the car park floor. Callestick Farm ice cream too - what I'd tasted before the airborne assault had been moments stolen from the very heavens. Ironic that something from the heavens should steal if from me really.

Some time after this disturbing setback Lee arrived, and he was looking very pleased with himself. Of course I already knew why. He’s a man who changes his camera systems almost as often as Elizabeth Taylor did her husbands, and more than once I’ve arrived on location to find him wielding something completely different from the time we last convened without prior warning. If he ever stops buying and selling things, your favourite auction website may just have to close down, and that time may in fact now have come. Not that I’ve studied the life and marital events of Ms Taylor that closely, but think of the Sony A7r3 as his Richard Burton – the one he returned to and remarried; his spiritual home if you will. Last time he had one of these, I rarely heard him talking about other cameras, and since he was parted with it, he’s often lamented on the shortcomings of whatever he was using at the time in comparison to the Sony. With the addition of the same lens that our much admired Mads Peter Iversen so often uses, it seemed that my friend’s ceaseless wandering through the labyrinthine pages pages of eBay may at last be over – although I’m not racing down to Ladbrokes to fill in the betting slip. Besides which he hasn't found a wide angle lens to complete the bag yet. To make his triumphant grin just that bit wider, he’d managed to secure both camera and lens at very agreeable prices. Understandably he was happy at the outcome.

While I was pleased to see that Lee’s inveterate habit of camera philandering might finally be over, I had to admit to the presence of Iago’s green eyed monster on the beach. With Iceland to come later this year, he’ll be carrying a much lighter set up than me when we go marching up those slopes to the vantage point over Reynisfjara and Dyrholaey. While he has experimented with almost every brand on the market over the last few years, I’ve stuck steadfastly to the one I know and have gradually begun to make sense of. I may have upgraded the cameras and lenses, but each time the leap has been incremental. The gear I have is limited by my skills (or lack of them) alone, with the only downside being the weight of both the camera and the lenses. Most of the time that isn’t really an issue; except when long walks and handheld photography are on the menu. But there is a fighting chance that sometime soon I might find myself dabbling with a Sony too.

We’d decided a visit to the Mount was long overdue. It’s such an obvious subject, and one we shot far more regularly in the early days of our landscape journey, but in the last two years I'd only been here twice, despite it only being half an hour away from home. We were caught in two minds about where to set up our tripods, the decision being made easier by the fact that someone has put up what I can only describe as a giant polytunnel right in the middle of the façade that everyone sees from the central part of the beach. While there must be a purpose, it's a hideous addition to the Mount and my Photoshop skills fall short of airbrushing it convincingly from the scene. But for that we might have looked to the sidelight for our inspiration. But huge plastic edifices aren't going to be part of the story today.

In winter you can grab silhouettes from the eastern beach below the cliffs with the sun setting close to the mount, and despite some misgivings about the almost total absence of cloud we agreed this option would enable us to continue shooting well into the blue hour. The retreating tide meant that the foreground selections were forever changing, never lasting for more than a few minutes before losing their appeal. I took a number of shots during the moments before sunset and into the blue hour and in truth I liked all of them, so choosing one to share here wasn’t an easy decision. The rest either have appeared or will appear on the other channels where I share more of my photographs, so you’ll probably make your own mind up on whether I chose the right one to tell the story, but I loved the leading line made by the rockpool and the colours of the deepening sky. Bringing the tripod low, so helping to reduce that tricky featureless mid-ground that can so often slice a scene irretrievably in half was also important, and the long exposure time smoothed the sea to reduce the distractions. Almost worth the trials of negotiating my way back across the beach over wet slippery rocks in semi-darkness towards the steps that would lead to the pub and a very expensive pint of Korev, which Lee in his benevolent mood paid for. At least the seagulls wouldn’t be troubling us here in the warmth, surrounded by four walls under a solid roof as we were. I sometimes wonder whether our obsession with clouds can sometimes mean we overlook the simplicity that a plain sky brings, especially when it’s packed with so much colour. The lessons never stop being learned.

