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The Iron Age hill fort at Castercliff is one of only three such fortifications in the English county of Lancashire; the other two being Portfield and Warton. It is situated close to the modern-day towns of Nelson and Colne and occupies a commanding position on a ridge of high ground, from which it is possible to survey much of the surrounding countryside.
Castercliff hill fort was most probably constructed during the 6th century BC and the defences enlarged and elaborated at a later date. Lithic tools recovered from the site, however, imply there was once a much older encampment here, possibly dating back as early as 3,000 BC. The fort we see today consists of three defensive ramparts that contour around the sides of the hill and enclose an oval-shaped occupation area on the extensive summit plateau. This enclosure is thought to have contained a number of round houses and a building that was raised above the ground on timber posts; possibly a grain store. The inner rampart of the fort is the oldest of the three. It lacks a defensive ditch and most probably took the form of a stone and timber revetment. An outer rampart, together with a defensive ditch and a counterscarp embankment are thought to have been added at a later date. The outer defences are incomplete on the north side of the fort, however, and this has led some to speculate that it may have been abandoned before the additional building work was completed.
A highly unusual feature of Castercliff hill fort is that the inner rampart has been vitrified i.e. it has been heated to such an extent that the stones have fused together. Vitrified hill forts are common in Scotland but are very rare in England. The vitrification process requires a much higher temperature than is likely to have been achieved if the ramparts had been set on fire during an attack upon the fort. In modern experiments seeking to reproduce the effect it was necessary to pile up large amounts of timber around the rampart, cover it with turf to form a furnace and then add large amounts of sea salt to act as a catalyst. It should be stressed of course that the actual methods used are unknown, as are the reasons why it was done, although they probably involved some religious ritual that is no longer known to us. Perhaps one of the frequent Scottish raiding parties that so beleaguered this area in the twilight years of the Roman occupation took possession of the fort and applied their own cultural methods to it. It cannot be discounted though that the process was entirely peaceful and that settlers or traders from Scotland passed on their ideas to the local inhabitants.
The picture was taken looking north-westwards towards Castercliff hill fort from the ancient track known as Back Lane. The hill that can be seen in the distance to the left of the fort is Pendle Hill (www.flickr.com/photos/67668518@N08/8256684491/) and that to the right is Weets Hill, near Barnoldswick.
A representative soil profile of the Arches series. (Soil Survey of Arches National Park, Utah; by Catherine E. Scott, Natural Resources Conservation Service)
Landscape: Landscape of Arches-Rock outcrop complex, 2 to 15 percent slopes. Rock outcrop is characterized by gently sloping expanses of sandstone dissected by short, steep escarpments at the edges of the rock strata. Vertical relief varies from a few feet to 10 or more feet. Portions of this rock outcrop include potholes in which water may pond for brief periods after rain. Slopes generally range from 8 to 45 percent slopes.
The Arches series consists of very shallow and shallow, well to excessively drained, rapidly permeable soils that formed in sandy eolian deposits and residuum derived from sandstone. These soils are on plateaus, benches, sand sheets on structural benches, cuestas, mesas, and hills with slopes of 2 to 60 percent. Average annual precipitation is 11 inches and mean annual air temperature is about 50 degrees F.
TAXONOMIC CLASS: Mixed, mesic Lithic Torripsamments
Soil moisture: The soil is dry during May and June. Ustic aridic soil moisture regime
Mean annual soil temperature: 47 to 59 degrees F.
Depth to bedrock: 4 to 20 inches
Rock fragment content: 0 to 5 percent
Control section texture: sand, fine sand, loamy sand, loamy fine sand. The sands are dominantly fine or very fine with a small percentage of medium or coarse sand
USE AND VEGETATION: These soils are used mainly for livestock grazing, wildlife habitat, and recreation. Native vegetation is Indian ricegrass, galleta, blackbrush, Mormon-tea and Utah juniper.
DISTRIBUTION AND EXTENT: Southeastern Utah, northeastern Arizona, northwest New Mexico and western Colorado. The soils of this series are extensive. MLRAs are 35 and 36. This series is not to be correlated outside MLRA 35 and 36. Named after Arches National Park.
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/utah/archesUT2...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/A/ARCHES.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
Soil profile: A representative soil profile of the Sogn series. The shallow, clayey Sogn soils formed directly over limestone.
