She is Pretty!
View allAll Photos Tagged Surgeon
Can you spot the man working amongst the fallen branches? I couldn’t resist grabbing this shot on my phone yesterday whilst out walking with the children and dog.
Stropkov is an economical, social and cultural centre of north ZemplÃn. It was established on left bank of river Ondava in beautiful scenery of central part in Ondava uplands. For its origins as an ancient Slovak settlement we have to look back (and many archaeologists and historians agree in this case) before the 13th century. The character of the main square is a proof that Stropkov used to belong to the royal lands and there are also some similarities with the development of another town, called Bardejov.
The first authentic written data about the town is from 1404 (Stropko), when Stropkov was already labeled as oppidum—townlet. German guests and soltys too were obtained with the same privileges as their fellows in Bardejov and other towns. The first owner of the town after the king was Ladislav Svatojursky. The other landlords in order were Balickovci, Perinskovci, Peteovci. In 1408 town's toll and castle—castellum—were mentioned for the first time. The development of the town and its whole economic expansion was supported by the law of thirty and market in 1698 which was strengthened by Leopold I with six annual fairs. Stropkov's manor owned about 51 villages in that time. The existence of a big department, which articles dated back in 1575 was an extraordinary event in the history of Slovakia. In this department many different people were united, for example: jewelers, tailors, butchers, cabinetmakers, saddlers, swordfishes, surgeons (shavers) and shopkeepers. Craftsmen from Stropkov were known not only in their hometown, they were selling their products in markets of towns in regions like Zemplin and Šariš as well.
At first I wasn't sure what to make of a pair of Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos (Calyptorhynchus funereus) ripping off the bark in a copse of Black Wattles. Soon my curiosity was satisfied.
Do not use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission..
Keep your hands off!!
© All rights reserved.
DSC_9329_071817_0926
Strike two was also a miss but three through six were winners for the Snowy Egret. Not so much for the menhaden. On Horsepen Bayou.
Premendo L, l'immagine sarà più bella :-)
Pour une plus belle expérience, appuyez sur L
For a better experience press L
My original worries (see the previous image) were unjust to this clever bird. It's beyond my comprehension how he knew that among the dense crown of the acacia tree one of its branches concealed a tasty grub, which he extracted and then enjoyed on a nearby eucalypt.
Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoo (Calyptorhynchus funereus) & a Big Fat Grub (anonymous, unless someone knows the species, please)
I spent some time at the eye doctor today. In a wild and reckless moment- knowing the prompt for today- I took this photo when he left the room for a minute. An intricately designed technical machine. #cy365 25/365 #spontaneous
Smile on Saturday theme: Feathers 😊
Thanks to everyone who took the time to view, comment, and fave my photo. It’s really appreciated. 😊
Pirate, not surgeon...
Round my way everyone seems to be preparing for Halloween as a surgeon with a mask. It's refreshing to see someone daring to take a different tack. The ladies love a Pirate.
Hello there. Relevant comments welcome but please do NOT post any link(s). All my images are my own original work, under my copyright, with all rights reserved. You need my permission to use any image for ANY purpose.
Copyright infringement is theft.
"My work is exquisite, they never come back."
---
My entry in the preliminary round of the Bio-Cup 2021; Bionicle - REMIXED!
I Agfa Isolette III , Agfa Apotar 1:4.5 85 mm , Kodak Extacolor Pro 160 , F 4.5 1/25 , expired Dev. and Fixer . I
Pavillion . Kuala Lumpur.
MY
The Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh was incorporated in 1505, when it received its Seal of Cause or charter and became styled as 'The Incorporation of Surgeons and Barbers of Edinburgh'.[2] The Museum at Surgeons Hall, Edinburgh dates from 1699 when the Incorporation announced that they were making a collection of ‘natural and artificial curiosities’.[3] and advertised for these in the first edition of a local paper, the Edinburgh Gazette. Daniel Defoe, an early visitor in 1726, wrote in his Tour thro' the whole Island of Great Britain that the 'chamber of rarities' contained many curious things too numerous for him to describe. Much of this early collection was given to the University of Edinburgh in the 1760s.[3] The Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh was incorporated in 1505, when it received its Seal of Cause or charter and became styled as 'The Incorporation of Surgeons and Barbers of Edinburgh'.[2] The Museum at Surgeons Hall, Edinburgh dates from 1699 when the Incorporation announced that they were making a collection of ‘natural and artificial curiosities’.[3] and advertised for these in the first edition of a local paper, the Edinburgh Gazette. Daniel Defoe, an early visitor in 1726, wrote in his Tour thro' the whole Island of Great Britain that the 'chamber of rarities' contained many curious things too numerous for him to describe. Much of this early collection was given to the University of Edinburgh in the 1760s.[3]
Bonsai tree with small model tree surgeon figures.
Follow me on Instagram. www.instagram.com/allanjonesphotographer/
I should probably apologise for my recent silence. It wasn’t neglect—it was obsession.