Screaming that rasping scream over and over for hours. Day after day, week after week, all summer long. Striking terror into the hearts of small mammals for miles. It's a sound that reminds me of primeval wilderness like the howling of a wolves in the depths of winter or the lonely call of the loon at first light.

I am lucky to be so fond of the Red tail's tearing cry. A pair have nested in the old-growth fir trees behind my house each year for as long as I can remember. Today it seemed, was the day they decided to claim dominion of the sky over my house for the season. The pair circled for hours, climbing higher and higher, only to tuck in their wings and dive at increadible speeds back down again, screaming down the neighbourhood all the while. Every so often, they'd take a break and sit in the dead top of an old tree above the main canopy of the forest, and continue to shreak.

I watched a pair of squirrels in a lower branch look up at them in terror and dash away into the thick cover near the ground. Shortly thereafter, a pair of Turkey Vultures slowly cruised by, wings dipping from side to side as if drunk. Immediately the Red tails engaged them in aerial combat. There was no contest at all. After a few short clashes, the Vultures hurried away.

That piece of sky in undoubtedly theirs for the next several months and I pity the hapless creature that wanders into their domain unaware.

IJsvogel - Kingfisher (Alcedo Atthis), gutting a hapless tadpole, entrails flying.

Noitice the closed nictitating membrane - the light blue eye.

Address to the Wood Lark

by Robert Burns

(adapted)

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay!

Nor quit for me the trembling spray;

A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,

That I may catch thy melting art;

For surely that would touch (my) heart,

Wha kills me wi' (despairing).

Say, was thy little mate (departed),

And heard thee as the careless wind?

Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,

Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

Thou tells o' never-ending care;

O' speechless grief and dark despair:

For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!

Or my poor heart is broken!

For several years, a pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches has nested in the same dead pine in a pond and we've become old friends as I delight in watching their activities each Spring! Yesterday, a hapless spider joined our reunion as it received an unhealthy dose of the Ides of March well before the 15th!

“Well at least I’ve got one dry foot left,” I muttered to myself as I attempted to scramble through a narrow gap between the barbed wire fence and the fast flowing brook below. I’d just leapt across the brook after a fruitless foray on the far side, much of it through something resembling a swamp after the recent heavy rain. It was one of those leaps you don’t think about twice when you’re in your twenties, but when you’re no longer in the full bloom of youth it looks a lot further than it used to. The sodden foot aside, I’d just about made it over the water intact, having risked an inflamed right ankle in favour of the return journey through the swamp to the rickety bridge and the muddy path. One wet foot seemed a small price to pay for the series of schoolboy errors I’d made in my return to the field after a lengthy absence. I’d forgotten the wellies that would have enabled me not only to walk across the divide, but also to plant my tripod smack bang in the middle of it, and having apparently ignored the repeated heavy showers on the way down here I’d left my waterproof coat in the car. All I’d managed to do was disturb an unprepared Grey Heron that flapped away hurriedly to a safe distance when I stumbled upon it in my hapless attempts to cross the brook. Twice. It was Lee’s fault of course – he’d bagged the only composition on the side we were stuck on and his elbows, the scourge of Friday night five a side football are unfeasibly sharp. I’d been forced to look for alternatives and failed – something I often too when trees are involved. Now that the COP26 mandarins have announced that deforestation is about to be reversed on a global scale, I really need to start practising a bit more. Incidentally if you happen to be a COP26 mandarin, could I order an indigenous forest full of Oaks, Scots Pine and Silver Birch for the field behind our garden please? This may help me to finally make sense of woodland photography without having to drive anywhere and cure our ailing planet at the same time. Oh, and a stream running through the middle would be nice as well if you don’t mind. Much appreciated.