Landscape: In Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, Labette and Sogn soils dominate the level uplands. (Soil Survey of Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve, Kansas; United States Department of Agriculture, Natural Resources Conservation Service, and United States Department of the Interior, National Park Service)
The Sogn series consists of shallow and very shallow, somewhat excessively drained, soils that formed in residuum weathered from limestone. Sogn soils are on hillslopes on uplands in Bluestem Hills, MLRA 76. Slopes range from 0 to 45 percent. Mean annual precipitation is about 840 millimeters (33 inches), and mean annual temperature is about 13 degrees C (55 degrees F) at the type location.
TAXONOMIC CLASS: Clayey, mixed, superactive, mesic Lithic Haplustolls
Soil moisture regime: Ustic bordering on Udic
Soil temperature regime: mesic
Mollic epipedon thickness: 10 to 49 centimeters (4 to 20 inches)
Depth to lithic contact: 10 to 49 centimeters (4 to 20 inches)
Particle-size control section (weighted average):
Clay content: 35 to 44 percent
Sand content: 2 to 14 percent
Rock fragments: 0 to 34 percent limestone gravels and channers
Some pedons do not contain free carbonates above the bedrock.
USE AND VEGETATION: Almost all areas are used for rangeland. Native vegetation is a tall-and mid-grass prairie. Sideoats grama, big bluestem, and little bluestem are dominant.
DISTRIBUTION AND EXTENT: Mostly in eastern Kansas, and widely spaced small areas are in western Missouri, eastern Iowa and Nebraska, northwestern Illinois, southeastern South Dakota, southern Minnesota, and southwestern Wisconsin..The Sogn series is extensive.
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/kansas/Tallgra...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/S/SOGN.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
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Clothing and ornament materials: spider monkey fur, green stone, obsidian, gold leaf, copper, shell. Dimensions: 23 x 12.5 x 3.5 cm. This type of artifact was unknown to archaeologists prior to its recovery in an offering box with 25 others just west of the Tlaltecuhtli monolith.
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
A Typic Haplogypsid, petrogypsic from the interior of the UAE.
Typic Haplogypsids are the Haplogypsids that do not have have a gypsic horizon with its upper boundary within 18 cm of the soil surface. These soils do not have a lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface. In the United States they occur in Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico.
The gypsic horizon is a horizon in which gypsum has accumulated or been transformed to a significant extent (secondary gypsum (CaSO 4) has accumulated through more than 150 mm of soil, so that this horizon contains at least 5% more gypsum than the underlying horizon). It typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils.
This pedon has a petrogypsic horizon at a depth of 100 to 200 cm (115 cm in this pedon) and is identified as a "phase" in classification. In the UAE soil classification system, phases of soil taxa have been developed for those mineral soils that have soil properties or characteristics that occur at a deeper depth than currently identified for an established taxonomic subgroup or soil properties that effect interpretations not currently recognized at the subgroup level. The phases which have been identified in the UAE include: anhydritic, aquic, calcic, gypsic, lithic, petrocalcic, petrogypsic, salic, salidic, shelly, and sodic.
The petrogypsic horizon is a horizon in which visible secondary gypsum has accumulated or has been transformed. The horizon is cemented (i.e., extremely weakly through indurated cementation classes), and the cementation is both laterally continuous and root limiting, even when the soil is moist. Th e horizon typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils.
Haplogypsids are the Gypsids that have no petrogypsic, natric, argillic, or calcic horizon that has an upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. Some Haplogypsids have a cambic horizon overlying the gypsic horizon. These soils are commonly very pale in color. They are not extensive in the United States. The largest concentrations in the United States are in New Mexico and Texas. The soils are more common in other parts of the world.
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use. One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about describing soils, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_DOCUMENTS/nrcs142p2_052523...
For additional information about soil classification using Soil Taxonomy, visit:
sites.google.com/site/dinpuithai/Home
For more information about soil classification using the UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy, visit:
agrifs.ir/sites/default/files/United%20Arab%20Emirates%20...
A Pininfarina-designed Re 460 loco dating from the mid 90s leads an Interregio passenger above Wassen, 27 Feb 2016.
I do like the deeper red and black of these locos with the SBB arrowed-cross logo, but think the side skirts make the things look a little, shall we say, "less lithe".
The extra green old carriages extend the capacity on some of the trains on busy ski weekends.
Scanned lith print.
Linhof Kardan Super Color ST/SK Symmar-S 150 mm/f5.6.
Fomapan 100 4x5", Fomadon R09 1:100, semistand 1 hour.
Lith printed on Fomatone MG 132 (24x30 cm), Moersch Easy Lith 20A+20B+960H2O.
Untoned.
