Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife, Arabella. Lettice has been summoned to her old family home after an abrupt morning telephone call from her father, following the publication of an article in the publication, Country Life* featuring her interior designs for friends Margot and Dickie Channon’s Cornwall Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’.

 

As Lettice elegantly alighted from the London train at Glynes village railway station, there on the platform amid the dissipating steam of the departing train and the smattering of visitors or return travellers to the village, stood Harris, the Chetwynd’s family chauffer. Dressed in his smart grey uniform, he took Lettice’s portmanteau, hastily packed in London by Edith her maid, and umbrella and walked out through the station’s small waiting room and booking office, leading Lettice to where the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler awaited her on the village’s main thoroughfare. As they drove through the centre of the village, Harris told Lettice through the glass partition from the front seat, that her article in Country Life* had caused quite a sensation below stairs. Quietly, Lettice smiled proudly to herself as she settled back more comfortably into the car’s maroon upholstery. Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, but she has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it. She only hopes as she nears her family home, that Lady Sadie, who does not particularly approve of her venture into interior design, will be proud of her achievement this time.

 

As the Daimler purrs up the gravel driveway and stops out the front of Glynes, Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler, steps through the front door followed by Marsen, the liveried first footman. Marsden silently opens the door of the Daimler for Lettice and helps her step out before fetching her luggage.

 

“Welcome home, My Lady,” Bramley greets her with an open smile. “What a pleasure it is to see you looking so well.”

 

“Thank you Bramley,” she replies with a satisfied smile as she looks up at the classical columned portico of her beloved childhood home basking in the spring sunshine. “It’s always good to be home.”

 

“How was the train journey from London, My Lady?” Bramley asks Lettice as he falls in step a few paces behind her.

 

“Oh, quite pleasant, thank you Bramley. I have my novel to while away the time.”

 

“We were all pleased and proud to see your name in print in Her Ladyship’s copy of Country Life.”

 

“Oh, thank you, Bramley. That’s very kind of you to say. I take it that is why I have been summoned here today.”

 

The butler clears his throat a little awkwardly and looks seriously at Lettice. “I couldn’t say, My Lady, however they are expecting you, in the drawing room.” The statement is said with the gravitas that befits one of the country house’s finest rooms.

 

Lettice’s face falls. “Do I have time to refresh myself.” She peels off her gloves as she walks through the marble floored vestibule and into the lofty Adam style hall of Glynes. The familiar scent of old wood, tapestries and carpets welcomes her home.

 

“I was asked to show you into the drawing room immediately upon your arrival, My Lady,” Bramley says as Marsden closes the front doors and then the vestibule doors behind them. “Her Ladyship insisted, and His Lordship didn’t contradict her.”

 

“Oh. Do I sense an air of disquiet, Bramley?” Lettice asks, handing the butler her red fox collar and then shrugging off her russet three quarter length coat into his waiting white glove clad hands.

 

“Well My Lady, may I just say that your article caused somewhat of a stir both above and below stairs.” He accepts Lettice’s elegant picture hat of russet felt ornamented with pheasant feathers.

 

“Yes, so Harris told me. Good or bad above stairs, Bramley?”

 

“I think,” the older manservant contemplates. “Mixed, might be the best answer to that, My Lady.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Well, His Lordship, and Master Leslie were thrilled, as was the young Mrs. Chetwynd. However, as you know, My Lady, Her Ladyship has particular ideas as to your future.” He cocks an eyebrow and gives her a knowing look. “She’s had them planned since the day you were born, and you know she dislikes it when her plans go awry.”

 

“Oh.” Lettice says with a disappointed lilt in her answer. “Well, thank you Bramley,” she gives him a sad, yet grateful smile. “You are a brick for warning me.” She brushes down the front of her flounced floral sprigged spring frock, sighs and says with a sigh, “Then I best get this over with, hadn’t I?”

 

“I don’t see an alternative, My Lady.”

 

“Then don’t worry, I’ll show myself into the drawing room. I should imagine this will only be an overnight stay.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Lettice turns on her heel and walks down the corridor, her louis heels clicking along the parquetry flooring, echoing off the walls decorated with gilt framed portraits of the Chetwynd ancestors, their dogs, horses and paintings of views of the estate. She stops before the pair of beautiful walnut double doors that open onto the drawing room, grasps one of the gilded foliate handles, turns it and steps in.

 

The very grand and elegant drawing room of Glynes with its grand dimensions, high ceiling and gilt Louis and Palladian style furnishings has always been one of Lettice’s favourite rooms in the house. It is from here that she developed her love for collecting fine Limoges porcelain to emulate the collection amassed by her great, great paternal grandmother Lady Georgiana Chetwynd. No matter what time of day, the room is always light and airy thanks to its large full-length windows and beautiful golden yellow Georgian wallpaper decorated in a pattern of delicate blossoms and paper lanterns which seems almost to exude warmth and golden illumination. Whilst decorated with many generations of conspicuous consumption, it is not overly cluttered and it does not have the suffocating feel of Lady Sadie’s morning room, which she loathes, and it smells familiarly of a mixture of fresh air, bees wax polish and just a waft of roses. Glancing around, Lettice can see the latter comes from two vases of roses – one white bunch and one golden yellow cluster – both in elegant porcelain vases. The room is silent, save for the quiet ticking of several clocks set about polished surfaces, the hiss of dusty wood as it burns and the muffled twitter of birds in the bushes outside the drawing room windows. And there, by the grand crackling fire, her parents sit in what she hopes to be companionable silence.

 

Lady Sadie sits in her usual armchair next to the fire, dressed in a grey woollen skirt, a burnt orange silk blouse and a matching cardigan with her everyday double strand pearls about her neck. With her wavy white hair framing her face in an old fashioned style she looks not unlike Queen Mary, as she sips tea from one of the floral tea cups from her favourite Royal Doulton set, lost in her own thoughts as she stares out through the satin brocade curtain framed windows. The Viscount on the other hand is sitting opposite his wife in the high backed gilded salon chair embroidered in petit point tapestry by his mother. Dressed in his usual country tweeds worn when going about the estate, Lettice notices that he is immersed in the very copy of Country Life that her interiors feature. Between them, tea and coffee in silver pots stand on a small black japanned chinoiserie occasional table along with the round silver biscuit sachet that has once been Lady Sadie’s mother’s.

 

“Well, here I am.” Lettice announces with false joviality, alerting both her parents to her presence as she closes the door behind her.

 

“Lettice!” the Viscount exclaims, jumping up from his seat, slightly crumpling the pages of the Country Life between his right fingers as he lets his hands fall to his side. “My dear girl!” He beams at her proudly. Thrusting out the magazine in front of him as if trying to prove a point, he continues. “What a surprise, eh?” He indicates to the article about ‘Chai an Treth’, which he was reading, as Lettice suspected.

 

“Pappa!”

 

Lettice hurries into the room, steps between the gilt upholstered chairs that are part of the Louis Quartzose salon suite that had been included in her mother’s dowery when she married her father and falls happily into the loving arms of the Viscount who smells comfortingly of fresh air and grass as he envelopes her.

 

“Don’t gush, Cosmo!” Lady Sadie chides, giving her husband a withering look of distain as she sips her tea with a crispness, passing judgement like usual over her husband and youngest daughter’s emotional relationship, which she unable to fathom.

 

“Hullo Mamma.” Lettice reluctantly removes herself from her father’s welcoming embrace and walks over to her mother, who places her teacup aside and tilts her head so that Lettice can give her an air kiss on both cheeks, their skin barely touching in the transaction.

 

“Help yourself to tea and biscuits.” Lady Sadie pronounces, indicating with a sharp nod to the low tea table upon which sits a third, unused, teacup and saucer nestled amongst the other tea things. “Mrs. Casterton has made her custard creams this week.”

 

“Thank you, Mamma.” Lettice sees a selection of vanilla and chocolate cream biscuits on a plate already as she helps herself to tea from the small round sterling silver pot, polished to a gleaming sheen by Bramley or the head parlour maid. She takes up one each of the two varieties of custard creams, ignoring the look of criticism from her mother by doing so, depositing them onto her saucer. She then settles down on the settee, closest to her father and puts her cup on the table next to her.

 

“My dear girl! My dear girl!” the Viscount repeats in a delighted voice as he tosses the copy of Country Life with the crumpling sound of paper onto the top of a pile of newspapers and periodicals atop a petite point footstool. “Exemplifying a comfortable mixture of old and new to create a welcoming and contemporary room, sympathetic to the original features.” he paraphrases one of Lettice’s favourite lines in Henry Tipping’s** article, giving away that this was hardly the first time he has read the article since the magazine arrived at Glynes. “What wonderful praise from Mr. Tipping.”

 

“Oh, do stop, Cosmo!” pleads Lady Sadie from her seat on the other side of the fireplace, toying with the pearls at her throat. “Gushing is so unbecoming,” She glares critically at her husband. “Especially from a man of your age. It’s emasculating.”

 

Lettice gives her mother a wounded glance before quickly looking at her father, however he bares a steeliness in his jaw.

 

“Why shouldn’t I gush, Sadie?” he replies in defence of himself and his daughter, looking over his shoulder at Lady Sadie, determination giving his voice strength. “This is our child we are talking about,” He turns back and smiles with unbridled delight at Lettice, his eyes glittering with pride. “And I’m damn proud that Lettice has her name in print in a periodical such as Country Life, even if you are less so.”

 

“I don’t know whether I am pleased at all, Cosmo.” Lady Sadie eyes her daughter. “I’d rather see your name printed in the society pages next to a certain eligible duke’s son’s name, Lettice.” she adds dryly as she picks up a custard cream and gingerly nibbles at it as though it might contain rat bait. “Then, I’d gush.”

 

“Mamma!” Lettice manages to utter in a strangulated fashion as disappointment at her mother’s reaction to the article grips her like a cold pair of hands around her throat.

 

“It’s your duty to marry, Lettice, and marry well. You know this.” Lady Sadie lectures in reply haughtily. “We’ve had this conversation time and time again. You don’t want to be a burden on poor Leslie when your father dies, do you?” She nibbles some more at the biscuit clutched between her fingers.

 

“Oh Sadie!” the Viscount gasps. “Don’t be crabby. You must concede that you are proud that one of the leading authorities on architecture and interior design in Britain has spoken so highly of our daughter’s work.”

 

The older woman pulls a face, cleaning mushy biscuit remains from her gums, but doesn’t dignify the statement with an answer.

 

“Can’t you be just a little happy for me, Mamma?” Lettice pleads as she reaches out and grasps her father’s bigger hand for comfort and support. “Just this once?”

 

“I’ll be happy when I see you married off.” She picks up her cup and saucer and takes a sip of tea. “Is it not bad enough that I have one wayward child? Perhaps I had better pack you off to British East Africa too.”

 

“Tipping said Lettice is a very capable interior designer.” the Viscount defends his favourite child. “And the photos prove that.”

 

“Capable!” Lady Sadie scoffs with a nod of disgusted acknowledgement of the magazine lying beyond the tea table. “The room looks barren – positively starved of furnishings and character. How can that be capable interior design? There is practically nothing in it, to design!”

 

“But paired back is the new style now, Mamma. People don’t want…”

 

“What?” Lady Sadie snaps, the fine bone china cup clattering in its saucer.

 

“Well they don’t necessarily want all this.” Lettice gesticulates around her, almost apologetically, to the furnishings around them. “People want cleaner lines these days, to better reflect their more modern lives.”

 

“So your father and I are old hat?” Lady Sadie quips. “Is that what you’re saying, Lettice?”

 

“No, of course not Mamma. I love you and Pappa, and Glynes is classically beautiful. You do a wonderful job at maintaining the elegance of the house. I did retain some of the original décor of Margot and Dickie’s house as part of my refurbishment, even though Margot told me to fling it all out. Mr. Tipping calls it ‘Modern Classical Revival Style’. You and Pappa taught me to always respect a house’s history, and that is what I did, whilst giving Margot the more modern look she wants.”

 

“Pshaw! That girl hasn’t an ounce of taste. Her family have always been new money.” remarks Lady Sadie dismissively. “You can always tell the difference between the old and the new. True breeding will always win out.”

 

“Margot is my friend Mamma! Please don’t say such hurtful things.”

 

“Well, whatever you may think of Lettice’s choice in friends, Sadie, you cannot deny the credit she has brought to the family name by being associated with the Marquis of Taunton.” retorts the Viscount.

 

“Only by association with this interior design folly nonsense of hers, Cosmo.” She flaps her bejewelled hand at her daughter, the lace trimmed handkerchief partially stuffed up the left sleeve of her knitted silk cardigan dancing about wildly with every movement. “At least you were good enough to have your name and business published in a respectable periodical, Lettice.” she concedes begrudgingly.

