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(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding - Nick Lowe
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oy3LpV0THB0
As I walk through this wicked world
Searchin' for light in the darkness of insanity
I ask myself, "Is all hope lost?
Is there only pain and hatred and misery?"
And each time I feel like this inside
There's one thing I wanna know
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding? Oh-oh
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
And as I walk on through troubled times
My spirit gets so downhearted sometimes
So where are the strong, and who are the trusted?
And where is the harmony, sweet harmony?
'Cause each time I feel it slippin' away, just makes me wanna cry
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding? Oh-oh
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
So where are the strong, and who are the trusted?
And where is the harmony, sweet harmony?
'Cause each time I feel it slippin' away
Just makes me wanna cry
What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
Oh, Great Spirit who dwells in the sky,
Lead us to the path of peace and understanding.
Let all of us live together as brothers and sisters.
Our lives are so short here,
Walking upon Mother Earth's surface.
Let our eyes be opened to all the blessings you have given us.
Please hear my prayers, Oh, Great Spirit.
I took my myself down to the mouth of Loch Lomond for the last days of summer, lots of people enjoying the Loch late in the evening. You can see the side of Ben Lomond. Have a great weekend.
A bit of a miracle getting so close to this species as they are extremely shy and wary. Normally they spot you and hide. However, on passage migration they appear to be much more confiding. They are usually found on desolate moorland and mountain sides but on passage migration they have been recorded on the coast and even in peoples gardens. They will stay if you have berries!
www.rspb.org.uk/discoverandenjoynature/discoverandlearn/b...
Slightly smaller and slimmer than a blackbird - male ring ouzels are particularly distinctive with their black plumage with a pale wing panel and striking white breast band. The ring ouzel is primarily a bird of the uplands, where it breeds mainly in steep sided valleys, crags and gullies, from near sea level in the far north of Scotland up to 1,200m in the Cairngorms.
Breeding begins in mid-April and continues through to mid-July, with two broods common, and nests are located on or close to the ground in vegetation (typically in heather), in a crevice, or rarely in a tree. The young are fed a diet consisting mainly of earthworms and beetles.
Overview
Latin name
Turdus torquatus
Family
Chats and thrushes (Turdidae)
Where to see them
Ring ouzels can be found in upland areas of Scotland, northern England, north west Wales and Dartmoor. When on spring and autumn migration they may be seen away from their breeding areas, often on the east and south coasts of the UK where they favour short grassy areas.
When to see them
Ring ouzels arrive in March and April and leave again in September.
What they eat
Insects and berries
UK Breeding:-
6,200-7,500 pairs
Conservation
22 July 2011
The first national survey in 1999 estimated the UK ring ouzel population at 6,157-7,549 pairs, with further range contractions and a likely 58 per cent decline in population size since 1988-91.
Recent studies aimed at understanding these declines suggest that low first-year, and possibly adult, survival may be the main demographic mechanisms driving the population decline. The large population decline qualifies the ring ouzel for inclusion on the red list of birds of conservation concern.
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Understanding the causes
of being and beings
is a task without end
Het doorzien van de
achtergrond van het zijn
en de wezens
is een taak zonder einde
Etching, aquatint, image 15x9 cm, paper 21x24 cm
(c) Drager Meurtant, 2019
© Reza Ghasemi
Nature is an art created by God while its understanding is an art formed by humankind.
Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have.
Make the Now the primary focus of your life.
Eckhart Tolle
6D & 24-105L
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The icebreaker Ernest Lapointe, a Canadian Coast Guard vessel in service between Montreal and Trois-Rivières from 1940 to 1978.
In 1980, she began a second career at the Musée maritime du Québec. Her presence not only furthers understanding of the functioning of this type of ship but equally of steam-engine navigation. From the engine room to the Officer’s mess via the wheelhouse, its recreated cabins will take you on a trip into the past. L'islet, Quebec, Canada
We know what he wants and he knows we know.
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In the end there doesn't have to be
anyone who understands you.......
There just has to be someone who
wants to.
Robert Brault
Horseshoe Falls, Tasmania.