Title
Comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau
Case Study 113 :
Warning, these are the raw, bare unusual facts as originally recorded. Some names, times, places and some facts have , of course been altered.
Name: Angelica D circa 192__
Subject: an unscrupulous light-fingered body thief
Event: A Sisters of Mercy charity sponsored ball
Place: The Hamptons
Time: Warm early Spring Friday Evening
It had been a very busy 3 day working weekend for “poor” Angie, a rather handsome lady with flaming red hair, whose life during these depressive years had forced her too constantly work to sustain herself.
The joint where now Angie found herself was filled with a bevy of ladies and girls dressed up royally for the occasion, A Sisters of Mercy charity sponsored ball. The Ball’s objective was to raise funds for the good sister’s bread lines, Angie’s objective was to raise some funds of her own.
Needless to say, she did not fit in with her present environment. The reason Angie did not fit in was, although she was also dressed up in a sleekly colorful frock of her own, she was probably the only female guest to whom the term “working lady” would be an oxy-moron. Actually, it was almost as If her fellow guests sensed this, almost acting like she did not even exist. As she found out almost as soon as she had entered, two ladies were walking towards her, her, one in a long flowing lavender gown and pearls, the other in a shorter grey satin number with a bouncy skirt and decked out with enough silver trinkets to have drained a small mine. Angie nodded to them, but their noses were so held high they didn’t even see her, and the one in grey satin actually would have ran Angie over if she had not moved quicker, as it was they brushed against one another, and Angie had to actually grasp the Ladies’ wrist with the pearled bracelet,to steady herself. Angie found herself on the end of a few rather severe words of disdain as they looked back at her..
Angie just sighed to herself, and watched the pair saunter off, with a rather thoughtful look in her bright green eyes. Her left hand was clasped, playing with something she was holding in it. She then slipped that hand behind her satin sash, straighten it, she did so favor wearing slick sash’s with her silk party dresses.
It was at that moment that a pristine young lady walked by her. Looking like an escapee from a high society debutant’s coming out affair. Her lithe figure was draped in a gleaming white taffeta gown, its long layered skirt that swirled provocatively as she moved, Her elbow length gloves and purse were made of the same material as her gown. Angie’s eyes travelled up and down the passing enchantress (without moving her head), looking her over head to toe , from the spray of white flowers in her hair, to her clicking white high heels. Surprisingly the only jewelry she was wearing was a thick gold bracelet, set with rubies, as bright as the fire crackling in the mammoth fireplace by the bar.. Waiting ten seconds after the pristine miss was out of her roving eyes view, Angie turned and followed. She did not get far, a male voice called out “Sheila” and the lady was met by a rather charming appearing male of the same age, and smiling, the pair trotted off to the dance floor.
Angie hovered for a bit watching the show put on by the waltzing young couple, as well as their paired co dancers out on the almost 1 acre ballroom floor. As Angie stood watching, mesmerized by her thoughts, she first noticed the opened, wide double glass doors on the far side of the ballroom. Many of the well-dressed guests seemed to be coming and going from this newly discovered area.
It was then that a pretty young thing passed by Angie, heading towards those very same double doors. Although she carried herself well, the charming princess appeared to be a little too young to be wondering about by herself. She was definitely too young to be flitting about unescorted while wearing the costly jewels that glittered a pretty fire as she swished about on her merry way. The girl was expensively attired in an excessively glossy, purple satin blouse, a tailored black satin jacket with rhinestone buttons ,and a long silky black satin pleated skirt that fell spilling out from underneath the matching jacket ,swishing with every step of whispering silk at the heels of her black shoes. Her long soft chestnut hair done up in a long plait, with pearls interwoven throughout its length , held back by a sapphire encrusted clip, sapphires sparkled from all over ; ears, neckline, wrists and fingers, even her jacket had a sapphire brooch shaped like a waning moon. Very pretty Angie observed as the young scamp reached the double doors.
Angie, her curiosity now aroused by what lay past those doors, turned heel and with the girl as an unwary guide, followed her towards them. Now, curiosity may have killed a cat or two, but for Angie, being curious usually put food on her table. She soon discovered that the doors led out onto a wide cement patio, off of which was a rather extensive flower Garden, walled in by a rows of high green hedges. Angie watched as the last wisp of the, surprisingly still unescorted, young lady’s skirt disappeared from view into the gardens. Someone should warn her about going outside alone for walks when dressed like that ! Angie thought to herself, but before moving off with the intention of doing that very thing. But she stopped first, checking her surroundings.
