View allAll Photos Tagged digging
A Herdwick sheep losing her fleece enjoys some cool grass as her lamb digs up the mole hills just for fun in the valley at Wasdale
Of the series I talked about here.
The whole series was inspired by this Brooke Shaden's image.
Model in this picture is Iván, the boyfriend of a good friend of mine.
Texture by Smoko-Stock
__________________________
De la serie de la que hablé aquí.
La serie completa está inspirada en esta imagen de Brooke Shaden.
El modelo en esta foto es Iván, el novio de una buena amiga mía.
Textura de Smoko-Stock
Westgate - On -Sea , Kent
Another 40 x28 mm hand held shot . It's a pity about the shaddow on the youg girls face , but I wear spectacles for distance work and I could only see them on my camera display.
Explore #263 on 16 August .
www.flickr.com/photos/john47kent/sets/72157618794276889/
Thankyou everyone for your Comments , Invites and Faves
»Kreideschrift« means something like “chalk typeface”. They intentionally added noise and irregularities here.
I am now back in Australia and after digging deep into my wardrobe here (and it is very deep!) I found this dress from years ago and would you believe it fits better now than it did then. Time for another airing!
Digging for fishing bait, the elusive Lugworm, and if you are lucky, Ragworm
I have done it, it's back breaking.
Sheringham beach, North Norfolk.
I am curious s to what made this flower like digging in the sand.... Monahan Sandhills State Park, Texas, 19 November 2023
Canon 40D with 17-55 IS F2,8
1 400 watt strobe with softbox to the left of Jinny.
Further processed in photoshop.
Went outside a bit ago, the light and clouds were sweet! As I was shooting this a flock of geese flew by. Almost looks like they are flying out of the sun :-)
I wanted to thank everyone for their kind words the other day, you guys rock!
Happy Monday!
Press "L"
Reseda, Ca – Had some fun driving my friend’s R/C Truck (Traxxas Nitro Savage). This thing is crazy powerful thanks to the nitro engine and its four wheel drive. Yeah, it’s a toy but it is one hell of a fun toy! Nothing like watching the roost of dirt and rocks fly through the air as the truck surges sideways compressing the suspension as it lurches forward eating the dust and natural debris. The experience makes me want one.
The wind blew peacefully through the trees. Birds chirped, squirrels chattered, and the sound of leaves falling could be heard in the thick, beautiful forest of southern Lenfald. Bits of red and orange were beginning to appear in the treetops. The forest was changing, green was giving way to red.
Sir Glennian reflected on this as he and his companions treaded, almost silently, on the old forest road. So many things had happened recently, the once peaceful land of Roawia was now aching with the pains of conflict and turmoil, and the only plausible outcome seemed to be war. Loreos, only few miles walk southward, was now threatening invasion. Green did indeed seem to be giving way to red.
Sounds of people now reached Sir Glennian’s ears, and he saw they had almost reached their destination. As he came around a bend in the path, he saw it, not a hundred yards ahead of him. A deep hole had been dug in the center of the path, nearly fifteen feet deep, and men could be seen swarming around it.
“Foreman!” Sir Glennian shouted.
All the workers turned and noticed their visitors, and a stout man in a green cloak turned to greet them. He had a thick, curly, brown beard covering his smiling face, which was topped with thick, curly, brown hair.
“Ah, you are here at last!” He greeted them. “We have made much progress on the work. As you can see, the hole is over a dozen feet deep. Just an hour ago the blacksmith arrived with the spikes that will be stuck in the bottom. Then we will cover it with branches spread over with dirt, and the next Loreesi scum who comes through here-”
He broke off with a large wave of his hand, indicating the destruction the Loreesi would face.
Glennian nodded. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
He looked forlornly down the path. Somewhere in that direction was a great desert…one in which war was brewing, a war that, he feared, Lenfald could never be completely ready for.
______________________________________________
Well, I was going to enter this into the last Lenfald LC, but I obviously didn’t finish it in time. Congrats to Gary and Paul on the wins! ;)
Soli Deo Gloria! :)
Found this little number in a seldom visited closet. I really can't remember when I wore it last, other than to say it must have been long ago. Strangely, I suspect it fits better now than then. My dear wife washed it for me and, well, what you see is what you get!
Flower - Greenwich Park, London, England - Saturday May 31st 2008.
This is dedicated to my wondeful friend & new teacher Amber, for teaching me how to use photoshop..lol...- see her wonderful images here.. www.flickr.com/photos/aswirly/ - Thanks for your help...the lessons have only just started..lol
Wishing her and all of you wonderful people a wonderful weekend...:O))))
Some schools held lessons in two shifts during the war, the morning might be ordinary lessons in the morning and some practical work out of doors in the afternoon. Another group might have outdoor work in the morning then use the empty classroom for their lessons in the afternoon.
Echidna, an Australian monotreme which lays an egg in its pouch. The egg hatches & the baby stays in the pouch until it has spines. They live on termites & ants.
Taken at Shoalhaven Zoo, Nowra. A great place to visit
Adjectives to Inspire- spiky
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.