 

“Well, I’m proud of you, Lettice my girl, and there’s a fact.” He turns again and stares with a hard look at his wife before pronouncing, “And so too is your brother and Arabella, and the Tyrwhitts. Your mother is just bitter because she wasn’t the one who was able to announce the news to the whole village.”

 

“You had no right not to tell me about this article, Lettice!” Lady Sadie grumbles as she cradles her cup and saucer in her lap in a wounded fashion, whilst foisting angry and resentful looks at her daughter. “None at all! I hadn’t even had an opportunity to open the magazine and peruse it before I had the Miss Evanses up here, unannounced, crowing about your name in print in Country Life and how proud I must feel.”

 

Lettice cannot help but smile at the thought of her mother being assailed by the two twittering spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house in the village. The pair are known for their love of gossip, and even more for their voracity at spreading it, as they attempt to fill their lives which they obviously feel are lacking in drama and excitement. The chagrin Lady Sadie must have felt would have been palpable.

 

“Don’t you dare smile at my humiliation, you wicked girl! I had to pretend, Lettice! Pretend to those two awful old women, fawning and toadying the way they do, that I had read the article, and there it sat, unopened on my bonheur de jour***, completely untouched.”

 

“I only wanted it to be a surprise, Mamma.”

 

“Well, it certainly was that.” The woman’s eyes flame with anger. “I had feign that I was only being a tease when I showed such surprise to the Miss Evanses about your name in that article. Luckily the two were more interested in their own delight at their association to you than my genuine surprise that they believed me.” She turns her head away from her husband and daughter and adds uncharitably, “Stupid creatures.”

 

“Now don’t be bitter, Sadie.” the Viscount chides his wife. “Bitterness doesn’t become a lady of any age.”

 

“I’m not bitter!” spits Lady Sadie hotly with a harsh laugh of disbelief.

 

“Yes, you are.” her husband retorts with a gentle laugh of his own. “The more you defend yourself, the more evident it is, Sadie. You are just upset that the Miss Evanses had done a successful job of spreading the news through the village before you had the chance to do so yourself. They took the wind out of your sails. Lettice meant it to be a delightful surprise, and it was, my dear girl.”

 

“She didn’t consider the consequences.”

 

“The petty rivalry between her somewhat misguided mother, who should know better, and two old village crones, should hardly be a concern of one of London’s newest and brightest interior designers, Sadie.”

 

“Well, shouldn’t I have the opportunity to boast about my own daughter, Cosmo?”

 

“Aha! There!” the Viscount crows triumphantly. “So, you are proud of Lettice then.”

 

Lady Sadie thrusts her cup noisily onto the side table and stands up, brushing biscuit crumbs from her lap with angry sweeps onto the Chinese silk carpet at her feet. “You do talk a lot of nonsense, Cosmo.” She mutters brittlely. “I need to go and attend to something. So, if you will please excuse me.” She prepares to leave, but then adds as an afterthought, “But when I come back, I hope you two will have finished your character assassination of me.”

 

Lettice and her father watch Lady Sadie stalk towards the door with her nose in the air.

 

“I just hope that the Duchess doesn’t read that article, Lettice.” Lady Sadie says with a meanness in her angry voice. “I very much doubt she would like a daughter in trade. I hope you realise that this little stunt of yours could have ruined the best match you’ll ever get.”

 

The older woman opens the door and walks out into the corridor.

 

“Just ignore your mother.” the Viscount waves his hand before his wife as if erasing her presence as the door slams behind her, making both he and his youngest daughter wince. “She really is just jealous of those two silly old spinsters because they were gossiping about you in the village before she was able to do so.”

 

“I just wanted it to be a lovely surprise for you and her, Pappa.” Lettice pleads with wide and concerned eyes welling with tears.

 

“I know, my girl. I know.” He takes his handkerchief from his inside pocket and passes it to Lettice, who dabs at her eyes.

 

“I even organised with Mr. Tipping for Mamma to get her edition early,” Lettice sniffs. “But I suppose the mail delivery let me down.”

 

“Well,” her father shrugs. “Any general worth his wait in salt**** will tell you that the very best laid plans can go awry.” He smiles at her consolingly. “Your mother is contrary at the best of times. She’ll never admit that she is happy with any success that isn’t of her own making. Why on earth you seek her approval, I don’t know.” he adds in exasperation. “Do you deliberately wish to punish yourself, dear girl?”

 

Lettice sighs and sniffs. “I just hope that one day she will be proud of me. I feel like I’ve always disappointed her.”

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Twenty-three, Pappa.”

 

“Then you are old enough to know that no matter how hard you try, your mother will never admit to you that she is proud of you. If you do end up marring young Spencely, I doubt even then that she will willingly admit to being proud of you.”

 

“You’re right, Pappa. I should know better. You know that Lally told me the Christmas before last that Mamma lords the perfection of her married life over me, whilst lording the glamour of my life over her.”

 

“Quite so.” the Viscount admits. “I always told your mother that playing that game would do her no god in the end.” He laughs sadly. “But you know your mother. She won’t be told anything. I’m glad that your sister told you what’s what. Sadie hasn’t that power over you any more, now that you know the truth, Lettice.”

 

“But why does she do it?”

 

“Like I said, your mother is sadly misguided. Whether you believe me or not, it isn’t done out of spite.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“She does it to try and get you to both emulate the good things in the other. She wants Lally to be ambitious like you. The truth is I don’t think she ever really approved of the match between Lally and Lanchenbury.”

 

“But Lally and Charles are very happy together.”

 

“I know, Lettice. I know.” He pats her hands. “I think she considers him to be a little below the expectations she had for her eldest daughter, coming from a good and wealthy, but relatively socially insignificant family. That’s why she aspires for you through the marriage bed, dear girl.”

 

“But marriage isn’t all I aspire to, Pappa.”

 

“I know that too, and both your mother and I know how decimated the options are for young ladies in the wake of the war, your mother probably far better than I. But you must forgive us for wanting you to fill the role we expect you to fill, and for us hoping that it is a financial and socially ambitious match you make.” He sighs wearily. “Although with the way the world is changing, that seems to be becoming a less likely thing. I’m only grateful your brother made me modernise the estate. Goodness knows if we would have survived this post-war world of ours, and even now, I wonder whether we actually will.”

 

“Don’t say that Pappa.”

 

“Whatever happens, don’t let your mother upset you, and don’t let her spoil your triumph. I repeat, your brother, Arabella, the whole district is so proud of you, and I’m sure that all your friends, and young Spencely are equally proud to know you.”

 

“Alright Pappa,” Lettice sighs as her father places a consoling hand on her shoulder and rubs it lovingly. “I won’t.”

 

“That’s my girl. Now, I’m sure your mother has gone to arrange luncheon for Lady Edgar, the vicar and any number of other members of the great and good of the county, all of whom she will be singing your praises to – not that she will tell you that.” The Viscount winks conspiratorially at Lettice. “So, what’s say you and I go and have luncheon at the Dower House with Leslie and Arabella? I know they would love to see you and congratulate you.”

 

“Thank you Pappa!”

 

Lettice and her father embrace, and the pair remain in position for a few minutes, enjoying the intimacy without the criticism of Lady Sadie.

 

*Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

**Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.

 

***A bonheur de jour is a type of lady's writing desk. It was introduced in Paris by one of the interior decorators and purveyors of fashionable novelties called marchands-merciers around 1760, and speedily became intensely fashionable. Decorated on all sides, it was designed to sit in the middle of a room so that it could be admired from any angle.

 

****Although these days we commonly say that someone is worth their weight in gold, to say that someone is “worth one’s salt,” is the more traditional saying. Its meaning is the same. It’s a statement that acknowledges that they are competent, deserving, and – to put it simply – worthwhile. The phrase itself is thought to be rooted in Ancient Rome where soldiers were sometimes paid with salt or given an allowance to purchase salt. Similarly, if a person uses the phrase “worth its weight in salt,” to describe an object, they are expressing that they think the item is worth the price they paid or that it otherwise holds immense value to them.

 

This grand Georgian interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The gilt Louis Quatorze chair and sofa, the black japanned chinoiserie tea table and the gilt swan round tables table are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The gilt high backed salon chair is also made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq, but what is particularly special about it is that it has been covered in antique Austrian floral micro petite point by V.H. Miniatures in the United Kingdom, which makes this a one-of-a-kind piece. The artisan who made this says that as one of her hobbies, she enjoys visiting old National Trust Houses in the hope of getting some inspiration to help her create new and exciting miniatures. She saw some beautiful petit point chairs a few years ago in one of the big houses in Derbyshire and then found exquisitely detailed petit point that was fine enough for 1:12 scale projects.

 

The Palladian console tables at the back to either side of the fireplace, with their golden caryatids and marble was commissioned by me from American miniature artisan Peter Cluff. Peter specialises in making authentic and very realistic high quality 1:12 miniatures that reflect his interest in Georgian interior design. His work is highly sought after by miniature collectors worldwide. This pair of tables are one-of-a-kind and very special to me.

 

The elegant ornaments that decorate the surfaces of the Chetwynd’s palatial drawing room very much reflect the Eighteenth Century spirit of the room.

 

On the centre of the mantlepiece stands a Rococo carriage clock that has been hand painted and gilded with incredible attention to detail by British 1:12 miniature artisan, Victoria Fasken. The clock is flanked by a porcelain pots of yellow, white and blue petunias which have been hand made and painted by 1:12 miniature ceramicist Ann Dalton. At either end of mantle stand a pair of Staffordshire sheep which have been hand made, painted and gilded by Welsh miniature ceramist Rachel Williams who has her own studio, V&R Miniatures, in Powys. If you look closely, you will see that the sheep actually have smiles on their faces!

 

Two more larger example of Ann Dalton’s petunia posies stand on the Peter Cluff Palladian console tables. The one on the left is flanked by two mid Victorian (circa 1850) hand painted child’s tea set pieces. The sugar bowl and milk jug have been painted to imitate Sèvres porcelain. The right table features examples of pieces from a 1950s Limoges miniature tea set which I have had since I was a teenager. Each piece is individually stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp. The vase containing the yellow roses is also a Limoges miniature from the 1950s.

 

The silver tea and coffee set and silver biscuit sachet on the central chinoiserie tea table, have been made with great attention to detail, and come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The gilt edged floral teacups and plate on the table come from a miniatures specialist stockist on E-Bay. The blue and white vase the white roses stand in comes from Melody Jane’s Dolls House Suppliers in the United Kingdom.

 

The white and yellow roses are also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The copy of Country Life sitting on the footstool which is a lynchpin of this chapter was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1923 edition of Country Life. The 1:12 miniature copy of ‘The Mirror’ beneath it is made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The hand embroidered pedestal fire screen may be adjusted up or down and was acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

All the paintings around the Glynes drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States, and the wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper of Chinese lanterns from the 1770s.

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

Panzer's Nomad Bee, Nomada panzeri.

 

Body length; 7 - 12mm.

 

Flight period; March – July.

 

Habitat; A wide variety of habitats, as befits its wide range of hosts, but there is a strong association with woodland.

 

Fairly common and widespread in England and Wales, Panzer's Nomad Bee is one of the larger and more frequently encountered Nomada species. Similar to Nomada flava, females of these two species can be reliably told apart by the erect black hairs on the clypeus of N. panzeri (these are pale in N. flava), and has silvery rather than yellow hairs on the sides of the thorax. The males of these two species are extremely difficult to separate with any degree of confidence.

 

This species is found throughout Britain and is more frequent than N. flava in northern regions but less so in the south. Also recorded from Ireland and the Channel Islands.

It is widely distributed in Europe.

Like all nomad bee species, the Panzer's nomad bee is a cleptoparasite. As such, the females use the nests of targeted hosts and lay an egg in the wall of an unsealed nest cell, one that has already been furnished with adequate food provisions ready for the emerging host larva.

The grubs of nomad bees emerge from the egg at about the same time as the host grub. Nomad bee grubs have large, sickle-shaped mandibles which they use to destroy the host egg or grub. The nomad bee grub then consumes the food stores that were intended for the host's offspring.

 

In addition to Andrena fucata, Panzer's Nomad Bee will use the nests of other hosts, including Andrena fulva, Andrena helvola, Andrena lapponica, Andrena varians and Andrena synadelpha.

The Temple of Hephaestus, also known as the Hephaisteion or earlier as the Theseion, is a well-preserved Greek temple; it remains standing largely as built. It is a Doric peripteral temple, and is located at the north-west side of the Agora of Athens, on top of the Agoraios Kolonos hill. From the 7th century until 1834, it served as the Greek Orthodox church of St. George Akamates.

 

Hephaestus was the patron god of metal working and craftsmanship. There were numerous potters' workshops and metal-working shops in the vicinity of the temple, as befits the temple's honoree. Archaeological evidence suggests that there was no earlier building on the site except for a small sanctuary that was burned when the Persians occupied Athens in 480 BC.