For weeks, I had been chasing a rumour that refused to sit still. Nights disappeared into Google Earth, my screen glowing with satellite imagery as I traced the scars of forgotten tracks and improbable clearings, places no one had reason to visit anymore. Coordinates were cross-checked, stories weighed, dismissed, then reluctantly revived. Most led nowhere. One didn’t.
Yesterday, under the advancing teeth of Storm Chandra, I finally went looking.
The forest swallowed sound. Wind dragged rain through the branches, and the pines—tall, ancient, and furred with pale lichen—groaned as though they resented being disturbed. I had parked at the roadside on the fringe of the forest and walked and walked far into its heart. The first clearing matched the coordinates perfectly and yielded nothing. I searched it twice, then a third time, feeling foolish as the rain found its way down my collar.
I almost turned back.
Instead, I trusted the second location—the one I had memorised like a confession. What3Words guided me deeper, the distance shrinking in nervous increments: 1,400 feet. 900. 450. With each step the forest thickened, the heather grew wirier, the ground more treacherous underfoot. I became acutely aware of how easy it would be to get lost. Or worse—how long it might take to be found.
As I crested a low rise, the trees opened just enough.
I saw it immediately.
Twenty yards ahead, half-sunken in a shallow dip at the ragged edge of a clearing, was the unmistakable curve of rusted steel. A car. Old. German. The rain slid down its corroded flanks as if it had been waiting patiently to be recognised.
The feeling that hit me was not triumph alone. It was relief—sharp and almost physical. The kind that comes when something improbable turns out to be true.
Because this car, according to the story, was never meant to be found.
Rudolf Hess—Hitler’s deputy—had fled Germany at the height of the war, stealing a Messerschmitt Bf 110 and flying it himself to Britain, at night and at low altitude to avoid British nightfighters, before bailing out south of Glasgow. He believed, or claimed to believe, that he could negotiate peace with the Duke of Hamilton. Instead, he was captured, tried at Nuremberg, and sentenced to life imprisonment.
While awaiting trial, Hess received visitors. Some were legitimate. Others were ghosts wearing borrowed names.
One of them, it’s believed, was Otto Skorzeny.
Skorzeny was already a legend—Hitler’s favourite commando, the man who had rescued Mussolini from a mountain fortress. To gain access to Hess, he posed as Karlheinz Haushofer, Hess's wartime adjutant. Inside Spandau Prison, behind walls thick with secrecy, a plan was whispered into existence.
Hess urged Skorzeny to disappear.
Ireland—neutral, sympathetic, porous—offered a future. The route would run through Scotland, to a forest Hess remembered from childhood holidays, a place of lochs and silence where questions weren’t asked. The escape would be folded into the chaos of Operation Surgeon, the British programme quietly relocating Nazi scientists before the Russians could claim them.
Skorzeny, inconveniently, was no scientist.
The solution was paperwork.
He was reborn as a specialist in high-altitude hypoxia research—valuable, plausible, and just scientific enough to justify leniency. Somewhere between files being stamped and crates being unloaded, a car was assigned to him at Sheerness docks. Anonymous. German. Left-hand drive. A 1940s Opel Olympia.
There is no registration record.
He drove north on back roads, sleeping curled inside the car, eating little, never lingering. The Opel was slow and heavy—too heavy—but he didn’t dare question why. Eventually, he reached the forest. He swam in the loch. He was close.
Then he took a wrong turn.
The track narrowed into something no road should have been. Trees closed in. The ground softened. The car sank.
He tried everything—branches, leverage, brute force—but the rear of the vehicle was trapped, dragged down by its own weight. Finally, he abandoned it and walked, directionless, until voices reached him through the trees.
Forestry workers.
He watched them for a long time before stepping out from behind a tree trunk.
They were German prisoners of war.
They agreed to help when they could slip away from their overseers. But when they returned to the car, curiosity overcame caution. One of them forced open the boot with a shovel.
Inside were gold bars, wrapped in cloth, stacked like ballast.
What happened next was never written down.
Skorzeny made it to Ireland. He lived well enough to never need to explain how. Two German POWs vanished from their work gang and were assumed to have escaped—an explanation everyone accepted because the alternative was too uncomfortable. Some whispered that they had recognised the tall stranger with the duelling scar. Others believed they were buried where the forest is thickest and the ground never freezes.
The car was left behind.
Decades passed. Trees grew around it. Moss claimed the steel. The forest forgot—almost.
Standing there in the rain, staring at the rusted Opel, I couldn’t tell whether I had found a tomb, a lie, or the last honest witness to something that was never meant to survive history.
The gold?
That’s the real mystery.
It has never been found. But rumours linger—that Skorzeny trained the IRA, that German money bought ArmaLites, that a forgotten cache still sleeps somewhere beneath the pines.
And now that I’ve seen the car with my own eyes, I’m no longer sure which part of the story is the most dangerous to go looking for.