The patio was home to a number of mostly occupied tables. With one exception, all the occupied tables were home to couples in groups of two to six, men in tuxes, their paramours in vibrant gowns that spread out quite nicely, spilling down rainbow like coloures from chairs to the cement floor. As Angie looked around, she observed the array of glittering jewels worn by the happily chatting women. Then Angie darted her eyes the one table that made the exception on the patio. Located in an isolated corner, that table was the only one with a lone female occupant. The occupant was resplendently dressed in a shiny mint green gown of fine satin that literally poured along the shapely curves of her seated figure, before finally splaying out around her feet like a soft, shiny pool. Her many jewels were set with majestic diamonds, especially her earrings, or at least the one Angie could see. For the ladies long hair fell over one heavily mascaraed eye, making the lady appear to be a one eye Cyclops, with an incredibly sparkling bright diamonded earing dripping from her one visible earlobe. Angie scrutinized the scene before her as she pondered a bit. Then, spying a shiny mint green purse dangling from the chair behind the Cyclops, a grin, wider than that of the Cheshire cat’s begins to spread across Angie’s handsomely sly face.
**
Why the grin like a Cheshire cat?
**
Now when a young Angie had first started on her adulthood path, she self -taught herself on how to be a pickpocket, ( body thief, and cutpurse were her preferred terms) and progressed to the point whereupon she was able to make a comfortable living.
Back then, as in the present, women of all ages were her preferred target, for several reasons:
A) Easily more distractible, especially the younger versions.
B) Silken and satiny types of dress, smoothly slick, were far more accommodating when preforming a dip or pick than trying the same maneuvers on the more unforgiving formal attire of their male counterparts.
C) Likewise the possessions of women and girls were more plentiful, and shiningly richer than those of most gentlemen.
Now, as was stated, Angie was self-taught. She did this by discreetly watching the pickpockets who worked the back streets and alleyways off of fancy theatres and dance halls in the area she grew up. She also did research by gleaning information from old newspapers and haunting the local libraries.
(See more of Angie’s background in the Album, Angie picks Chicago)
Angie especially liked the methods employed by cutpurses, and found enough success in this method that she still habitually carried a penknife with a long, finely honed, razor sharp blade. Even though she had not nicked a soft purse in a few years, she was still always up to the challenge.
**
So this, then, was the reason behind the evil grin, and the reason Angie now slipped a hand discreetly behind her colorful dress’s satin sash , extracting the finely honed folded razor, which she opened with one hand and concealed behind her back. She walked up, and looking around, let her hand holding the razor drop and allowed the blade to skim across the bottom of the purse as she walked past. She heard something tingle behind her, and then a muted gasp. Angie turned, quite a natural thing to do, noting the lady was reaching for her purse as its contents spilled out. Angie’s practiced eyes took inventory, a calf skin wallet, gold (solid!) compact, matching lipstick container, expensive tortoise shell comb, and several silky handkerchiefs had fallen out. Angie came to the ladies rescue, effectively cutting off any of the ladies at the nearby tables from doing the same. Their attention quickly turning back to their own personal business, as the rich are happily wont to do.
As the purses owner was bending down, her long hair falling totally straight down, Angie comes up and bumps into her as she leant down also. Apologizing, Angie cordially helped the lady pick up the purses’ strewn contents. Angie chats happily with the girl, easing the tension. The girl looks up into Angie’s face, thanking her, her long hair had fallen back, covering her eye, her only visible earring was swaying, still sending out showers of bright sparkles. Angie willingly accepting the young ladies gracious gratitude, before happily waltzing away, leaving the solitary lady to scratch her head over the ruined purse, as she makes sure all the rather pricey items it had contained are accounted for. Happily she discovers that nothing from her purse is missing.
Angie had not touched one item that had spilled out from the slashed bottom of the small silk purse.
For you see, Angie had graduated from being a common pickpocket of wallets and the contents of expensive purses
( as explained in the stories located the albums, Angie having a Ball @ Angie at Play).
Angie now was able to lift things far more valuable, as evidenced by the shiny diamond earring that Angie now had secreted inside the hidden pocket of her dresses’ her satin sash, the very earring that had been hidden beneath the long silky hair that had made the victim resemble a sexy Cyclops. The clasped earring had been exposed briefly as the distracted young lady had bent down to collect her scattered possession’s, and Angie’s practiced fingers had scooped it up and gently pulled it free from her earlobe, without the unsuspecting lady feeling so much as a prick..