 

After the battle of Plataea, the Greeks swore never to rebuild their sanctuaries destroyed by the Persians during their invasion of Greece, but to leave them in ruins, as a perpetual reminder of the war.Construction started in 449 BC, and some scholars believe the building not to have been completed for some three decades, funds and workers having been redirected towards the Parthenon. The western frieze was completed between 445-440 BC, while the eastern frieze, the western pediment and several changes in the building's interior are dated by these scholars to 435-430 BC, largely on stylistic grounds. It was only during the Peace of Nicias (421-415 BC) that the roof was completed and the cult images were installed. The temple was officially inaugurated in 416-415 BC.

 

Around 700 AD, the temple was turned into a Christian church, dedicated to Saint George. Exactly when the temple was converted to a Christian church remains unknown. There are assumptions however that maybe that happened in the 7th century. For the first time, the temple is mentioned as an official Christian temple of Athens in 1690 and until 1834, it was the church of "St George Akamates".

 

Info Source: Wikipedia, 2013.

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Forcan, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

Canon G9 Compact.

 

This energetic Russian chap provided the ideal focal point for this image during his morning excercise routine. I was lucky to capture him in a near crucifix pose which I wanted to give the image a biblical feel, which befitted the awe inspiring sunrise in front of me.

 

Best Viewed On Black

 

Explore #23 10th May 09

Elk, scouting for white fluffy things ..as befits her!

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Forcan, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

Expensive and refined as befits the gift of a king.

As glamorous as a film star.

And so it would be.

 

7.370 cc

8 Cylinder

110 hp @ 2.400 rpm

Vmax : 140 km/h

 

Museo dell'Automobile

Corso Unità d'Italia 40

Torino - Turin

Italia - Italy

January 2019

Monasterio de Yuso, San Millán de la Cogolla, La Rioja, España.

 

El real monasterio de San Millán de Yuso (yuso significaba 'abajo' en castellano antiguo) está situado en la villa de San Millán de la Cogolla, comunidad autónoma de La Rioja (España), en la margen izquierda del río Cárdenas, en pleno valle de San Millán. Forma parte del conjunto monumental de dos monasterios, junto con el más antiguo monasterio de San Millán de Suso («de arriba»).

 

Este monasterio fue mandado construir en el año 1053 por el rey García Sánchez III de Navarra «el de Nájera». La historia de su fundación va unida a una leyenda basada en un milagro de san Millán (o Emiliano), un joven pastor que se hace ermitaño. Cuando en 574 muere Millán, a la edad de 101 años, sus discípulos lo entierran en su cueva, y alrededor de ella se va formando el primer monasterio, el de San Millán de Suso. San Braulio, cincuenta años después de muerto san Millán, escribe la vida de este.

 

El monasterio fue construido en estilo románico, como correspondía a la época. Es demolido en su totalidad y reconstruido en el siglo XVI, en estilo herreriano, de los siglos XVII y XVIII.

 

La iglesia es de tres naves, con bóveda estrellada y un bonito cimborrio. Se comenzó en 1504 por mandato del abad Fray Miguel de Alzaga y se termina treinta y seis años después. Gótico decadente. La iglesia era para uso de los monjes, por eso la parte delantera, desde el coro central, pasando por el presbiterio hasta el relicario, estaba destinada solo para ellos. La parte trasera, desde el trascoro hasta la puerta, era la zona que usaba el pueblo cuando éste podía acceder al templo. Son dos espacios litúrgicos dentro del mismo edificio.

 

The Royal Monastery of San Millán de Yuso (yuso meant "below" in Old Castilian) is located in the town of San Millán de la Cogolla, in the autonomous community of La Rioja (Spain), on the left bank of the Cárdenas River, in the heart of the San Millán Valley. It is part of the monumental complex of two monasteries, along with the older monastery of San Millán de Suso ("above").

 

This monastery was commissioned in 1053 by King García Sánchez III of Navarre "of Nájera." The story of its founding is linked to a legend based on a miracle of Saint Millán (or Emiliano), a young shepherd who became a hermit. When Millán died in 574 at the age of 101, his disciples buried him in his cave, and the first monastery, that of San Millán de Suso, was built around it. Fifty years after Saint Millán's death, Saint Braulio wrote his life.

 

The monastery was built in the Romanesque style, as befitted the period. It was completely demolished and rebuilt in the 16th century in the Herrerian style of the 17th and 18th centuries.

 

The church has three naves, a star-shaped vault, and a beautiful dome. It was begun in 1504 by order of Abbot Fray Miguel de Alzaga and completed thirty-six years later. It is in the Decadent Gothic style. The church was for the use of the monks, so the front part, from the central choir through the presbytery to the reliquary, was reserved for them only. The rear part, from the transept to the door, was the area used by the common people when they could access the temple. They are two liturgical spaces within the same building.

Today is the birthday of one of my best friends, Sasha ‘Edler’ Mochalov, wonderful musician, poet, founder and co-leader of one of my favourite band “Mezozoy” (another co-leader – his wife Nastya Frolova, my big friend too). In this year Edler decided not to celebrate, that’s why I’ve found myself in those village Achapnoe in Nizhny Novgorod region, about 350 km from my home, in a dream and not for real (I’ve planned to hitchhike there again, even bought the power bank to be able to listen music all the way and borrowed the palm-sized micro-combo for my guitar. Achapnoe is one of my favourite places on the Earth and Edler’s and Nastya’s company is the very best for my taste, we spent a lot of precious for me time together, just three of us). First thing in the morning I decided to congratulate Edler with some photos about him, which I have in abundance on my hdd. Instead, I made this one, from the birthday concert for Nastya at Nizhny Novgorod in this June. In this photo aren’t no Sasha or Nastya and figured some of our mutual friends, but it somehow focused on this there Katya. Isn’t she the real McCoy of beauty? My heart rejoices watching. She's like in her own time here. Maybe everywhere and always. I’m making photos rather slow and not in a hurry at all, as befits a true artist. I could make the image years later after it was taken. My friends tolerate this, they’re artists too.

On my long way to freedom (see about it the texts with my previous photos) I decided do not adhere to the photo-series if I’m not feel like that and not even mention the war if I don’t want to. I feel that creating something on another, peace side is anti-war as well. Maybe even more effective. “Make love, not war” still sounds like the very best recipe to destroy the war for me. And I’ll definitely show you Edler soon. I’m still honored and proud that he asked me to perform the sitar part in his song “Do not cut water with an ax”. He made it about 2 years before the war, but it’s like the perfect commentary to it, not to say the prophecy. It’s still on YouTube as well as in the Mezozoy’s repertoire, as anti-war as the song could be, you could check it out if you’ll fancy to see me playing sitar:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1SFmcD-Vl4

 

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As befits the bearer of the next generation, the female is far more inconspicuously attired.

 

NB Despite the data given on the right of this page (until lost by flickr!), the lens was actually a 150-500mm.

180114 362

 

Veilchenorganist Фиолетовая эуфония (женский пол)

  

400mm / 320th / f9 / iso800

  

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It's always good to catch up with Clive and one of his fantastic cars. I've bumped into or met up with him over the last few years and his passion, research and attention to detail on his cars is great to see.

 

This year for Windsor he brought along a brand new car rather than one of his classic sportscars, in the guise of this breathtaking Alfa Romeo.

 

To celebrate their 90th Anniversary, Milan's Touring Superleggera decided to coachbuild seven Spyder verisons of their recent take on the classic Disco Volante Alfa, itself based on the gorgeous Alfa 8C V8. Owners have to provide the donor Alfa, following which Touring spend six months remodelling.

 

Clive's car is number 1 of 7, finished in striking Cerulean Blue and as befits a truly coachbuilt car, some details that are specific to this car alone. It has spent the year on the 2016 global concours circuit, winning the Design Award at Villa d'Este along the way...

 

www.motorsportinpictures.com

Graceful, historic Hoi An is known as Veitnam’s most atmospheric and delightful town. Once a major port, it boasts the grand architecture and beguiling riverside setting that befits its heritage.The face of the Old Town has preserved its incredible legacy of tottering Japanese merchant houses, Chinese temples and ancient tea warehouses – though, unfortunately, residents and rice fields have been gradually replaced by tourist businesses. And yet, down by the market I find life has changed little – Hoi An, Vietnam

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie. Lettice is visiting her family home after receiving a strongly worded instruction from her father by letter to visit without delay or procrastination. Over luncheon, Lettice was berated by her parents for her recent decision to decorate the home of the upcoming film actress, Wanetta Ward. Lettice has a strained relationship with her mother at the best of times as the two have differing views about the world and the role that women have to play in it, and whilst receiving complaints about her choice of clients, Lettice was also scolded by mother for making herself unsuitable for any young man who might present as an eligible prospect. Although Lettice is undeniably her father’s favourite child, even he has been less than receptive to her recent choices of clients, which has put her a little out of favour with him. After Lady Sadie stormed out of the dining room over one of Lettice’s remarks, Viscount Wrexham implored his headstrong youngest daughter to try and make an effort with her mother, which is something she has been mulling over during her overnight stay.

 

Now Lettice stands in the grand Robert Adam decorated marble and plaster entrance hall of her family home as she prepares to take her leave. Outside on the gravel driveway, Harris the chauffer has the Chetwynd’s 1912 Daimler ready to drive her to the Glynes village railway station for the one fifteen to London. She has bid farewell to her brother Leslie and her father. Now there is just one final member of the family whom she needs to say goodbye to.

 

“Thank you Marsden.” Lettice remarks to the liveried first footman as he carries the last of Lettice’s luggage out to the Daimler.

 

“I hope you have a safe journey back to London, My Lady.” Bramley, the Chetwynd’s butler remarks as he walks into the entrance hall to see Lettice off.

 

“Thank you, Bramley,” Lettice replies. “Oh, I’m glad you are here. Do you know where my Mother might be?”

 

Considering her question, the old butler looks to the upper levels and ceiling of the hall before replying knowingly. “Well, it is still mid-morning according to Her Ladyship, so I would imagine that she will be in the morning room. Shall I go and see, My Lady?”

 

“No thank you Bramley. You have more than enough to do I’m sure, managing this old pile of bricks, without doing that for me. I’m perfectly capable of seeking her out for myself.”

 

Turning on her heel, Lettice walks away from the butler, her louis heels echoing off the marble tiles around the entrance hall in her wake.

 

“Mamma?” Lettice trills with false cheer as she knocks with dread on the walnut door to the morning room.

 

When there is no reply to her call, she considers two possibilities: either her mother is still in a funk with her and not speaking to her after the scene in the dining room yesterday, or she isn’t in the morning room at all. Both are as likely as each other. Taking a deep breath, she turns the handle and opens the door, calling her mother again as she does so.

 

The Glynes morning room is very much Lady Sadie’s preserve, and the original classical Eighteenth Century design has been overlayed with the comfortable Edwardian clutter of continual and conspicuous acquisition that is the hallmark of a lady of her age and social standing. China cabinets of beautiful porcelain line the walls. Clusters of mismatched chairs unholstered in cream fabric, tables and a floral chaise lounge, all from different eras, fill the room: set up to allow for the convivial conversation of the great and good of the county after church on a Sunday. The hand painted Georgian wallpaper can barely be seen for paintings and photographs in ornate gilded frames. The marble mantelpiece is covered by Royal Doulton figurines and more photos in silver frames. Several vases of flowers stand on occasional tables, but even their fragrance cannot smother her mother’s Yardley Lily of the Valley scent. Lady Sadie is nowhere to be seen but cannot have been gone long judging by her floral wake.

 

Walking over to the Eighteenth Century bonheur de jour* that stands cosily in a corner of the room, Lettice snorts quietly with derision as she looks at the baby photograph of Leslie, her eldest brother, which stands in pride of place in a big silver frame on the desk’s serpentine top, along with a significantly smaller double frame featuring late Nineteenth Century younger incarnations of her parents. Lettice, her sister Lally and brother Lionel have been relegated to a lesser hanging space on the wall, as befits the children seen as less important by their mother. Everything has always been about Leslie as far as their mother is concerned, and always has been for as long as Lettice can remember.

 

Lettice runs her fingers idly over several books sitting open on the desk’s writing space. There is a costume catalogue from London and a book on Eighteenth Century hairstyles. “Making plans for the Hunt Ball.” Lettice muses with a smile. It is then that she notices a much thicker book below the costume catalogue which has a familiar looking worn brown leather cover with a gilt tooled inlay. Moving the catalogue Lettice finds a copy of Debrett’s**

 

“Oh Mamma!” she exhales with disappointment as she shakes her head.

 

As she picks it up, she dislodges a partially written letter in her mother’s elegant copperplate hand from beneath it. Lettice knows she shouldn’t read it but can’t help herself as she scans the thick white paper embossed with the Wrexham coat of arms. Its contents make her face go from its usual creamy pallor to red with frustration.

