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Canary Island Cruise 4-10: We rode to the top of the mountain to the little village of Monte on the Cable Car (other shot). Then, we rode down on the wooden sleds (toboggan). Way cool!
All Prospects 1-11 West Essex Reserves
Senior Division
Essex Alliance Football League
Saturday 5th September 2020
At Roding Valley High School, Loughton
Entre Rodeo y Jachal.
Viajando con Orlando, Alejandra y Laura.
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Lugar: RN 150 entre Rodeo y San José de Jachal, San Juan
Rode into work this morning in freezing fog. My gloves and Jacket had a covering of frost on them. Character building stuff. Fingertips still feel a bit tender.
Das Kalksandsteinwerk am Rodinger Bahnhof produzierte schon vor dem Ersten Weltkrieg. Im Jahr 2000 wurde der Betrieb endgültig eingestellt.
O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O thus be it ever when free-men shall stand
Between their lov'd home and the war's desolation;
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust!”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Rode our bikes from Squamish to the top of Indian Arm - Early June 2014. Shot on an old Olympus Trip 35.
We rode the Elroy Sparta trail on on a windy day and were startled to have trees going down as we rode. We had turned back because of a tree between us and our goal (a pie shop), then found that one had blocked the path back to our hotel. Luckily, we could carry the trikes over it. There is a quick response team with chainsaws that clears the trail. As soon as we got into cellphone range, we called them.
Het Rode Plein (Russisch: Красная площадь, Krasnaja plosjtsjad) is het centrale plein van Moskou, hoofdstad van de Russische Federatie. Het plein is 550 meter lang en 100 meter breed. Voor de meeste Russen is het Rode Plein niet alleen het hart van Moskou, maar ook het hart van Rusland; hier bevindt zich het historische machtscentrum van Rusland: het Kremlin met zijn tsarenpaleizen en kathedralen. Veel historische gebeurtenissen in Rusland hebben zich hier afgespeeld. In de tweede helft van de 20e eeuw heeft het Rode Plein vooral bekendheid verworven door de militaire parades ten tijde van het Sovjetregime.
Het plein ontstond na de grote stadsbrand van 1493. Vanaf dat moment werd de nieuwe open plek in de stad gebruikt als marktplein. Een naam had het destijds nog niet; het plein werd simpelweg Pozjar genoemd, wat "brand" betekent. Later werd het gebruikt voor publieke ceremonies. De naam "Rode Plein" heeft het plein niet te danken aan de rood-bruine kleur van de Kremlinmuren of aan het communisme. Het Russische bijvoeglijk naamwoord красный (krasnyj, krasnaja) betekende vroeger naast "rood" ook "mooi" (in het moderne Russisch betekent krasnyj alleen "rood"). Vanwege de aanwezigheid van de Pokrovkathedraal (ook wel Basiliuskathedraal genoemd) verkreeg het plein in de 17e eeuw zijn huidige naam Mooie Plein in plaats van de oude naam Pozjar.
In de loop der eeuwen heeft het Rode Plein veel veranderingen ondergaan. Met name onder Stalin in de jaren 1930 zijn veel historische gebouwen aan en rond het Rode Plein gesloopt om plaats te maken voor manifestaties en parades. Men had weinig consideratie met historisch erfgoed. Onder meer de Voskresenskipoort en de kathedraal van de Moeder Gods van Kazan werden slachtoffer van Stalins plannen en het was de bedoeling dat ook de wereldberoemde Pokrovkathedraal zou worden afgebroken. Gelukkig is dat laatste niet gebeurd. Het monument voor Minin en Pozjarski werd verplaatst om meer ruimte te krijgen op het plein.
In de jaren 1993-1996 zijn de Voskresenki- of Iverskajapoort en de Kazankathedraal herbouwd en heeft het Rode Plein zijn historische aanblik voor een deel herkregen. De Voskresenskipoort dankt haar andere naam aan het feit dat zich in het kapelletje dat tussen beide doorgangen staat een icoon bevindt van de Moeder Gods Iverskaja. Dit type Moeder Godsicoon wordt traditiegetrouw boven poorten gehangen. Overigens hadden vroeger alle poorten van het Kremlin een icoon boven de ingang; de nissen waar ze ooit hebben gehangen zijn nog steeds goed te zien. Zo hing er boven de doorgang van de Spasskitoren (Heilandtoren) een icoon van Christus en boven de Nikolskitoren (Nicolaastoren) een icoon van de heilige Nicolaas.
Red Square (Russian: Красная площадь, Krásnaya plóshchad’) is a city square in Moscow. The square separates the Kremlin, the former royal citadel and currently the official residence of the President of Russia, from a historic merchant quarter known as Kitai-gorod. As major streets of Moscow radiate from here in all directions, being promoted to major highways outside the city, Red Square is often considered the central square of Moscow and all of Russia.
This photo appeared in the following ideotrope albums:
Ashcroft to Crested Butte and back - Cher, Bill, and I left Boulder Saturday morning around 4 and drove to Ashcroft. A number of others, including Christie, Logan, and Karl, drove to Crested Butte the evening before. We were able to send camping gear around with them. We didn't start riding 'til around 9 Saturday morning, but the weather forecast was good.