Now Angie could have easily snatched both earrings, or had taken a necklace or bracelet along with it. But if she had, than once discovered, it would have been immediately apparent that something sinister had happened, and she would likely have been at the center point of that suspicion. But, by taking only a single piece of jewelry, it would more likely be surmised it had fallen off in the fracas, or possibly even earlier in the evening.
See Addendum SS
**
Angie left the sexy Cyclops, retreating back towards the garden. Now I wonder where the inquisitive young miss wondered off too. Someone really should warn her about going outside for a walk alone wearing all those precious jewels ,Angie thought, not really all that concerned about actually warning anyone.
Angie savored gardens and small parks with the feeling that she had done some of her best handiwork in places like that whenever they were haunted by ultra-wealthy fat cats. So it was with some great measure of pleasure that she now took to prowling this particular gardens maze of winding paths as she slowly made her get away, still open for opportunity.
As Angie meandered through the garden, passing many young couples milling about, happily eyeing the various fancily attired and jewel laden ladies that were flaunting their goods about, she remembered about being in a similar Garden not too very long ago, and the amazing luck that she had ended up having that evening.
(See Album “Angie being receptive” to read about that luck)
Angie turned a corner and saw that there was a side path almost hidden from view behind an untrimmed moss rose bush. She turned down it and found the path almost deserted. At the far end was a small alcove. Angie peered inside, it was not empty. The young miss in the purple blouse and black satin jacket and skirt, was knelling, happily admiring some small cement statues of animals she had discovered. Behind her was a small stone bench that lay before the hedge. Angie noticed that some of the hedge’s crooked branches had formed a small opening to the outside. Angie snuck behind one of the bushes that formed the inner wall of the alcove, and watched with open interest . The happily unaware girl’s sapphires glittered beckoningly, especially her sapphire pendent on its long braided silver chain that bounced on and off the front of her thick, glossy satin blouse . The girls black satin jacket was open, and the waning moon brooch was clearly visible, glittering in the lights of a nearby gas lamp. Angie flexed her fingers, waiting for an opening; it really ought to be an easy pick.
But at that very moment a dark figure came silently through the break in the outside hedge. A Gypsyish young female vagabond, wearing a slightly ragged dress with a colourful long scarf came into the pool of light , and crept up to the bench. The young lady had her back to the bench, never heard a thing, and kept on playing blissfully, unaware she now had, good or bad, uninvited company. The female vagabond only looked about a couple of years older, with a stronger figure than that of the well-dressed girl, but physically about the same size. The female vagabond sat on the bench, black eyes darting about, looking like she was being protective of the young lady in shiny satin, and even shinier sapphires.
Angie rose from her crouch; she had not been noticed, and decided to keep it that way. She carefully circled around the entrance to the alcove, without looking back. Her conscious, like most thieves, clear and unworried about the fate, good or bad, that may befall the stylishly attired rich young girl.
Actually, as she carefully snuck off, Angie’s thoughts were dwelling on how she would have distracted that pretty miss long enough to flick open the dangling silver chains clasp, and slip it and its shimmering pendent from around the high collared neckline of the accommodating slippery purple satin blouse. As she played it out, Angie almost turned back to see if somehow she could still accomplish it, it would be that easy. But she didn’t, and headed back past the moss rose bush and entered back on the main path.
Angie continued to nonchalantly prowl along the gardens long paths, staying to the outer edge she discovered several alcoves that were hidden in a similar manner to the one behind the overgrown Moss Rose bush. They all had been empty, until the fifth one she discovered, located behind a statue of a winged Hermes.
She heard the giggling first, and carefully shadowed her way around for a peek through some of the hedges branches., and what she saw made her perk right up. Angie observed a pair of young twenty something missus dressed resplendently in shiny gowns of royal blue and blood red that fluttered fetchingly as they quivered about. . Angie salivated over the copious collection fine jewels the pair was exhibiting, mesmerizingly flashing as the girls giggled in a conspiratorial fashion. All in all, Angie found it to be a most enthralling performance.
Angie watched as they sat their shiny purses(matching their gowns) on the old mossy stone bench and opened them. They began to slip off their rings and bracelets, setting them inside, than peeled off their long satin gloves( also matching their gowns, and laid them alongside. Then as they both looked around, one bent down and lifted up her long gown, revealing a black garter that held a gold cigarette case. Pulling it out, she opened it and both took a cigarette and started to smoke, giggling away the whole time at their daring. The other than looked around, and bending over lifted her long gown, her brooch dangling, and pulled a small flask from her garter! Then the both took long swigs, and started to giggle even more. In the time it took to do all this, Angie had come up with a plan of action designed to relive the young ladies of some of their finery. “Comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau!” Angie murmured to herself.