 

“Ahh! Lettice!” Lady Sadie’s crisp intonation slices the silence as she walks into the morning room and discovers her daughter standing over her desk. “Heading back to London, are we?” she continues cheerily as she observes her daughter dressed in her powder blue travelling coat, matching hat and arctic fox fur stole. She smiles as she indicates to the desk’s surface. “I’m making plans for my outfit for the Hunt Ball. I thought I might come as Britannia this year.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer her mother immediately as she continues to stare down at the letter next to her mother’s silver pen and bottle of ink. Remembering her father’s request, she draws upon her inner strength to try and remain civil as she finally acknowledges, “How appropriate that you should come as the all-conquering female warrior.”

 

“Lettice?” Lady Sadie remarks quizzically.

 

“Perhaps you might like to reconsider your choice of costume and come as my faerie godmother, since I’m coming as Cinderella.”

 

“Oh, now that’s a splendid idea! Although I don’t…”

 

“Or better yet, come as cupid instead!” Lettice interrupts her mother hotly, anger seething through her clipped tones as she tries to keep her temper.

 

“Now you’re just being foolish, Lettice,” Lady Sadie replies as she walks towards her daughter, the cheerful look on her face fading quickly as she notices the uncovered copy of Debrett’s on her desk’s surface.

 

“Not at all, Mamma! I think it’s most apt considering what you are trying to do.”

 

“Trying to do? What on earth are you talking about Lettice?” the older woman chuckles awkwardly, her face reddening a little as she reaches her bejewelled right hand up to the elegant strand of collar length pearls at her throat.

 

Lettice picks up the letter, dangling it like an unspoken accusation between herself and her mother before looking down at it and reading aloud, “My dear Lillie, we haven’t seen you at Glynes for so long. Won’t you, Marmaduke and Jonty consider coming to the Hunt Ball this year? Do you remember how much Jonty and my youngest, Lettice, used to enjoy playing together here as children? I’m sure that now that they are both grown, they should be reacquainted with one another.” She lowers her hand and drops the letter on top of the edition of Debrett’s like a piece of rubbish before looking up at her mother, giving her a cool stare.

 

“It isn’t ladylike to read other people’s correspondence, Lettice!” Lady Sadie quips as she marches up to her desk and snatches the letter away from Lettice’s reach, lest her daughter should cast it into the fire cracking peaceably in the grate.

 

“Is it ladylike to arrange the lives of two strangers without discussing it?”

 

“It has long been the prerogative of mothers to arrange their children’s marriages.” The older woman defends herself. “And you and Jonty Hastings aren’t strangers, Lettice. You and he…”

 

“Haven’t seen each other since we were about six years old, when we played in the hedgerows together and had tea in the nursery with Nanny Webb after she had washed the mud off us!”

 

“Well, all the better for the two of you to become reacquainted then, as I’m suggesting to his mother.” She runs her fingers along the edges of the letter in her hands defiantly. “And I am going to send this letter, Lettice,” Her voice gathers a steely tone of determination. “Whether you like it, or lump it.”

 

“Yes, Pappa told me after you,” she pauses for a moment to consider her words carefully. “Left, us at luncheon yesterday, that you had been making some discreet enquiries about inviting some eligible young bachelors for me to the ball this year.”

 

“And so I have, Lettice.” Lady Sadie sniffs. “Since you seem incapable of finding yourself a suitable match even after your successful debut London Season, I have taken it upon myself to do some…”

 

“Matchmaking, Mamma?”

 

“Arranging, Lettice. Tarquin Howard, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes…”

 

“Sir John is as old as the hills!” Lettice splutters in disbelief. “You surely can’t imagine I’d consider him a likely prospect!”

 

“Sir John is an excellent match, Lettice. You can hardly fail to see how advantageous it would be to marry him.”

 

“Once I look past the twenty five, no more, years age difference. No, better he be chased by some social climbing American woman looking for an entrée into the society pages. Perhaps I should ask Miss Ward to the ball. I’m sure she would love to meet Sir John.”

 

Lady Sadie’s already pale face drains of any last colour at the thought of an American moving picture star walking into her well planned ball. “Well, if you won’t countenance Sir John, I’ve also invited Edward Lambley and Selwyn Spencely.”

 

“Selwyn Spencely?” Lettice laughs. “The guest list just gets more and more implausable.”

 

“What’s so implausible about Selwyn Spencely, Lettice? The Spencelys are a very good family. Selwyn has a generous income which will only increase when he eventually takes his father’s place as the next Viscount Markham. He inherited a house in Belgravia from his grandfather when he came of age, so you two can continue to live in London until you become chatelaine of Markham Park.”

 

“Can you hear yourself, Mamma?” Lettice cries as she raises her arms in exasperation, any good will she tried to muster for her Mother quickly dissipating. “Do you want to pick what wedding gown I am to wear too?” Lettice laughs again. “Selwyn and I haven’t laid eyes on each other for almost as long as Jonty and I.”

 

“Well, he’s grown into a very handsome young man, Lettice. I’ve seen his photograph in The Lady.” Her mother bustles across the end of the floral chaise where a pile of well fingered magazines sit. “Look, I can show you.”

 

“Oh, please don’t Mamma!” Lettice throws her hands up in protest. “Please don’t add insult to injury.”

 

Lady Sadie turns around, a hurt look on her face. “How can you say that to me, Lettice? I’m only trying to do right by you, by securing a suitable and advantageous marriage for you.”

 

“But what about love, Mamma?” Lettice sighs. “What if I don’t wish to marry at all? What if I am happy just running my interior design business.”

 

“Oh what nonsense, Lettice! The younger generation are so tiresome. All this talk of love! I blame those moving pictures your Ward woman stars in that you and your friends all flock to slavishly! Your Father and I had our marriage arranged. We weren’t in love.” She emphasises the last two words with a withering tone. “We’d only even met a handful of times before we were married. Love came naturally in time, and look how happy we are.” She smiles smugly with self satisfaction. “And as for your business, you aren’t Syrie Maugham***, Lettice. You’ve always been told, from an early age, that your duty as a daughter of a member of this great and noble family, even as the youngest daughter, is to marry and marry well.” She sinks onto the chaise. “This foolishness about interior design,” She flaps her glittering fingers distractedly at Lettice. “Will have to end when you get married. Whether it be Jonty, Nicolas or Selwyn, you’ll have to give it up. No respectable man of position and good breeding will have his wife working as a decorator! He’d be ashamed!”

 

At her mother’s harsh words, Lettice abandons any attempt to try and make an effort with her. She looks up to the ornate white painted plaster ceiling and crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the room as she clenches her hands into fists. “Well,” she looks angrily at her mother. “We wouldn’t want my future husband to be ashamed of my success, now would we?”

 

“What success, Lettice?” her mother scoffs. “You were only able to decorate Gwendolyn’s small drawing room because I asked her to allow you to do it.”

 

“I’ve plenty of clients now, no thanks to you, Mamma!”

 

“Dickie and Margot don’t count, dear,” Lady Sadie replies dismissively as she fingers the edges of a copy of the Tattler distractedly. “They are your friends. Of course they were going to ask you to decorate their house.”

 

Lettice gasps as though her mother just punched all the air out of her chest. She stands, silent for a moment, her face flushing with embarrassment and anger. “You’ve always been so cruel to me Mamma, ever since I was little.”

 

“And you’ve always been so stubborn and obstinate, ever since you were a child! Goodness knows what I did to deserve a wilful daughter. Lally was so lovely and pliable, and certainly no trouble to marry off.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap over her immaculately pressed tweed skirt and looks up at her daughter. “I don’t mean to be harsh, Lettice, but someone has to make you see sense. Goodness knows your Father can’t, what with him wound around your little finger! You will have to marry eventually, Lettice, and preferably soon. It’s a foregone conclusion. It’s what is expected of you, and as I said yesterday, you aren’t getting any younger, and you certainly don’t want to be left stuck on the shelf. Just think of the shame it would bring you.”

 

“More think of the shame it would bring you, Mamma.” Lettice spits bitterly. “To have a daughter who is a spinster, an old maid, and in trade to boot!”

 

“Now there is no need to be overtly nasty, Lettice.” Lady Sadie mutters brittlely. “It’s unbecoming.”

 

A little gilt clock on an occasional table chimes one o’clock prettily.

 

“Mamma, however much I would love to sit here and share bitter quips and barbs with you all day over a pot of tea, I really do have to leave!” Lettice says with finality. “I have a train to catch. Gerald and I have a reservation at the Café Royal**** tonight.” She walks over to her mother, bends down and goes to kiss her cheek, but the older woman stiffens as she averts her daughter’s touch. Lettice sighs as she raises herself up again. “I’ll see you in a week for Dickie and Margot’s wedding and then after that for Bonfire Night*****.”

 

“Hopefully you’ll have come to your senses about marriage and this ridiculous designing business by then.”

 

Lettice raises her head proudly and takes a deep breath before turning away from her mother and walks with a purposeful stride across the room. “No I won’t, Mamma.” she says defiantly. As she opens the door to leave the morning room, she turns back to the figure of her mother sitting facing away from her towards the fire. “Pappa asked me to make an effort at the Hunt Ball, and I will. I will dance and flirt with whomever you throw in my general direction, be they old, blind or bandy-legged.” She sees her mother’s shoulders stiffen, indicating silently that she is listening, even if she doesn’t want to acknowledge that she is. “However, be under no pretence Mamma. I am doing it for him, and not you.”

 

“Lettice…” Lady Sadie’s voice cracks.

 

“And,” Lettice cuts her off sharply. “No matter who I dance with, or charm, I will not marry any of them. Goodbye Mamma.”

 

Lettice closes the door quietly behind her and walks back down the hallway to the entrance hall. She walks through the front doors with her head aloof, and steps into the back of the waiting Daimler. Marsden closes its door and Harris starts the engine. The chauffer can sense the tension seething through his passenger as she huffs and puffs in the spacious rear cabin, dabbing her nose daintily with a lace edged handkerchief, so he remains quiet as he steers the car down the sweeping driveway. As the car pulls away from Glynes basking in the early afternoon autumnal sun, Lettice can almost feel two sets of eyes on her back: one pair from her father looking sadly out from the library and the other her mother’s peering critically from behind the morning room curtains.

 

*A bonheur de jour is a type of lady's writing desk. It was introduced in Paris by one of the interior decorators and purveyors of fashionable novelties called marchands-merciers around 1760, and speedily became intensely fashionable. Decorated on all sides, it was designed to sit in the middle of a room so that it could be admired from any angle.

 

**The first edition of Debrett's Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, containing an Account of all the Peers, 2 vols., was published in May 1802, with plates of arms, a second edition appeared in September 1802, a third in June 1803, a fourth in 1805, a fifth in 1806, a sixth in 1808, a seventh in 1809, an eighth in 1812, a ninth in 1814, a tenth in 1816, an eleventh in 1817, a twelfth in 1819, a thirteenth in 1820, a fourteenth in 1822, a fifteenth in 1823, which was the last edition edited by Debrett, and not published until after his death. The next edition came out in 1825. The first edition of The Baronetage of England, containing their Descent and Present State, by John Debrett, 2 vols., appeared in 1808. Today, Debrett's is a British professional coaching company, publisher and authority on etiquette and behaviour. It was founded in 1769 with the publication of the first edition of The New Peerage. The company takes its name from its founder, John Debrett.

 

***Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.

 

****The Café Royal in Regent Street, Piccadilly was originally conceived and set up in 1865 by Daniel Nicholas Thévenon, who was a French wine merchant. He had to flee France due to bankruptcy, arriving in Britain in 1863 with his wife, Célestine, and just five pounds in cash. He changed his name to Daniel Nicols and under his management - and later that of his wife - the Café Royal flourished and was considered at one point to have the greatest wine cellar in the world. By the 1890s the Café Royal had become the place to see and be seen at. It remained as such into the Twenty-First Century when it finally closed its doors in 2008. Renovated over the subsequent four years, the Café Royal reopened as a luxury five star hotel.

 

****Guy Fawkes Day, also called Bonfire Night, British observance, celebrated on November the fifth, commemorating the failure of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Guy Fawkes and his group members acted in protest to the continued persecution of the English Catholics. Today Guy Fawkes Day is celebrated in the United Kingdom, and in a number of countries that were formerly part of the British Empire, with parades, fireworks, bonfires, and food. Straw effigies of Fawkes are tossed on the bonfire, as are—in more recent years in some places—those of contemporary political figures. Traditionally, children carried these effigies, called “Guys,” through the streets in the days leading up to Guy Fawkes Day and asked passersby for “a penny for the guy,” often reciting rhymes associated with the occasion, the best known of which dates from the Eighteenth Century.