It was the first time I’d been out on a dedicated photography escapade in about six weeks. Sure, I’d managed to take some photos on outings with Ali where a spot of photography was merely incidental to the proceedings, or on that lone mountain hike in Wales (I haven’t even managed to edit the raw files from that day yet), but I hadn’t had a chance to get out with the camera alone – or with a fellow photographer in this case. You all know that feeling when you’re at large with your nearest and dearest – that even though they may be the most patient and unhurried soul on earth you still can’t completely relax behind the viewfinder. So it was good to spend an afternoon with a like-minded individual, even one with such sharp elbows. We’d arrived at Trevaylor Wood near Penzance en-route to the coast, which in itself I’ve found to be a mistake that my brain had blotted as a result of a lack of recent experience. One of things I’ve learned from past exploits is to head for one place and one place alone if only three or four hours are available, otherwise I tend to rush and end up failing to get a decent shot anywhere at all.

At just before 3pm yesterday we were still in the wood and in danger of not giving ourselves enough time for the second location, even though it was one we both know well. So we headed out of the woods, with unfinished business to return to for me at least, and drove the last few miles west towards Porth Nanven. I can’t really explain why, but it’s over a year since I was last here and the familiar granite boulders; the “dinosaur eggs” as we know them had been infiltrated by rock fall and seaweed in the meantime. That inflamed ankle made the transit across the uncertain cluttered landscape of the beach all the more perilous, but in time I settled by a large rock and set up my tripod. After a while of reminding myself how it all works at moments like this, the familiar basics began to return like an old friend greeting me and asking where I’d been. Basics such as the sun disappearing behind a cloud as the golden hour arrived and rain spots hitting the ND filter at the vital moment. Basics such as gradually accumulating and eventually shortlisting from nearly 350 raw files, each of them falling into one of four groups of compositions, but each of them different in some way from the last. Basics such as trying and failing to capture the sea retreating from the glistening boulders at the ever moving shoreline. Just being there, absorbed in the moment and watching the tide steadily falling away from the land was what I’d missed most of all.

It’s not my favourite picture from the collection of images that I’ve amassed over the last seven years of coming here, but it was one of my favourite moments here on a chilly shower strewn first day of November. It’s going to be a lot less than a year before I make my way back here again.

In 1937, financier Edward Ball took his idea of quiet elegance and placed it gently in the most serene place he’d found on his international travels, Wakulla Springs. He imported marble and tile, hired artisans in iron and stone, and introduced to the world a most unique retreat.

To explore the history of this grand hotel is to take a voyage back in time to Florida’s “land boom”—those glorious days when people and money flowed into the Sunshine State, braving swamps and mud slides with an eye to the future. It started during the 1920s, when Ball was touring Florida’s panhandle looking for land to purchase to grow pulpwood. He found love at first sight at Wakulla Springs. “I knew then that the area had to be preserved,” Ball said, “but I didn’t know exactly how at the time.”

In 1931 Ball bought the Springs and Lodge site from the Christy brothers, who had a small restaurant where the present boat dock stands. He personally handled all facets of the design and construction of Wakulla Springs Lodge, outlining the floor plan, choosing the architects and materials, and insisting on meticulous attention to every detail. Construction of the two-story hotel began in 1935.

The original roof was of wood with steel superstructure. It was replaced after a fire, started unfortunately by a hapless trainee during the Lodge’s use as a military training facility during World War II. The new roof was reinforced with slate and metal on steel to render it totally fireproof.

Ball’s eye to quality and durability can also be seen through his lavish use of Tennessee marble throughout the Lodge on floors, baseboards, thresholds, counters, stairwells, desk tops and table tops in the gift shop, lobby, and veranda. The marble is fitted so meticulously no grout can be seen.

The world’s longest known marble bar, at 70 feet 3 inches, is in the Soda Fountain/Gift Shop. This marble is “face matched.” Eight pieces were cut from one block of marble. This process is known as quarter-sawing: a block of marble is cut in half, cut in half again, and each quarter is again cut in half to get eight panels, thereby producing a matching grain pattern.

The use of “heart” cypress can also be seen throughout the Lodge. Heart cypress is the very interior of the tree. All of the cypress logs used in the Lodge were obtained locally as “dead heads”—cypress that had fallen into water and been immersed for 50 years or longer, making it impervious to rot. The Great Lobby itself heads the list with use of this wood. Although this room is great in size, the height of the ceiling is about 16 feet, a huge expanse of hand-hewn cypress panels is still visible. The expansive transverse “beams” are actually steel girders faced with cypress planks.