She edged around till she was on the hedge directly behind the bench. At the bottom was an opening just large enough to crawl through with a little effort. Angie picked up a small stone and threw it as hard as she could at the fountain. Hearing the noise, the girls jump, and go to the entrance of the alcove to investigate, their purses and its valuable cargo momentarily unguarded. As their colorfully shimmering backs are turned, Angie reaches through and pulls one of the purses down, spilling its contents. She reached in the glittering pile and spirits away a long, serpentine bracelet, and the biggest and brightest ring she could find amongst the group. She scattered the rest liberally about and slipped back before the girls turned back.
Angie waited until their curiosity was sated, and the pair came back inside the alcove. They soon began to meander about playfully, blowing puffs of smoke into each other’s faces, laughing at themselves, as their earrings, necklaces and a fine emerald brooch sparkled ever so invitingly to Angie’s shrewd eyes.
Now for the Coup de Gras, Angie thought as she rose, and walked over to the entrance, entering the alcove with a chirpy “why hello there!” The startled princesses jumped, and twirled around, their gowns delightfully coiling and swirling along their fine sanguine figures. Quickly placing them at ease, Angie looked about, and in a co-conspirator tone asked if she could join in a smoke. The girls eagerly obliged and soon all three of them were sending rings spiraling about. Angie admired their necklaces, and they happily lifted them up for her to see,. As the gas lights touched them, the sparklers came to life, sending cascading showers of shimmering fireworks into the night. Angie’s eyes absorbed it all in as she felt a welcoming tingle wash over her, making her shiver inwardly with absolute delight. But on the outside she appeared calm, and as she commented in a rather subdued tone of voice, “ My that is pretty”, she asked the other girl her opinion. As the girl leaned inward, Angie’s fingers darted in, and cupping the girls dangling brooch in her fingers, felt and flicked open it’s clasp, working it off all in one swift motion..
As Angie stashed her brooch in a secret pocket, he other princess, not to be outdone, presented her earrings to Angie, which Angie also cordially admired, secretly acknowledging that that the one hidden in her sash was far more pretty and valuable. But not as pretty or as valuable as her dangling brooch, which Angie had just lifted.
As Angie absorbed the rich fire of the remaining glittery gems the girls wore, she wondered ( not for the first time!) what attracted her more, the jewels, or the cash they may bring. Not that it mattered at the moment, for it was time to make her exit before the pair discovered the chicanery that Angie had caused, both on the bench behind them, and from the very gowns they were wearing so very fetchingly over their svelte figures.
They gave Angie her leave, cheerfully thanking her for joining them. As she walked away, Angie reflected that it had been a bit of a sticky wicket pulling it off, but she had slammed the score so to speak, and it was with a rather upmost felling of confidence in the luck she was experiencing this evening, that she left the alcoves hidden path and started to meander her way back the way she had come, like with any good gambler, with the intention of leaving while she was ahead.
When Angie reached the path outside the statue, she was abruptly snapped out of her musings as she realized that a man was approaching her. For a second Angie was taken aback, should she retreat back up the hidden path before being noticed? . Then she recognized him, and smiled evilly to herself.
It was the man, who earlier in the evening man had swirled “Sheila” , the wayward debutante in white satin ,to the dance floor. He looked up, seeing Angie standing there. She felt his eyes checking her out, and she smiled oh so prettily for him, her mind going a mile a minute. Where could his dance partner be? The man looked back over his shoulder. Ahh, there she was, standing at a rose bush just by a curve in the path. “Sheila” looked up past Angie, and catching her boyfriend’s eye, he called out to her, promising not to be long, and passed Angie without another look, as he marched away down the path. “Sheila” turned, exposing a back covered in sleek white satin, and headed off around the bend. Angie’s eyes meanwhile had been glued on the ruby bracelet, smelling opportunity, the way a fox smells the feathers adorning a plump hen.
Angie followed at a distance, calmly awaiting the prime moment to make her move. “Sheila” traveled quite away s into the depth of the garden, eventually coming along one to an outer wall of the high hedge. At one point she turned to admire a fountain, placing a satiny white glove on its rim, the rubies around her wrist glistening like mad. Angie, darting behind a nearby bush, was able to fully study the bracelet. It was a tiffany piece, with a clasp Angie knew would not put up much effort to stay clasped around the ladies’ slender gloved wrist.