 

Cluttered with paintings, photographs and furnishings, Lady Sadie’s morning room with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The books on Lady Sadie’s desks are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside two of the books he has made. One of the books is a French catalogue of fancy dress costumes from the late Nineteenth Century, and the other is a book of Georgian hairstyes. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into these volumes, each book contains twelve double sided pages of illustrations and they measure thirty-three millimetres in height and width and are only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. The 1908 Debrett’s Peerage book is also made by Ken Blythe, but does not open. He also made the envelopes sitting in the rack to the left of the desk and the stamps you can see next to the ink bottle. The stamps are 2 millimetres by two millimetres each! Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just two of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

On the desk is a 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottle and a silver pen, both made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles is made from a tiny faceted crystal bead and has a sterling silver bottom and lid.

 

The Chetwynd’s family photos seen on the desk and hanging on the walls are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frames are almost all from Melody Jane’s Dollhouse Suppliers in the United Kingdom and are made of metal with glass in each. The largest frame on the right-hand side of the desk is actually a sterling silver miniature frame. It was made in Birmingham in 1908 and is hallmarked on the back of the frame. It has a red leather backing.

 

The vase of primroses in the middle of the desk is a delicate 1:12 artisan porcelain miniature made and painted by hand by Ann Dalton.

 

The desk and its matching chair is a Salon Reine design, hand painted and copied from an Eighteenth Century design, made by Bespaq. All the drawers open and it has a lidded rack at either end. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

The wallpaper is a copy of an Eighteenth Century blossom pattern.

Live Steam 0-4-0 made by Grover Devine steams through the rock-cut on my garden railroad.

 

This model is the reason I got into this hobby. I saw this locomotive in an article in Model Railroader magazine in the 1990s. Prior to that article, I thought G Scale stuff was all European-looking, but here was a man in California with not only American-looking models but a live steam locomotive, too.

 

I was hooked! Sadly, by the time I was done with college and could track down the man who wrote the article, he had passed away. But I kept going into the hobby. Building, weathering, photographing, and eventually, I found the person who would come to own this locomotive.

 

After a little chat, I was able to purchase the locomotive. The real locomotive I dreamed about so often was now mine. The craftsmanship is unbelievable. I thought it was gorgeous in the magazine, but now, studying it up close, I am blown away by what the original owner (Grover Devine) created.

 

This locomotive is perhaps my most cherished possession. I am working to build freight and passenger cars that befit such a special engine. I have also written an article for Live Steam magazine about my restoration of this locomotive and my work to build similar "tribute" models.

 

Being such a prized possession, I had to photograph it with a great lens, too. There are few lenses out there better than the Milvus 50mm. I love that lens, too.

 

NIkon D600 & 50mm f/1.4 Zeiss Milvus Distagon ZF.2 @ f/8

This distinctive-looking dog breed has a proud, independent spirit that some describe as catlike.

With his deep-set eyes and large head, accentuated by a mane of hair, the Chow Chow (Chow for short) is an impressive-looking dog. His looks might make you think he's mean or ill-tempered, but a well-bred and well-raised Chow isn't aggressive.

Instead, it's said that the Chow combines the nobility of a lion, the drollness of a panda, the appeal of a teddybear, the grace and independence of a cat, and the loyalty and devotion of a dog. He's also dignified and aloof, as befits a breed that was once kept in imperial Chinese kennels.

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Forcan, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

The Rueful Autumn is a customised Tigermouth gunship used by a special operations team of the Widebrim mercenary group; it is rugged and hard wearing as befits the group and survived many an encounter were the odds were stacked against it. A single pair of long ranged, tunnelling particle cannons as well as a micromine launcher make the ship more of a clever combatant than a back street brawler, but no combatant worth their salt attacks the Autumn without some serious forethought.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are a short distance away from Cavendish Mews, skirting Hyde Park, travelling southwest through the refined Regency era houses of Belgravia to the well-heeled borough of Knightsbridge. There, within a stone’s throw of Harrods, in a fine red brick five storey Victorian terrace house in Edgerton Gardens, Lettice is attending the wedding breakfast* of her friend and debutante of the 1922 London Season, Priscilla Kitson-Fahey to American Georgie Carter. The Carters are a good Philadelphian society family, although they do come from money made through the uniquely American invention of the department store. However, this has been graciously overlooked by Priscilla’s widowed mother, Cynthia, in light of the fortune Georgie stands to inherit and the lavish allowance he is willing to spend on she and her daughter. Hired at great expense from a brewer’s family who own several properties throughout Knightsbridge, the furbished terrace house has been decked out with a profusion of gay flower arrangements as befits the celebration, whilst Gunter and Company** who are catering the breakfast, have erected a red and white striped marquee over the front entrance.

 

It is in the Edgerton Gardens terrace’s first floor reception room overlooking the garden square, where the wedding gifts to the new Mr. and Mrs. Carter are being displayed, that we find Lettice with her old childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Lettice was supposed to have been escorted to the wedding by Selwyn Spencely, the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford, whom she has been discreetly seeing socially since having met him at her parent’s Hunt Ball in February. Unfortunately, Selwyn was called away on family business at the last moment, so Gerald has gallantly stepped in to accompany his best friend as he too has been invited to the wedding.

 

“I say,” whispers Gerald quietly to Lettice. “I shall never get used to a room full of Americans.” He looks about him. “They all speak so loudly.”

 

Lettice notes the voluble chatter washing about them, mostly voiced in strident midwestern American accents. Pricking up her ears momentarily, she catches snippets of conversations, for the most part about the wedding at the Brompton Oratory***, the bride’s wedding gown and what hats ladies were wearing, but also a man’s voice talking about buying Captain Cuttle**** from his owner, and one woman loudly and indiscreetly regaling some of her fellow Americans with stories about her presentation to the Prince of Wales***** in the Mayfair drawing room of a well-connected British friend.

 

“What is it they are saying now?” Lettice ponders quietly in reply to her friend. “Obtain a young heiress, or sell an old master.”

 

“Something like that.” Gerald muses. “Although in this case it’s a young heir.”

 

“So, we shall just have to get used to it as the Americans infiltrate our best, yet most penniless families.” Lettice pokes her friend in the ribs jovially. “Perhaps we’ll find you a wealthy heiress today.”

 

“Heaven help me!” Gerald throws up his hands in melodramatic mime.

 

“At least they are saying nice things about Cilla’s frock,” Lettice whispers with a smile as she catches her friend’s eye. “You’ll have a new flurry of women cloying for a frock or two from the House of Bruton when they see the going away outfit you designed for her.”

 

“Lord save me from Americans and their dry good store money.” Gerald mutters.

 

“I know you don’t mean that, Gerald.” Lettice scoffs, slapping his hand lightly with her own white glove clad hand. “Any money is good money for you, dry goods store or otherwise. At least this way you can enjoy American money without having to make a sham marriage to gain benefit from it. That will please your young musician friend, Cyril.”

 

“I think you are fast becoming a capitalist, my darling.” Gerald deflects, blushing at Lettice’s comment about his new companion whom she recently met in passing at his friend Harriet’s house in Putney on the south side of the Thames.

 

“Oh?” Lettice queries. “I thought you said I was a Communist.”

 

“Either way, they are both terrible, darling!” Gerald laughs.

 

Lettice titters along with him. She pauses for a moment and contemplates. “Gerald, what is a dry goods store, anyway?”

 

“No idea, darling.” He shrugs his shoulders. “However, whatever it is, it is strictly American, and they seem to make a great deal of money over there.”

 

“Thinking of money, I see old Lady Marchmont has given away another of her pieces of family silver.” Lettice discreetly indicates to a silver salver gleaming at the rear of a sideboard cluttered with wedding gifts and cards.

 

“Well, if she can’t afford to buy new pieces as gifts.”

 

“Yes, I suppose the death duties that had to be paid ate up most of the estate.”

 

“And with her husband, and all three of her sons killed in the war,” Gerald adds pragmatically. “Who is she going to leave what little she still has of the family silver to?”

 

“God bless Harrold, Morris and Vincent.” Lettice says.

 

“We need a drink if we’re going to toast our war dead.” Gerald says with a sigh. “I’ll go find us some champagne.”

 

Leaving Lettice’s side, Gerald wends his way through the beautifully dressed wedding guests, quickly disappearing from view amid the mixture of morning suits, feather decorated hats and matching frocks.

 

Lettice sighs and wanders over to the sideboard bearing Lady Marchmont’s silver salver and admires some of the other wedding gifts in front of it. Silver candelabras jostle for space with crystal vases and wine decanters. A very sleek and stylish coffee set she recognises from Asprey’s****** has been generously given by the Wannamaker family of Society Hill******* she discovers as she picks up the wedding card featuring a bride in an oval frame holding a bouquet in her hands. A Royal Doulton dinner service garlanded with boiseries of apricot roses and leaves is stacked up alongside Lady Marchmont’s salver and a pair of Meissen figurines also in shades of apricot and beautifully gilded hold court amidst all the other gifts.

 

“No Spencely today, Miss Chetwynd?” a well enunciated voice observes behind Lettice.

 

Gasping, she spins around to find the tall and elegant figure of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes standing before her.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a time when such men are a rare commodity, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her Hunt Ball earlier in the year, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Luckily Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Now, as he stands before Lettice, Sir John oozes the confidence of male privilege that his sex, class and enormous wealth bestows, and he wears it every bit as well as the smart and well-cut morning suit he is dressed in. The rather leering smile he gives her fills her with repugnance and Lettice shudders as Sir John takes up her glove clad right hand in his and draws it to his lips where he kisses it.

 

“Sir John,” Lettice says uncomfortably acknowledging him, a shudder rippling through her figure at his touch. “I didn’t see you at the church service.”

 

“Oh, I wasn’t there, Miss Chetwynd.” he replies flippantly, releasing Lettice’s hand, which she quickly withdraws. “I’m not much of a church goer myself,” Surprised by his blatant confession of not being particularly religious, Lettice falters, but Sir John saves her having to say anything by adding, “Especially since the war. Like Arthur Conan Doyle, I’m more into spiritualism these days than God********.”

 

“Indeed.” Lettice acknowledges. Changing the subject she continues rather stiffly, “I… I didn’t know you were acquainted with Priscilla, or is it Georgie you know.”

 

“Oh no, not the American. No.” he replies seriously. “I’m distantly related to Priscilla’s mother. We’re third cousins or some such,” Sir John sighs in boredom as he gesticulates languidly with his hand in which he holds a half empty champagne flute. “Which I suppose entitles me to an invitation to this rather vulgar show.” He looks with a critical scowl around the room full of rather beautiful, yet at the same time ostentatious, flower arrangements and all the guests milling about with glasses of champagne or wine in their hands chattering around them. He looks at the sideboard weighed down with expensive wedding gifts that Lettice had been inspecting. “Not that I’d imagine Cynthia paid for any of this, even if it is the bride’s family’s duty to host the wedding breakfast. I suppose the abrogation of such duties is one’s prerogative when as a virtually bankrupt widow, you have an American department store millionaire heir as a new son-in-law.” He cocks a well manicured eyebrow at Lettice to gauge her reaction, allowing it to sink with disappointment when she fails to respond. “Americans don’t tend to hold with tradition like we British do.” He nods and smiles at a passing acquaintance who catches his eye over Lettice’s left shoulder, raising his glass in acknowledgement. “No, I have no doubt that the Carters of Philadelphia have footed the bill not only for the wedding breakfast, but the European sojourn honeymoon for the young couple too. No doubt Cynthia, as my poor relation, wishes to show off her new found good fortune which isn’t even hers by rights. Why on earth should the couple go to Paris, when Edinburgh would have done equally as well. They do love splashing their rather grubby parvenu money about so, don’t they?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Why Americans of course, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Those from the New World are always so showy. I’m sure you agree.” Lettice is saved from having to give an answer when Sir John adds, “The Carters probably even paid for Priscilla’s wedding dress. It’s not one of your friend Bruton’s, is it?”

 

“No, Sir John. It’s a Lanvin********, I believe.” Lettice answers laconically, trying to avoid the scrutinising, sparkling blue eyed gaze of Sir John, which as at the Hunt Ball, runs up and down her figure appraisingly, making her feel as though he were undressing her before the entire company walking about them.

 

“Pity. He could have done rather well for himself grabbing at some of those shiny American dollars of Georgie’s.”

 

Lettice chooses not to mention the fact that Gerald has made the bride’s going away outfit as well as several evening frocks. “Well, Sir John,” she begins, smiling awkwardly. “It has been delightful to…”

 

“You know,” Sir John cuts her off, his eyes widening as his gaze intensifies. “You never did show me that portrait of Marie Antoinette that your father owns, like your mother promised at the Hunt Ball.”

 

“I’m quite sure that my mother would be only too glad to…”

 

“I was rather disappointed by your behaviour the night of the ball, Miss Chetwynd.” he interrupts abruptly.

 

“My behaviour, Sir John?”

 

“Your deliberate avoidance of me.” he elucidates.

 

“Sir John!” Lettice blushes at being so easily caught out. “I… I…”

 

“I think it is high time you made amends by you,” He adds emphasis to the last word. “Showing me that painting.”