We rode the famous and popular Pearl Pass. We came up with a few reasons why it's famous and popular:
it's high; at 12705' I've only ridden one pass that's higher (Imogene - 13114') and I can only think of two others in Coloroado that are higher than those two (Argentine - 13132' and Mosquito - 13186')
it hosts the oldest mountain bike event in the world, started in 1976
it's drivable so many more people have been over it than the (we found out later) far better Star Pass and Taylor Pass route
The ride is brutal. It was continuously steep from the Ashcroft side and very rocky in sections. We walked a lot. Then we crested the pass and walked a lot on the way down.
Exhausted from the ride, I was happy to have a fairly short ride for our rest day in Crested Butte. We car-shuttled our bikes up to Schofield Pass (10707') and rode the classic 401 Trail mostly downhill to where we had cold drinks waiting. Karl hitch-hiked up the pass to retrieve the other car while the rest of us enjoyed beer and wine in the shade.
Stubborn as we are, we stuck with Monday's plan to ride back to Ashcroft. Really, we didn't have a choice. It was the only logical way to get back to the car we left in Ashcroft. Bill drove back since he had to work, and under-employed Karl took his place. The weather forecast wasn't great so we snuck out of Crested Butte a little before 6 in the pre-dawn darkness.
The Star Pass (12300') Taylor Pass (11928') route ended up (as shown in the photos) being phonomenal. There's a lot of singletrack, almost the whole route is ridable, and it stays up high for a long, beautiful section between the two passes. I'd like to do that ride again in both directions.
Abbess Roding, Essex
At the back of the church on the south wall near the door are two brass tablets with a rhymed inscription to Edward Humberstone of "Cockerells" dated 1622.
"On the death of Edward Humberstone. Gent. Late of Cockerells in this Parish who deceased ye 1st of November in ye 80th yeare of his age A Dni 1622 Thomas Humberstone his kinsman heth consecrated this memorie...
Here lies the corpse of one of gentle blood.
Right honest, plaine, free-harted, loving kinde.
Who scarce knew ill but bye the use of good
full of almes-deeds, of hospitable mynds.
His years were reverend, and he left his life in peace
of conscience and in love of men.
Few days before him dyed his aged wife
Both like in good, merit my equal pen,
Which give but right, out of the right they gave,
and though their earthly parts with earth he blended
yet shall their memories survive the grave.
Nor are they their, but to heaven ascended.
Thus are they changed;
Not lost, each to its birth,
Immortal parts to heaven,
and earth to earth".
Adoro ele, já usei umas 3 vezes *-*
O problema é que mancha a unha e a mão toda pra tirar, parece que estourou uma caneta nos dedos -.-
Berners Roding, Essex
Abandoned and derelict church on the remote Berners Hall estate.
In 1911, my great-great-aunt Julia Mortlock was a cook at Berners Hall. By then, it was inhabited by James, Charles and Caroline Glasse, two brothers and a sister from Morwenstowe in Cornwall. There was only one other servant. By 1919, the farm had been sold to the Co-op, who still own it today. I believe the grounds have a famous carp lake.
St Mary, Aythorpe Roding, Essex
A new entry on the Essex Churches site.
It was May 2014, the most beautiful spring of the century. I had taken my bike on the train from Ipswich to Bishops Stortford before heading off away from the hell of Stansted airport into the wilds of Essex. Now I veered eastwards from the forest, entering the emptiest and most remote area of the county. No villages for miles, just hamlets, fields and the occasional farmstead. The road to my next target would have meant a five mile ride, but I spotted a half-mile bridleway, of which there are lots in this part of Essex. It would cut three miles off the journey, so I took it. It was a farm track, deeply rutted, and it took me down the side of a barley field to copses in the distance, the hysterical yellow of acres of rapeseed in full flower beyond.
At first, it was just about cycleable, but then it wasn't, so I pushed my bike for about ten minutes or so. As I approached the country lane at the far end of it I thought there seemed something vaguely familiar about it, and then I realised what it was. Ah, I thought to myself, I'm entering East Anglia again. Now I was on hedged lanes through rolling fields of barley and rapeseed. Profound green, intense yellow. The road climbed, and over the rise I saw a spire. I headed down a track for half a mile or so and came to one of the most remote churches in all Essex.
It was locked, there was no keyholder notice. An inexpressibly lonely place. The church itself is a poor little thing, its wooden spire shot through with woodpecker holes. There were no notices of service in the porch, and so I expect it has fallen into disuse. Redundancy beckons, and perhaps it will be left to go quietly back to nature. It might just as well be left open, in which case it would at least serve some purpose to passing walkers, pilgrims and strangers.
And yet there was something very special about just standing in the churchyard, in the silence. It felt like nothing had happened here for a very long time. I looked down at the inscription on a memorial cross to Our Dear Son, Bertie George Emberson, who died at the Military Hospital, Caterham, Surrey, September 7th 1918 aged 19 years. How awful. And yet, I thought, the churchyard they stood in to watch him put into the earth has not changed. The one they knew is the one there now.
Simon Knott, April 2018