When “Sheila” moved off, Angie shadowed even closer, she now had a plan, the debutante liked water fountains. Soon enough Angie heard the gurgling that meant another was close by. It came into view, an statue of a winged Midas, water pouring out of the flute he was playing. “Sheila” stopped abruptly, and Angie began a careful approach, the young lady, still with her back to Angie, could hear nothing above the murmuring water of the fountain.
Angie came up right behind her, eyeballing the pleasing gown worn in such a fetchingly manner by her prey. The lady stepped back, coming right up against Angie, whose slipping hands did their magic. Her right arm and hand caught the young lady by the waist, steadying her as she teetered in a startled manner, looking back at what was behind her. Angie had gripped the right side, and the lady looked in that direction, her attention away from her left side, and the wrist from which her only piece of jewellery lay. Angie’s left hand reached around and found its mark. Gliding along the satiny white glove, she lifted the bracelet with practiced finger’s, two of which turned it to the clasp, snapping it open and flicking it off “Shelia’s” wrist in one, deft, synchronized effort.
Come to mama Angie purrs as she sees the bracelet land in a soft bunch of leaves under one of the rose bush’s that lined the sparkling fountain. At the same time she was accepting the young ladies apologies, Angie looked “Sheila “ directly, innocently, In the eyes, accepting her apologies graciously, and calmly told her it as no fault of hers. The young lady left, embarrassed, and Angie waited until the coast was clear and then retrieved the bracelet, securing it away, before heading back the opposite way. She had just passed the part of the path where the moss rose bush hid to the little alcove, when she saw “Sheila’s” boyfriend heading her way. she turned and darted down the path. Then remembering the miss in purple and black satin, she thought she should check in on her. Angie reached the little alcove, finding it empty, nothing of interest except that a few of the statuses were now laying on their sides.
Angie reaches the patio, and without looking about, cuts back inside. She calmly heads through the mulling crown and leaving the same way she came.
As she left, Angie decided to walk a bit before hailing a cabby. It was a rough area, but there were a few people milling about and as long as she did not go down any dark alley ways, she should remain untouched. At the thought of dark alleyways she wondered what had happened with the female vagabond that had come into the alcove.
At that moment Angie spies a familiarly dressed figure, a long fluttering black satin skirt nipping at the toes of her heels, wearing a black satin jacket with rhinestone buttons, covering a glossy purple satin blouse. The figure was walking across the street, alone.
Someone should have warned that young lady about going outside for a walk alone, dressed like she was, foolishly displaying all those precious jewels. No one obviously had, Angie smirked to herself. For the girl now wearing the outfit was the young vagabond girl. Angie hoped the rich young lady was okay,( gypsy would had only had enough time to strip the girl of her valuables ) and not catching a chill, for everything she had been wearing, right down to her silky slips, would fetch the young gypsy a handsome price.
Angie had heard stories about Victorian child strippers – unscrupulous women who would cunningly lure unsuspecting children of the well-to-do away from safety in order to strip them bare of their clothing and any other valuables they had with them. The colder the weather the better, for they would be wearing more clothes. She wondered if the gypsy looking vagabond had heard the same stories. Angie shuddered in disgust. She had morals, aside from secreting away jewelry, she would never do anything else to any victim. She looked at the young lady walking haughtily ahead of her, and she had no tolerance for someone who would!
Angie reflected for a moment as she watched the girl swish away. She was glad the she had left when she did. Once the rich scamps plight had been discovered ( as it would soon be she knew) the other guest would instinctively check over their own valuables. Angie knew of a few wealthy ladies in attendance whom would soon become frantic. Angie started to follow the gypsy girl.
The gypsy girl may have decided to wear the fancy clothes, but none of the sapphires … she was too smart to wear those openly in this part of town. Angie had noticed a small bulge in a side pocket of the jacket, and she knew what was making it.
A soft breeze came from down the street, fluttering the young ladies long hair. A gypsy wind, Angie thought, how appropriate. She closed in on the oblivious young girl, her eyes focusing on the bulging side pocket of the shiny jacket. Never before had Angie ever encountered a satiny pocket that deserved to be picked clean as this one, now almost within her reach.
Someone should warn this girl about traipsing about alone dressed like that. Not me, Angie thought unforgivingly as she prepared her fingers to make their move.
Fini?