 

“Well, I’m very sorry to disappoint you Sir John, but I am frightfully busy with a new commission here in London. I very much doubt I shall be back down at Glynes before November. Even then, it will be for my brother Leslie’s wedding. And then of course it is Christmas.”

 

“And you’ve had your head turned by young Spencely.” he utters, stunning Lettice with his knowledge of her and Selwyn’s recent involvement with one another. “Oh yes, I know.”

 

“Sir John!” Lettice gasps, blushing again at his flagrant statement.

 

“But as I noted when I saw you just now, he isn’t here today, is he?” His eyebrows knit as he speaks. Once again, he doesn’t wait for a reply. “And I know for a fact that up until a few days ago, his name was on the list of wedding guests, as your escort.”

 

“How can you know that, Sir John?” Lettice gasps in surprise. “We have been very discreet.”

 

“Because Cynthia isn’t my dear Miss Chetwynd. She has been trying, rather unsuccessfully I might add, to rub my nose in her new-found turn of fortunes by telling me about all the great and good of London society who will be attending her daughter’s wedding to the American. It’s quite a coup considering that were this not such a grand occasion thanks to her son-in-law’s family new money, none of those she was crowing about to me would have even considered accepting her invitation. Not that she could have afforded to invite them without the Carter’s money. As the widow of a rather insignificant man of an obscure and penurious parochial family, she was rather chuffed to have the eldest son of the Duke of Walmsford on her invitation list thanks to an advantageous connection with one of her daughter’s nightclub acquaintances – you, Miss Chetwynd. An invitation made at your request, Miss Chetwynd. Yet he isn’t here today, and you came on your own.”

 

Lettice’s cheeks flush bright red at Sir John’s insinuation. “I’ll have you know I came with Gera…” she begins hotly.

 

“Bruton was already on the list of invited guests, Miss Chetwynd.” Sir John interrupts her protestations. “I believe that like you, he is part of a coterie of Bright Young Things********* who attend the Embassy Club on Bond Street with Priscilla. That’s how you all come to be connected. Isn’t that so?”

 

Lettice nods like a chided child, with a lowered glance.

 

“And do you know why Spencely didn’t come today, Miss Chetwnd?”

 

“Yes I do,” she answers in a deflated fashion, Sir John’s question having knocked the bluster out of her. “He’s entertaining his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers at Clendon**********.”

 

“And do you know why that is?”

 

“Yes, because his mother, Lady Zinnia, organised it, so that Selwyn might reacquaint himself with his cousin after many years of separation. He is to be a chaperone to her when she debuts next year.”

 

Sir John chuckles to himself as he catches Lettice’s stare with his own and holds it for an unnerving few moments. “If you say so, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“What are you laughing at? It’s true, Sir John. Selwyn told me himself.”

 

“Oh I’m sure he did, my dear. However, it was no coincidence that Pamela’s arrival at Clendon coincided with Priscilla’s wedding.”

 

“What do mean, Sir John?” Lettice asks warily. She thinks back through their conversation for a moment, her temperature rising as she whispers angrily, “Did you tell Lady Zinnia about Selwyn escorting me here today?”

 

“Now, now, Miss Chetwynd. Temper, temper.” He smiles lasciviously, the sudden spark in Lettice seeming to attract him even more to her.

 

“Did you?”

 

“You young people are rather tiresome with your intrigues.” he sighs. “No, I did not Miss Chetwynd. It would have done me no favours to put a wedge between you and Spencely.” He eyes her again before continuing, “Now look, I know you don’t like me, Miss Chetwynd. You’ve made that quite clear.”

 

“Sir John!” Lettice tries weakly to protest but is silenced by his raised hands.

 

“Don’t pretend my dear Miss Chetwynd. You loathe me, so therefore, I owe you no favours. Yet nevertheless, I feel you need to hear this. Perhaps it will be better received from me, someone you detest who has no vested interest in your happiness, rather than a friend whose kindness may be perceived as unwelcome interference.” He pauses for a moment, his mouth a tight line beneath his silver grey moustache. “Don’t tip your cap at young Spencely. You’re wasting your time. He isn’t free to make a marriage of his own choosing.”

 

Lettice utters a scornful laugh as she rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me that you believe that marriages are made by mothers, too, Sir John?” She folds her arms akimbo defiantly across her chest, suddenly filled with a sense of determination to stand up to this man who is obviously and ridiculously jealous that her head has been turned by a handsome young man, rather than by his wealth. “I’ve heard that enough from my own mother.”

 

“In this case it is true, although Lady Sadie has no more say in who Spencely marries than either he or you do. Lady Zinnia is the one who pulls the strings. Not even the Duke would dare go against her when it comes to matters of marriage. It was decided long ago whom he should marry.”

 

Lettice laughs again. “And who might that be?”

 

“Well, I should have thought that would have been obvious to a young lady of some intelligence like you.”

 

“Pamela Fox-Chavers?”

 

“Exactly!” Sir John sighs satisfactorily. “You’re finally catching on. You may not be quite as bright as I first assumed you to be, but you aren’t a complete dullard like so many other addle headed young flappers.” He indicates with a discreet motion to a young girl in lemon yellow giggling girlishly with another flapper in pale pink as they whisper behind their hands at the passing parade of young American men.

 

“But Pamela is Selwyn’s cousin!” Lettice retorts, her eyes growing wide.

 

“True, but she’s only a distant one, and you must confess that it isn’t unusual for cousins to marry cousins. Look at the Royal Family. It’s been happening for hundreds of years to help preserve blood lines and seal the lines of succession.”

 

“But he barely knows her.”

 

“Be that as it may, the decision has been made, my dear Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“You make it sound like a fait accompli, Sir John.”

 

“And so it is.”

 

“But you seem to forget, Sir John, although you are the one who is privy to the knowledge of it, that I am currently pursuing a romantic relationship with Selwyn Spencely, and he with me. I have no intention of giving way so easily, especially for a person whom he barely knows and whom he has no affection for.”

 

“And I just told you to forget about marrying him.” Sir John retorts loftily in a lowered voice. “He is not at liberty to marry you, whatever you and he may think or try to convince yourselves to the contrary.” He affixes her again, his blue eyes piercing her. “If you pursue young Spencely as you so gallantly claim you will, then best you sharpen your lance, Miss Chetwynd. Lady Zinnia is no-one to trifle with. You think you and Spencely have been discreet up until now, but I can assure you, discreet or not, Zinnia will already know all about you and her son, and she will put a stop to your budding romance,” The last two words are spat out in a derisive tone which makes Lettice shudder. “Sooner or later, when it suits her intentions best. And when she does, it will be a spectacular and painful fall from the lofty battlements of love’s tower, my dear Miss Chetwynd. Zinnia is a hard woman who enjoys inflicting hurt onto others. It, along with collecting porcelain, is one of her greatest pleasures in life.” He points his empty champagne flute at her. “Just don’t come crawling to me cap in hand after it happens.” He arches his elegant eyebrows over his cold blue eyes. “You have been warned.”

 

“Thank you for your warning, Sir John.” Lettice replies in a steely and cold manner, squaring her jaw and tilting her head haughtily.

 

“I wish I could say it was my pleasure.” he replies resignedly. “Goodbye, Miss Chetwynd.” He turns his back on her and walks away without another word.

 

As Lettice watches his slender figure glide between the milling groups, quickly disappearing amidst the sea of bobbing heads and hats, Gerald returns with two flutes of champagne.

 

“What did that old letch want?” Gerald asks, following Lettice’s gaze, noticing Sir John’s retreating figure.

 

“Oh nothing,” Lettice says with a shrug of her shoulders and a shuddering breath. “He was just spitting sour grapes and venomous lies at me because I spurned his affections at the Hunt Ball.”

 

“Really?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide. “How disgusting!”

 

As she sips her effervescent champagne and listens absently to Gerald chat, she quietly tries to dismiss all Sir John just told her from her mind, but she can’t quite manage it. A knot forms in her stomach and the thoughts running through her head sours the taste of champagne on her lips.

 

*A wedding breakfast is a feast given to the newlyweds and guests after the wedding, making it equivalent to a wedding reception that serves a meal. The phrase is still used in British English, as opposed to the description of reception, which is American in derivation. Before the beginning of the Twentieth Century they were traditionally held in the morning, but this fashion began to change after the Great War when they became a luncheon. Regardless of when it was, a wedding breakfast in no way looked like a typical breakfast, with fine savoury food and sweet cakes being served. Wedding breakfasts were at their most lavish in the Edwardian era through to the Second World War

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berkley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***The Brompton Oratory is a large neo-classical Roman Catholic church in the Knightsbridge area of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London. Its full name is the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. The foundation stone was laid in June 1869; and the new church designed by Herbert Dribble was consecrated on 16 April 1884. The church is faced in Portland stone, with the vaults and dome in concrete; the latter was heightened in profile and the cupola added in 1869. It was the largest Catholic church in London before the opening of Westminster Cathedral in 1903. Catholic aristocrats who married at the church include John Crichton-Stuart, 3rd Marquess of Bute, and Gwendoline Fitzalan-Howard in 1872, Lord William Beauchamp Nevill and Mabel Murietta in1889, Bernard Fitzalan-Howard, 16th Duke of Norfolk, and Lavinia Strutt in 1937, Simon Fraser, 15th Lord Lovat, and Rosamund Broughton in 1938, Peter Kerr, 12th Marquess of Lothian, and Antonella Newland in1943), Anthony Noel, 5th Earl of Gainsborough, and Mary Stourton in 1947 and Julian Asquith, 2nd Earl of Oxford and Asquith, and Anne Palairet in 1947). Others who married at the church include Lord of Appeal in Ordinary Baron Russell of Killowen, traveller and landowner John Talbot Clifton and author Violet Clifton in 1907) and Australian rules footballer Joe Fogarty in 1916.

 

****Captain Cuttle, ridden by jockey Steve Donaghue won the Derby at Epsom racecourse in June 1922.

 

*****The Prince of Wales would later become Edward VIII, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Empire and Emperor of India from 20th of January 1936 until his abdication in December of the same year when he married American divorcée, Wallis Simpson. As well as a penchant for married woman, David, the Prince of Wales, had a great fondness for Americans and enjoyed their more relaxed and modern attitudes.

 

******Founded in 1781 as a silk printing business by William Asprey, Asprey soon became a luxury emporium. In 1847 the business moved to their present premises at 167 Bond Street, where they advertised 'articles of exclusive design and high quality, whether for personal adornment or personal accompaniment and to endow with richness and beauty the table and homes of people of refinement and discernment’. In 1862 Asprey received a Royal Warrant from Queen Victoria. They received a second Royal Warrant from the Future Edward VII in 1889. Asprey has a tradition of producing jewellery inspired by the blooms found in English gardens and Woodland Flora. Over the decades jewelled interpretations of flowers have evolved to include Daisy, Woodland and sunflower collections. They have their own special cut of diamond and produce leather goods, silver and gold pieces, trophies and leatherbound books, both old and new. They also produce accessories for playing polo. In 1997, Asprey produced the Heart of the Ocean necklace worn in the motion picture blockbuster, ‘Titanic’.

 

*******Society Hill is a historic upper-class neighborhood in Center City Philadelphia.

 

********By the end of his life, in 1930, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, creator of the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes, was a fervent believer in spiritualism, having spent decades researching ghosts, fairies and the paranormal. His fascination with the supernatural grew after his son Kingsley and his younger brother, Innes, battle-weary from service in World War I, died amid the worldwide influenza pandemic shortly after returning home.

 

*********Jeanne Lanvin (1867 – 1946) was a French haute couture fashion designer. She founded the Lanvin fashion house and the beauty and perfume company Lanvin Parfums. She became an apprentice milliner at Madame Félix in Paris at the age of 16 and trained with Suzanne Talbot and Caroline Montagne Roux before becoming a milliner on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in 1889. In 1909, Jeanne joined the Syndicat de la Couture, which marked her formal status as a couturière. The clothing she made for her daughter began to attract the attention of a number of wealthy people who requested copies for their own children. Soon, Jeanne was making dresses for their mothers, and some of the most famous names in Europe were included in the clientele of her new boutique on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. By 1922 when this story is set, she had just opened her first shop devoted to home décor, menswear, furs and lingerie. Her gowns were always very feminine and romantic.

 

*********The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

**********Clendon is the family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.

 

Any bride would be only too happy to receive such an array of wedding gifts, however, however real they may appear, these are all items from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The silver coffee set on the square tray, the egg cruet set, the condiments caddy, the champagne bucket and the two candlesticks are all made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two hand painted Meissen figures are also made by Warwick Miniatures. The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The two silver water jugs were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The silver statue of the ballet dancers on the far right of the photo came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom. The sods siphon, the bulbous glass vase and the glass jug are made from hand spun glass and have been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The floral edged dinner service I acquired from an online stockist of miniatures through E-Bay. Lady Marchmont’s silver salver is a miniature I have had since I was around six or seven years old. All the Edwardian wedding cards are artisan pieces. Each is a 1:12 miniature version of a real wedding card, and all have ben made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

The sideboard that can be seen laden with wedding gifts is of Queen Anne design. It was given to me when I was six. It has three opening drawers with proper drawer pulls and each is lined with red velvet.