I am always striving to improve my processing skills, so it was with pleasure that I've started working through the 7.5 hours of the Lightroom RAW Processing Video recently put together and released by Mark Metternich as Ultimate Lightroom RAW. Mark is not only incredibly skilled as an artist, and filled with more knowledge than I can imagine, he is also a great teacher, able to take things step by step to enable understanding and ease of learning.
So for the processing of this image, I thank Mark.
For the execution, i thank my waders, and a little luck with the sun god.
Nikon D810, Nikkor 14-24mm, f/2.8 @ 14mm.
3 exposures hand blended for focus/depth of field and water motion.
1.6s, 1.0s. 0.5s, f/11, ISO 100
Miss Mouse Mailing her Card
Created with Bing Dall-E AI engine. PP work in Adobe PS Elements 2024 RAW filters..
WARNING !! if you use my prompts, please give me the courtesy of either credit me or at least say: inspired by Irene Steeves. If I find you continue using my prompt without credit I will block you. Thanks for your understanding.
This image features a whimsical, watercolor illustration by Taryn Knight. It captures a charming scene of a mouse standing on snow, dressed in a plaid shirt, olive green dress, and green scarf, posting a letter into a green mailbox on a wooden post. The mouse is shown reaching up on tiptoes to mail the letter, with the background being blank, focusing all attention on the subject. The style is delicate and detailed, illustrating a cozy, quaint moment indicative of Taryn Knight's signature approach. The image evokes a warm, nostalgic feeling, emphasizing simple, heartwarming everyday activities
Thank you all for the visit, kind remarks and invites, they are very much appreciated! 💝 I may reply to only a few comments due to my restricted time spent at the computer.
All art works on this website are fully protected by Canadian and international copyright laws, all rights reserved. The images may not be copied, reproduced, manipulated or used in any way, without written permission from the artist. Link to copyright registration:
www.canada.ca Intellectual property and copyright.
Opposites.
Hard and soft.
The hard element, is a scalpel with a number 10 blade. Those of you that a familiar with scalpels will have a good understanding of the scale of this image.
The soft element, is a blueberry. I find it interesting that all of the blue color in the blueberry comes from the skin. The things you can learn from macro photography.
Hard and soft.
Incidentally it was rather hard cutting this soft, rather small, blueberry for this arrangement. Hard because it had to be done under magnification to ensure that I remained injury free. Old eyes and all.
Shot in the lab, at home.
Best viewed large.
HMM.
A melting lunchtime sketch today in London.
Author, The Urban Sketching Handbook: Understanding Perspective available online and in stores.
Love, her colourful dress,..
Elle sait,..Elle comprends,...
She told me, Real,..
Je vais t'expliquer, again,..:-)
"Peace cannot be kept by force, it can only be achieved by understanding." - Albert Einstein
© Rui Almeida 2011 | All rights reserved.
All photos they may not be used or reproduced without my permission. If you would like to use one of my images for commercial purposes or other reason, please contact me. Depending on the situation may have to assign the work as specified by the author.
◘ No images in comments please, or you or you can be blocked, but group invites are welcome
I got to always thank the one that gave me this talent.
I've never taken any Photography Class,
I learn all this by his Guidance.....
Exif data
CameraCanon EOS 5D Mark II
Exposure2.5
Aperturef/4.0
Focal Length17 mm
ISO Speed100
When it's three o'clock in New York, it's still 1938 in London.
(Bette Midler)
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I’d first like to say thank you for all the kind words and understanding I’ve received over the last week. I needed to share my love for Toby and your reactions to my indulgence was over whelming, again thank you. Carla and I needed to get away so on Thursday we went to Royston to visit my daughter. The dogs loved that place and some lonely walks around the heath and fields were heartbreaking but help the healing. Yesterday afternoon I went to the cliffs with the camera and had some fun with my recent purchase a OM System 5. It was a bit of a impulse buy a couple of months ago which I regretted immediately, what do I need another camera for and another system as well! I’m very happy with my Canon and Fujifilm gear and have no intentions of replacing them, but I was after a gadget. I’ve had Olympus OM cameras before, an OM10ii and OM5ii, swapping the OM5 for a XT2 back in 2018. I loved the computational features and when I saw the OM5 had added to these especially the ND filters my curiosity was piqued. This photos taken yesterday with the inbuilt ND16 filter at 1/4”, handheld, I’m quiet impressed.