The lobby ceiling gets the most attention for its decorative painting of local wildlife scenes. Close examination shows it to be a combination of European folk art, intricate Arabic scroll work, and Native American influences.

Two special features grace the rim of the lobby. The marble and iron staircase and the original elevator are both Art Deco masterpieces. The interior of the elevator walls are walnut, with quarter sewn, face matched grain and marquetry panels—an inlay using varied colored woods. This is the only known surviving period Art Deco elevator still in use.

The staircase’s three landings are massive marble panels with face-matched grain that were cut from one block. The risers and treads also are matched panel of marble and granite. The wrought iron railing was made on site and illustrates wildlife from the river. The limpkins and herons in the balustrade are true to life in outline and size.

True to Ball’s word to preserve the area and to create a serene and peaceful retreat, the Lodge at Wakulla Springs is an example of precise craftsmanship and offers visitors a timeless glimpse into Florida’s pristine and elegant past.

Credit for the data above is given to the following websites:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wakulla_Springs

thelodgeatwakullasprings.com/history-2/

© All Rights Reserved - you may not use this image in any form without my prior permission.

Break in the rain and clouds to reveal the majestic Cuillin Hills, with the hapless Calypso fishing boat being stranded on the rocks after breaking from its moorings during the storm.

Back story from a local newspaper, The Press and Journal, "Fishing vessel runs aground on Skye after breaking its mooring" www.pressandjournal.co.uk/fp/news/islands/1758311/fishing...

Newspaper extract:

"A spokesman said: “We received a call at 7.10pm from a concerned member of the public who spotted a boat that appeared to have broken its mooring or come off its anchor. The vessel washed up on a pebble shore...

...skipper of the Calypso, said: “I was totally shocked to see my boat away from her mooring. It’s not really something you expect to happen and to be honest I am pretty gutted.

The coastguard team were top notch though. They really helped me out when I needed it.

Unfortunately there appears to be quite a bit of damage to the underside, so, for the foreseeable, we will be working to get her back into shape so we can get back to doing our job.”"

A Skua trying to steal from a Kittiwake was one of the most dramatic behaviors we had the chance to observe on our expeditoin to Svalbard. For more than 5 minutes multiple Skuas chased this hapless Kittiwake trying to get it to disgorge the fish it had swallowed. The Kittiwake repeatedly dove into the water trying to escape. But in the end, he was no match for the relentless pursuit of the Skuas.

It is always a moment of high drama when a bear catches a hapless salmon. It's not unusual for the group on the viewing platform to cheer for the bear at that moment. It's ironic that the viewing platform folks (myself included) also cheer for salmon to make a successful leap up the falls.

The Lady of the Lake (excerpt)

by Sir Walter Scott

...The heath this night must be my bed,

The bracken curtain for my head,

My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary

To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,

My couch may be my bloody plaid,

My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!

It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow;

I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.

No fond regret must Norman know;

When bursts Clan Alpine on the foe,

His heart must be like bended bow,

His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught!

For, if I fall in battle fought,

Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary

And if returned from conquered foes,

How blithely will the evening close,

How sweet the linnet sing repose

To my young bride and me, Mary...

~*

maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Avilion/168/108/22

Very sad for the hapless Black Headed Gull chick, but all part of the Circle of Life (and death)...

The parents of the chick left it unattended while they hounded incoming puffins - attempting to steal the puffins' haul of sand eels.

Lesser Black-Backed Gulls are opportunist hunters - no supermarkets or restaurants exist in their world - & they will seize any opportunity to feed themselves/their own chicks.

Taken on Inner Farne, Northumberland.

The shoebill (Balaeniceps rex) also known as whalehead, is a very large stork-like bird. It derives its name from its enormous shoe-shaped bill.

The adult is mainly grey while the juveniles are browner.

It lives in tropical east Africa in large swamps from Sudan to Zambia.