 

The very realistic floral arrangements in tall vases are made by hand by Falcon Miniatures in America who specialise in high end miniatures.

 

The paintings on the walls came from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House in the United Kingdom.

 

The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

The northern summer sky at night features the Milky Way beautifully arching over the landscape. This was my first panorama after a 1-1/2 year hiatus from astrophotography. The landscape of Craters of the Moon is equally stunning, and befits the night scape very well.

 

Panorama, 6 frames of 3 exposures each. Pre-processed in Adobe Lightroom, stitched in Hugin, and post-processed in Lightroom and GIMP.

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Forcan, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

Don't exact as coarse are my avowals,

They befit the traits of my own fate.

I find that my lips are caught in dryness

From the thoughts of you I have of late.

 

I pay back the due within my power,

With my life embodied in a plea,

I find myself breathless in my tower

From the thoughts of you that come to me.

 

Never mind my garden is storm ravaged,

With myself I live in battle state,

That yet again my eyes are full of tears

From the thoughts of you I have of late.

 

Don't exact as coarse are my avowals,

They befit the traits of my own fate.

I find that my lips are caught in dryness

From the thoughts of you I have of late. m.youtube.com/watch?v=F0zhsvgX9NU

Details best viewed in Original Size.

 

Duomo di Milano Madonnina's Spire, Italy (Large - Digital)

In 1762 one of the main features of the cathedral, the Madonnina's spire, was erected at the dizzying height of 356 feet (108.5 m). The spire was designed by Carlo Pellicani and sports at the top a famous polychrome Madonnina (Gold Madonna) statue, designed by Giuseppe Perego that befits the stature of the cathedral. Given Milan's notoriously damp and foggy climate, the Milanese consider it a fair-weather day when the Madonnina is visible from a distance, as it is so often covered by mist.

The Milan Cathedral (Duomo di Milano), or more formally the Metropolitan Cathedral-Basilica of the Nativity of Saint Mary (Basilica cattedrale metropolitana di Santa Maria Nascente), is the cathedral church of Milan, Lombardy, Italy. Dedicated to the Nativity of St. Mary (Santa Maria Nascente), it is the seat of the Archbishop of Milan, as of this writing Archbishop Mario Delpini. The cathedral took nearly six centuries to complete: construction began in 1386, and was declared completed in 1965. It is the largest (by volume) church in the Italian Republic—the larger St. Peter's Basilica is in the State of Vatican City, a sovereign state—and the third largest in the world. Again, the Vatican’s St. Peter's Basilica is the largest in the world. The second largest is Catedral Basílica do Santuário Nacional de Nossa Senhora Aparecida in Aparecida, Brazil, with the Duomo di Milano in third place, and New York City’s Cathedral of St. John the Divine in fourth.

In 1386, Archbishop Antonio da Saluzzo began construction of the cathedral. The last details of the cathedral were finished only in the 20th century: the last portal was inaugurated on 6 January 1965. This date is considered the very end of a process which had progressed for generations, although even now, some uncarved blocks remain to be completed as statues. The Allied bombing of Milan in World War II further delayed construction. Like many other cathedrals in cities bombed by the Allied forces, the Duomo suffered some damage, although to a lesser degree compared to other major buildings in the vicinity such as the La Scala Theatre. It was quickly repaired and became a place of solace and gathering for displaced local residents.

Additional information on the Duomo di Milano may be obtained at Wikipedia.

 

Explored October 26, 2024.

Zoë (strangers 10)

It was time for lunch. Zoë was having lunch, neatly dressed in her black work clothes as befits someone who works in a fancy department store, she sells expensive handmade (ladies) bags. I was allowed to disturb her for a moment, she had already eaten enough. The salad she had ordered was way too big for her. It looked very tasty, but enough is enough.

I was allowed to take a picture of her as she sat there, outside at the tables in front of the restaurant in the center of Rotterdam. Thanks Zoë.

This is already the 10th picture of the 5th round of the 100stangersproject.

Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the group 100 Strangers | Flickr: www.flickr.com/groups/100strangers/

 

Rolling countryside 5 kilometres west of Nottingham Road in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands, much of it brown and barren as befits the dry but often very pleasant local midwinter. This shot is taken from the car park of the Blueberry Café, a handy refreshment spot just 4 minutes from the N3 Durban to Jo'burg motorway.

The Rueful Autumn is a customised Tigermouth gunship used by a special operations team of the Widebrim mercenary group; it is rugged and hard wearing as befits the group and survived many an encounter were the odds were stacked against it. A single pair of long ranged, tunnelling particle cannons as well as a micromine launcher make the ship more of a clever combatant than a back street brawler, but no combatant worth their salt attacks the Autumn without some serious forethought.

Martin Van Buren is the only US president who did not grow up speaking English. His family lived in what was then the Dutch speaking village of Kinderhook, New York. Van Buren was the first president to be born a US citizen, earlier presidents had been born in colonial days.

 

This is the house Van Buren bought as an adult, as a child he had lived above his father's tavern.

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

Born in 1782, the future president was raised by Dutch parents, with Van Buren receiving his early schooling at the Kinderhook Academy. A young Martin also received an early political education by virtue of the fact that his father’s tavern often served as a local center for the sometimes-raucous political debate that befitted a new nation.

 

Van Buren couldn’t afford to attend college, so he began an apprenticeship with a local lawyer, Francis Sylvester, and, in 1803, passed the bar and took up practice as a lawyer.

 

-- [Hudson Valley] Almanac Weekly

....younger (namely, my spouse when I show her), but I adore it and can’t wait to wear it out!❤️❤️❤️❤️

In honour of the approaching spring, I am offering the sweet flower of my innocence to Lord Bone today - and I will be offering the same later to Lord Sidebottom, Lord Crumbold, Lord Potter, Lord Skelmersdale, Lord Barrington and Lord Munster. It's another busy Friday at The Salon!

 

This evening I drive down to Lyndon Towers in my red E-Type, to be reunited with my adoring husband. I will be spending the weekend in a round of civic and social duties, as befits a busy working Duchess!

 

Love and Kisses to All!

xxxxxx

Lady Rebecca Lyndon

Duchess of Basingstoke

 

PS If you like this dress from Alice & Elmer (my favourite designers for bodycon clothing), then vote for it in this contest!! There are no rules in my contests - just express your preferences in any way that you like!

xxxx

Rebecca

False door of princess Uhemnefret (2543-2435 B.C. Old Kingdom 4th dynasty) - Provenance: Giza - western necropolis / mastaba of Uhem-neferet - Egyptian Museum of Turin

 

Nella tabella centrale in alto si riconosce la defunta Uhemnefret seduta di fronte a una tavola, sulla quale si trova una fila di fette di pane rappresentate in verticale, secondo le convenzioni artistiche egizie. Immediatamente sotto la tabella, sull’architrave della falsa-porta, a sinistra, è indicato il nome della defunta preceduto da titoli ed epiteti che sottolineano l’appartenenza di Uhemnefret alla famiglia regale: “la figlia del re, la sua amata, venerabile presso suo padre, onorata presso sua madre”. Sugli stipiti esterni sono rappresentate coppie di persone rivolte verso il centro del monumento; nei quattro pannelli in alto si tratta di funzionari di rango elevato e membri della corte, a testimonianza dell’importanza della defunta. Alcuni di loro hanno nomi composti con nomi di faraoni (circondati dall’ovale detto “cartiglio”): “Possa-vivere-Cheope” o “La-bella-al-seguito-di-Snefru”. Il bambino raffigurato nudo e con il dito alla bocca sullo stipite interno destro in alto è invece, secondo l’iscrizione, Irenptah, il nipote della defunta. Negli altri pannelli sono raffigurati personaggi che trasportano offerte di vario tipo e sacerdoti addetti al culto funerario dopo la morte.

 

In the central panel at the top, we see the deceased woman, Wehemnefret, sitting in front of a table laden with bread slices. The slices are depicted vertically, as the conventions of Egyptian art prescribe. Immediately below the panel, on the left side of the lintel of the false-door, is the name of the deceased preceded by titles and epithets stressing that she is a member of the royal family: “The daughter of the king, beloved by him, honored before her father, honored before her mother.” On the outer jambs are several pairs of individuals facing towards the middle of the stela. In the four upper panels, these individuals are high-ranking officials and courtiers, as befits the importance of the deceased. Some have names incorporating royal names (surrounded by the oval called “cartouche”): “May-Cheops-live” or “The-beautiful-female-in-the-following-of-Snefru.” The nude child with his finger to his mouth on the right inner jamb, above, is identified by the inscription as Irenptah, the deceased’s grandson (“the son of her son”). In the other panels are individuals carrying various kinds of offerings and priests charged with the performance of the funerary cult.

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Forcan, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

The Kremlin in Moscow, capital of Russia.

 

Moscow's history really begins around 1147, when Yuri Dolgoruky, Grand Duke of Kiev, built a wooden fort at the point where the Neglina and Moscow Rivers converge. The city grew rapidly and, despite being razed by the Mongols in 1208, was soon powerful enough to attain primacy among the Russian principalities, acknowledged in 1326 when the seat of the Russian Orthodox Church moved there from Vladimir.

 

At the same time, stone buildings began to appear in the Kremlin and, by the end of the 14th Century, the citadel was fortified with stone walls. Under Ivan the Great (1462 - 1505), the Kremlin became the centre of a unified Russian state, and was extensively remodeled, as befitted its new status. Meanwhile, Moscow spread outside the walls of the citadel, and the Kremlin became a world apart, the base of the twin powers of state and religion. This period saw the construction of the magnificent Cathedral of the Dormition, the Annunciation and the Archangel, and the uniquely Russian Terem Palace, the royal residence. The addition of the Ivan the Great Bell Tower completed Cathedral Square, and added to the imposing effect of the Kremlin skyline.

 

Ivan's descendents further developed and adapted the Kremlin complex and, even when Peter the Great moved the capital to St Petersburg, Russia's rulers continued to leave their mark on the medieval town. Peter himself built the Kremlin Arsenal, originally planned as a military museum and now occupied by a barracks, and the 18th and 19th centuries brought Neoclassical masterpieces such as the Senate Building and the Grand Kremlin Palace. After the 1917 Revolution, the Kremlin regained its rightful place as the seat of the Russian government, and the legacy of the Communist era is still visible in the large red stars that top many of the defensive towers, and in the vast, modern State Kremlin Palace, originally the Palace of Congresses.

 

HDR made from three shots with tripod, AEB -2, 0 +2. Equipment: Canon EOS 500D and EF-S10-22mm f/3.5-4.5 USM. Processed with Photomatix Pro 4.0, Photoshop Elements 7.0, Topaz Adjust 4 and Noise Ninja.

 

Please don't use my photos without my permission!

 

[Daily blog] [SmugMug] [500px]

After arriving at Swithland Sidings with the 11.55 demonstration goods train with BR Standard 9F 92214 we went into the Up Loop, ran round and sat on the north end of the train to wait for the road.

 

The 12.15 Leicester train was double-headed by Ivatt 2-6-0 46521 and GWR Modified Hall 4-6-0 6990 Witherslack Hall and is seen passing us on the Up Main. Both engines are in BR Brunswick Green livery as befits post-nationalisation Swindon-built engines

Shimakaze’s heels are rudders, as befits her naval-themed costume.

- - - - -

Created for the Smile on Saturday theme FOCUS ON HEELS.

This photo was taken by an ex-colleague Roger Hall, who has allowed it to be reproduced here and a fascinating image it is. Unfortunately I've yet to ascertain precisely where it is and at what date as LEV 1, one of the prototype BR railbuses of the '70s and '80s, had an interesting and quite complex life as befits an experimental unit. I'm fairly certain it is on LU property as Roger worked for LU at the time and that's an LU car behind (a D78 DM I suspect) but I'm happy to be corrected on this! It appears to be set up for visits - a short section of guide rope to keep you away fromt he open inspection pits, a short ladder to gain access and a shadowy figure inside! Jonathan, blow, has jogged the memory cells and I suspect it was either the Ruislip Depot Open Day of 18 July 1980 (quite an event with a T&W Metro car there as well as the BR APT train) or a preceding Engineering event.

 

LEV 1, seen here with its RDB number of 975874, the initials standing for Leyland Experimental Vehicles clearly shows its Leyland National bus body origins. The unit was constructed in 1978 and gained a Leyland power unit the following year. It was tested in service in the UK and then spent some time in the US int he eraly 1980s before being returned to home shores and eventual withdrawal in 1987. Since then it has been preserved as part of the NRM Collection.