The Hamerkop is an interesting bird. My understanding is that it is in a family all it's own, just the one species. Closet relatives are thought to be pelicans and the shoebill. They also build enormous nests. Often several per year.
Quite common thru most of Africa. This guy was soaring in the early morning light in Masai Mara, Kenya.
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for me, literature and photography walk hand-in hand... realized in Salman Rushdie's words: It is literature which for me opened the mysterious and decisive doors of imagination and understanding. To see the way others see. To think the way others think. And above all, to feel.
longing for daily access like this... just a wee bay in Butchart Gardens, Saanich Peninsula, Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada
my textures and pixlr
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
“Rupertswood” in Sunbury on the outskirts of Melbourne is one of Australia's most important mansions, both historically and architecturally. Built as a residence for Sir William John Clarke (1831 – 1897), the first Australian born Baronet, in 1874 – 1876 it became a power seat in the great English tradition. The property covered an area of 31,000 acres. Today the estate has been greatly reduced due to subdivision to a more modest 1,100 acres.
Designed by local architect George L. Browne, "Rupertswood" is a 50 room bluestone mansion built for Sir William John Clarke by contractors George Sumner & Co. Designed in the Victorian Italianate style, the two storey mansion is surmounted by a 100 foot tower with a Mansard roof and widow's walk. The foundation stone for “Rupertswood” was laid on 29 August 1874 with some 1000 people in attendance. The house was completed in 1876. The grand entrance is paved with Victorian tessellated tiles and the house is flanked by splendid wide and shady verandahs on three sides. The ballroom was added in late 1881 or 1882. Interior decorations were carried out by Schemmel and Shilton. There are six magnificent stained glass panels made by Urie and Fergeson in 1874-76, considered some of the finest examples in the world. The elaborate mansion with its large estate demonstrates the important status of Clarke whose prominence as a colonist was recognised in 1882 by his appointment as a baronet.
William Sangster designed the gardens at “Rupertswood” originally covering an area of 99 acres, and once boasted tennis courts, croquet lawns and an underground fernery. “Rupertswood” also had its own private railway station where hundreds of guests to grand balls would arrive from Spencer Street. Balls, hunt meets and weekend house parties were frequent. Anyone of note, in Victorian and Edwardian society, was entertained by Sir John and Lady Eliza Clarke. Many historical figures visited “Rupertswood” during its history, including the then Duke and Duchess of York, (later to become King George V and Queen Mary), Australian opera singer Dame Nellie Melba and several Governors of Victoria. The estate also had its own half battery of horse artillery when Sir William John Clarke formed a small permanent force in 1885.
“Rupertswood” holds a place in the great sporting rivalry between Australia and England, as it was on a field at “Rupertswood” that the “Ashes” were created. On Christmas Eve of 1882, after a congenial lunch, Sir William Clarke suggested a social game between the English Cricket team and a local side, made up largely of “Rupertswood” staff. By all accounts, it was an enjoyable game with no one really keeping score, however, it was generally agreed that the English won. Pat Lyons, a worker at “Rupertswood”, clearly remembered the afternoon many years later. It was his understanding that Lady Clarke, at dinner that evening, had presented Ivo Bligh with a pottery urn. It was purported to contain the ashes of a burnt bail. This was a light hearted gesture to commemorate England's win at “Rupertswood”.
By 1922, “Rupertswood” had passed from the Clarke family into the possession of Hugh Victor McKay (1865 – 1926), a self-made millionaire, industrialist and inventor of “Sunshine Harvester”. His dream of owning “Rupertswood” had been realised, if however, a little short lived. He died at “Rupertswood” only four years after acquiring it. A short time later one of Australia's greatest pastoralist, Queenslander William Naughton acquired the property. One year later he sold the mansion and 1,100 acres to the Roman Catholic Salesian Order. The mansion then became a school for under privileged boys.
Today “Rupertswood” is open to the public. The mansion has undergone extensive restoration, with the help of interior designer and Victorian architecture specialist Jacqui Robertson, reinstating elaborate Victorian colour and decorative schemes, and operating as a boutique hotel.
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