The Shoebill will stand there, motionless as a statue, and wait for some poor lungfish or baby crocodile to swim by. Then the bird will pounce forward, all five feet of it, with its massive bill wide open, engulfing its target along with water, mud, vegetation, and probably any other hapless fish minding their own business. Clamping down on its prey, the bird will start to swing its massive head back and forth, tipping out whatever stuff it doesn’t want to eat. When there’s nothing but lungfish or crocodile left, the Shoebill will give it a quick decapitation with the sharp edges of the bill (because of course it does) and swallow away.

Two firefighters stand bravely in the face of a roaring inferno. The memorial is a colorful fiberglass piece visible from the shoreway, in a central location between Brown's stadium, the Rock n' Roll hall of Fame, and the Science Center. The imposing tendrils of fire curl over and above the seemingly hapless men, but they stand firm, blasting water from the hose, against all odds. The large granite base is engraved with the names of all the men and women who paid the ultimate price protecting the Cleveland communities.

I can't wait to patent "Single Autumn-Toned Leaf on Concrete."

Psych.

(Or, as I've seen some poor hapless souls spell it, "sike." Eek.)

A rather poor quality image, from 22 February 2015. It was taken in shadow, unfortunately, but I thought it was still interesting to show one of these tiny owls in action. Thank goodness, I have many far better images of this little owl in my Northern Pygmy-owl album.

On 22 February 2015, people got another chance to see the tiny, popcan-sized Northern Pygmy-owl in Fish Creek Park. When I arrived, people who had been there for some time had already found the owl, perched in a smallish tree. Within a very short time, it suddenly flew down to where we were standing, maybe six feet away from my feet, and then returned to the tree. We were surprised that it sat for so long before eating the brains of its prey (a Meadow Vole) and then we began to wonder if perhaps it needed to bring up a pellet first. Sure enough, eventually, that is what it did.

"Northern Pygmy Owls are 'sit and wait' predators, that hunt mainly by vision, diving down onto prey on the ground and driving the talons into the prey's throat. They will also attack birds in shrubs, crashing into the hapless victims. Most prey is carried off in the feet to feeding sites. Birds are usually plucked before being consumed. They often eat only the brains of birds and the soft abdomen of insects. One of these little owls can carry prey weighing up to 3 times its own weight.

The Northern Pygmy Owl feeds on a wide range of small prey including small mammals, birds, and reptiles and amphibians. Voles make up the bulk of their diet, with birds comprising most of the rest (mainly songbirds, but as large as a California Quail). Other small mammals include shrews, mice, chipmunks, bats, moles, young rabbits, and weasels. Insects may be very important when they are most abundant. Other prey taken are toads, frogs and small lizards and snakes.

During winter, surplus prey is cached in a cavity, often in large quantities. Summer caches are usually much smaller.

Pellets are very small, averaging about 3cm long. They are formed only occasionally as these owls don't consume large amounts of fur, feathers, or bone. The pellets tend to fall apart shortly after ejection." From OwlPages.

www.owlpages.com/owls.php?genus=Glaucidium&species=ca...

"The Northern Pygmy-Owl may be tiny, but it’s a ferocious hunter with a taste for songbirds. These owls are mostly dark brown and white, with long tails, smoothly rounded heads, and piercing yellow eyes. They hunt during the day by sitting quietly and surprising their prey. As a defensive measure, songbirds often gather to mob sitting owls until they fly away. Mobbing songbirds can help you find these unobtrusive owls, as can listening for their call, a high-pitched series of toots." From AllAboutBirds.

www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Northern_Pygmy-Owl/id

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_pygmy_owl

On my way out of the park, an enormous flock of Bohemian Waxwings swarmed around the tall coniferous trees along the edge of the road. Hundreds of them landed at the tops of these trees and then they would swoop down to the snow-covered ground and eat the snow for a few seconds before flying to the other side of the road and back again.

A Juvenile male Eider duck fishing in the harbour, this one popped up with something that seemed to be putting up a fight, turned out to be a crab. After a couple of goes at shaking it and turning it around the duck just swallowed it. The lump you can see at the back of the cheek, is the hapless crab.