 

There were various other LEVs and they, and variations on them, formed the basis of the BR Pacer family of units.

Memorial for the deported

 

Between 1940 and 1945 more than 8,000 Jews, Sinti and Roma originally from Hamburg and northern Germany were deported from the city, in particular via the former Hannoverscher Bahnhof railway station. They were sent to ghettos and to concentration and extermination camps in German-occupied regions: Belzec, Litzmannstadt/Lodz, Minsk, Riga, Auschwitz and Theresienstadt. Only very few survived. Responsibility for these deportations fell to Hamburg’s local authorities and administrative bodies as well as to state organisations at Reich level. The vast majority of German society either looked idly on or actively supported these crimes.

The Hannoverscher Bahnhof was severely damaged during the Second World War and, after 1945, it was largely forgotten about. What parts of the building complex remained were razed to the ground in 1955 and 1981. As Hamburg’s HafenCity district began to emerge, the general public once again became aware of the site in the early 2000s. Associations of former victims of Nazi persecution in particular have campaigned actively to this day for a memorial that befits the memory of the victims.

 

hannoverscher-bahnhof.gedenkstaetten-hamburg.de/en/

 

Mary Clandillon in her graduation finery and looking in contemplative mood, as befits a newly minted and highly educated Mary! Yes, us Marys do stick together :-) Coming from the Sheehy Skeffington collection we can expect that this young woman was involved in the struggle for women's rights, social justice, and perhaps the national struggle as well. But what can we find out?

 

Photographers: Lafayette Studio, Dublin

 

Collection: Sheehy-Skeffington Photographic Collection

 

Date: No date

 

NLI Ref: NPA SHE109

 

You can also view this image, and many thousands of others, on the NLI’s catalogue at catalogue.nli.ie

  

In honour of the stunning amount of rain we are currently having, I thought I would post a photo that would be fitting and very different from my usual. Oh hang on, not its not, it has rocks and water in it too! Oh well, I guess it doesn't have that sea salt smell ... thats all.

 

Hope everyone had a fantastic week and the weekend befits the recovery required.

 

Later Mater!

Foundations for the Federal Post Office were laid in 1917. With start of World War I, materials allotted for the post office were reallocated for building Camp Jackson (now Fort Jackson). Construction resumed after the war and was completed September 30, 1921. This building served as the main postal office in Columbia, South Carolina from September 30, 1921 to June, 1966 when operations were moved to a new building. Around this time, it was acquired by the State of South Carolina for use as the Supreme Court of South Carolina Building and is significant as an example of preservation through adaptive use. Its location adjacent to the State House enhances the complex of governmental buildings which includes and surrounds the South Carolina State House. This Capitol Complex gives the city its essential governmental flavor, enhances the dignity of the area and contributes visually to identifying Columbia's character as capital city, the role which prompted the city's creation in 1786. Resourcefully and tastefully renovated with necessary functional interior additions, its atmosphere befits the prestige and respect commanded by such a distinguished branch of the state government.

 

Russell V. Keune, Director of Field Services, National Trust for Historic Preservation, after an official trip to South Carolina had this to say concerning the building in his letter of June 2, 1971 to Governor John C. West - "The adaptation of this former federal post office to meet your state's present needs as a judicial facility was accomplished with creativity and understanding."

 

"The building, while not 'historic' in many individuals' eyes, certainly represents an important architectural contribution to the character of the city. As an architect, I was pleased with the way the character, both exterior and portions of interior, had been retained and enhanced by the installation of the necessary contemporary elements. All who participated in this endeavor are to be commended. All too often the Trust finds itself battling for preservation of similar buildings throughout the United States and seeing them needlessly destroyed for lack of imaginative use plan. Regrettably, the quality of the new architecture that replaces the old rarely equals the overall quality of what was destroyed." -- From remarks of W.O. Callahan in news conference October 26, 1962

 

All of the information above was found on the original documents submitted for listing consideration on the National Register of Historic Places (NRHP) where is was added on October 18, 1972. These documents can be viewed here:

npgallery.nps.gov/NRHP/AssetDetail/b6852e66-607c-464b-a87...

 

Three bracketed photos were taken with a handheld Nikon D7200 and combined with Photomatix Pro to create this HDR image. Additional adjustments were made in Photoshop CS6.

 

"For I know the plans I have for you", declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." --Jeremiah 29:11

 

The best way to view my photostream is through Flickriver with the following link: www.flickriver.com/photos/photojourney57/

A visit to Blenheim Palace in all my best ladies finery, as befits such a wonderful residence. Can't say I saw many other ladies there.

Poem.

 

Childish excitement travelling from east to west in late winter.

You know soon, very soon, the West Coast “Munros” will gleam like incisor teeth above the forested landscape.

Faochag, left, and The Saddle, right, are such peaks that advertise the thousand metre micro-climate of semi-Alpine splendour.

Spin-drift sweeps off the upper slopes to accumulate in layers like royal icing.

The snowy back-cloth forms a pleasing contrast to the pastel tans and greens of the bracken and forest of the lower slopes of this historic Glen.

The West Coast beckons.

Such a grand mountain corridor befits the momentous land and seascapes that lie in prospect.

 

Rules:

Sun. Sand. Sea. Surf. Life is always better at the beach! Show us how your doll(s) enjoys island life. You can photograph whatever comes to mind! Just make sure your doll is ready to soak up some sun! Good luck, participants! :)

 

Well as Great Britain is an Island I thought it would be fun to create some images of Island Life in good Ol' Blighty! A day by the sea often involves sitting in the car with a thermos flask eating sandwiches while watching the crashing waves mix with the driving rain... I was inspired by Tim Burton's fabulous film Sweeney Todd featuring Helena Bonham Carter and Johnny Depp in full gothic mode! Of course, my models had to be the palest of pale skin tones, as befits the average Brit!

The early morning frost lays on the headstone and provides a chill that befits this place and it's history.

Cordyceps is an interesting entomopathogenic fungus (a fancy way of saying a fungus that parasitizes and kills insects/spiders). Each Cordyceps is species specific and is something pretty horrifying. The spores will land on an insect and gradually the fungal mycelia will grow down past the insects exoskeleton and into the body where they will spread like tree roots, invading and replacing host tissue. This kills the insect in a very slow, lengthy process. In the final stages, the fungus takes the neurological reins and modifies the insect’s behaviour so as best to befit itself. In ants it will cause them to climb to a high perch and bite down on a leaf or stem with a death grip. The ant will slowly die, perhaps from starvation, perhaps from the deterioration of its body, but after some time there might be seen movement. To be sure it is extremely slow and small but it is there. If sped up, it would look like a worm wriggling out of the body. And this isn’t far from the truth. It is the fruiting body of the cordyceps fungus. Which grows a stalk several inches long, terminating in asci or sacs containing the spores that will lead to a new round of infectious dissemination. Why go to all this trouble to cause the ant to climb to a high perch? Well, the jungle is very humid with rain falling often and in large quantities. Ants being principally ground dwellers, it wouldn’t do to have the ants and fungus along with them washed away, covered in mud or stuck together. Additionally, just like climbing to the top of a mountain will afford a better view of the surroundings, so too will climbing to the top of a plant or bush in a jungle microenvironment. From here, the fungus is free to be blown in all directions by the slightest current of wind, the spores, like insidious grains of pollen, waiting to be planted in the fertile backs of their hosts.

 

Photo taken in Danum Valley, Malaysian Borneo.

Rolling countryside 5 kilometres west of Nottingham Road in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands, much of it brown and barren as befits the dry but often very pleasant local midwinter. This shot is taken from the car park of the Blueberry Café, a handy refreshment spot just 4 minutes from the N3 Durban to Jo'burg motorway.

Two great rivers come together at Cairo, Illinois. Going by volume of water, it is the Ohio River which should keep its name as it flows on southwards to the Gulf of Mexico, not the Mississippi. The Ohio River flow (nearly 8000m^3/s) is higher than that of the Mississippi River (nearly 6000m^3/s) so hydrologically, the Ohio River is the main stream of the river system. (Wikipedia)

  

The States of Illinois, Missouri and Kentucky meet at the confluence; nearby is the southernmost point of Illinois. This photo. was taken from area around the parking lot near Fort Defiance, definitely in Illinois (and not as Flickr supposes in Missouri). The geotag is accurate to a few metres. We are looking approximately northwards.

  

The US51 crosses the Ohio near the confluence, connecting Kentucky with Illinois; Fort Defiance Park occupies the peninsula tip, attesting to the strategic importance of the place during the Civil War, and indeed before. Unfortunately, the State of Illinois does not yet see fit to maintain the Park as would befit the history of the place. Lewis and Clark made camp here, too.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_Defiance_(Illinois)

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cairo,_Illinois

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mississippi_River

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ohio_River

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lewis_and_Clark_Expedition

There is no doubt that Angkor Wat rates as the best known temple in the Southeast Asia. It has become so famous that people often mistake the entire Angkor complex of many temples in Siem Reap as a single temple, namely Angkor Wat. The temple, of course, in every sense of the word, represents the perfection of Angkor architecture. It was built in the first half of the reign of king Suryavarman II (reigned 1113- circa 1150) The temple is dedicated to Vishnu, one of the Trinity of the Hindu pantheon of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. The western orientation of the temple is in consonance with the building treatises of the South Indian Vishnu temples, whose influence in Cambodia of that time was deeply ingrained and practised. The temple including the moat encompasses an area of 200 hectares, a rectangle of 1.5 km by 1.3 km. Angkor was the capital during the reign of Suryavarman II. The name is derived from the Sanskrit word 'nagara' meaning city, which later became 'nakor' in Khmer and finally 'Angkor'. Angkor Wat belongs to the classic 'temple-mountain' architectural style. It is constructed in the form of stepped pyramids with the main tower containing the inner sanctum of Vishnu. In India and the Indianised Southeast Asia, this symbolism conveys a place where the Gods would reside in the mountains (i.e. heavens) and look after the welfare of the people down below. The moats, the gopuras ( sanctuary towers) and the four concentric enclosure of the temple, in every way, befits the classical model of Vishnu's heavenly abode. The word 'Wat' in Thai and Cambodian means 'temple'. It signifies the Buddhist influence of later years.

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The Bactrian Camel (Camelus bactrianus) is a large, even-toed ungulate native to the steppes of Central Asia. Of the two species of camel, it is by far the rarer. The Bactrian camel has two humps on its back, in contrast to the single-humped dromedary camel. Its population of two million exists mainly in the domesticated form. Some authorities, notably the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), use the binomial name Camelus ferus for the wild Bactrian camel and reserve Camelus bactrianus for the domesticated Bactrian camel. Their name comes from the ancient historical region of Bactria. The domesticated Bactrian camel has served as a pack animal in inner Asia since ancient times. With its tolerance for cold, drought, and high altitudes, it enabled travel such as the caravans of the Silk Road. The wild form has dwindled to a population estimated at 800 in October 2002 and has been classified as critically endangered on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. Its range in the wild is restricted to remote regions of the Gobi and Taklamakan Deserts of Mongolia and China, migrating from the desert to rivers in Siberia during winter. A small number of wild Bactrian camels still roam the Mangystau Province of southwest Kazakhstan and the Kashmir valley in India. There are feral herds of Bactrian camels in Australia. The Bactrian camel is the largest mammal in its native range and rivals the dromedary as the largest living camel. Shoulder height is from 180 to 230 cm (5.9 to 7.5 ft), head-and-body length is 225–350 cm (7.38–11.48 ft) and the tail length is 35–55 cm (14–22 in). At the top of the humps, the average height is 213 cm (6.99 ft). Body mass can range from 300 to 1,000 kg (660 to 2,200 lb), with males often being much larger and heavier than females. Its long, wooly coat varies in colour from dark brown to sandy beige. There is a mane and beard of long hair on the neck and throat, with hairs measuring up to 25 cm (9.8 in) long. The shaggy winter coat is shed extremely rapidly, with huge sections peeling off at once, appearing as if sloppily shorn off. There are two humps on the back, which are composed of fat (not water as is sometimes thought). The face is typical of a camelid, being long and somewhat triangular, with a split upper lip. There are long eyelashes, which, along with the sealable nostrils, help to keep out dust in the frequent sandstorms which occur in their natural range. The two broad toes on each foot have undivided soles and are able to spread widely as an adaptation to walking on sand. The feet are very tough, as befits an animal of extreme environments

  

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The sunset of a summer's day befits the sunset on First Midland Bluebird's service 8! On Saturday 30th July, First Midland Bluebird discontinued its tendered C8 service between Balfron and Glasgow via Drymen and Croftamie. The route has ran for many years, back to Alexander Midland days, although the route has been altered through the years, in most recent times having been routed via Castlemains in Milngavie....here we have 65708 SN54KDF operating the very last ever Balfron bound journey and indeed the last ever 8 around 9.30pm on the Saturday evening