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Addendum SS
Now, one of the observations the author of the phamplet noted was the pretty much any lady who loses a piece of jewelery while out and about will go to great lengts to justify its looss, short of someone actually stealing it from her. Broken clasp, loose fitting, melting away(in the vcase of pearls) slipped off
To the point that they will give any reason to convince themselves that its loss was accidental, and almost turn a stubbornly deaf ear that it may have been otherwise
On one occasion, soley to test his throry, he himself stood next to a lady who was lamenting the loss of a brooch. A brooch he himself had lifted from her gowns sash and still, daruingly, had about his person.
On a whim he suggested that he had seen a stranger lurking about, and wondered if he may have taken it while dancing with her.
She totally poo pooed the idea with a nervous giigle, and placing a hand with well ringed fingers onto his shoulder, said, dear, things like that simply do noy occur.
Tis inherent belief has
been the foundation for lifting a persons valuables.master pickpockets in the generations since
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Like shooting fish in a barrel
comme tirer sur des poissons dans un tonneau
Editor’s Note:
Our Thanks to Mr J. Gardner for pointing out the existence of Mr. Monescu’s 1826 guide
Here are some links to videos depicting females not unlike our Angie
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ls8rw2V1QCU&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAZdjhNVjxk&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbLiI9ZFQ8&authuser=0
www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XZ8s-R9vl4
Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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DISCLAIMER
All rights and copyrights observed by Chatwick University, Its contributors, associates and Agents
The purpose of these chronological photos and accompanying stories, articles is to educate, teach, instruct, and generally increase the awareness level of the general public as to the nature and intent of the underlying criminal elements that have historically plagued humankind.
No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.
These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
As with any work of fiction or fantasy the purpose is for entertainment and/or educational purposes only, and should never be attempted in real life.
We accept no responsibility for any events occurring outside this website.
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sn 008
Specifications:
218 bhp 1,986 cc dual overhead camshaft V-6 engine, five-speed manual transaxle, four-wheel independent suspension with coil springs and four-wheel disc brakes. Wheelbase: 2,280mm (89.75")
Lightweight. Aerodynamic. Powerful. The Ferrari 206 SP is the lithe, sinuous, brilliant V-6 son of the V-12 father. It is similar in many respects, but accomplished with conscious differences.
The Origins of the Dino Legend
When Phil Hill and Olivier Gendebien went to Le Mans in 1962 and were assigned the 330 TRI/LM, the last front-engined car to win at la Sarthe, they felt a little cheated. There were better Ferraris in Ferrari’s entry. There were V-8 and V-6 Dinos. Hill and Gendebien knew the mid-engined Dinos were Ferrari’s future. They drove a dinosaur, and their victory was a tribute to their skill and maturity as drivers as much as it was to the durability, stability, reliability and speed of the four-litre 330 TRI/LM, the ultimate Testa Rossa.
The V-6 Dinos were introduced in 1957 for the 1.5-litre Formula 2 series. Enzo Ferrari’s son Alfredo – known as “Dino” - had championed the engines’ layout, and Enzo gave the cars Dino’s name after his son’s untimely death in 1956. The detailed design was done by the old master, Vittorio Jano. With twin overhead camshafts, the inherently balanced conventional cylinder bank angle of 60° left no room for carburetors and inlet manifolding, so Jano increased the included angle to 65°, then compensated for the timing problem with crank throws placed 65° and 185° apart. It was ingenious, and it worked. The first Dino sports racing cars were front-engined; mid-engined cars appeared in 1962, the models Hill and Gendebien hoped to drive at Le Mans. Ferrari then dealt with the problems of slipping a V-12 between the driver and the rear wheels, and development of the compact V-6 powered Dinos languished.
The Sports Prototypes
Ferrari was challenged by Ford in the mid 60s and responded with a series of Sports Prototypes that have earned their position as the most seductively beautiful sports racing cars ever built. The first 330 P was introduced in 1964 and its design clearly showed its evolution from the 250 LM. The 1965 season’s 330 P2, however, was something completely different and it evolved into the Drogo-built 330 P3 the following year, surely the most voluptuous sports racing automobiles ever seen.
At the same time Ferrari introduced the 206 S, an even more tightly wrapped, reduced scale rendition of the 330 P3 with the same voluptuous, sensuous shape on a shorter wheelbase that took full advantage of its compact V-6 powerplant. Franco Rocchi designed this third generation twin-cam V-6, returning to Jano’s original 65° vee angle. It would power not only the 206 S but also the street cars needed to meet the FIA’s requirement that Formula 2 engines be based upon a production engine with at least 500 units built – which Ferrari met in cooperation with Fiat in the Dino sports cars. In addition to the Ferrari sports prototypes and Formula 2 cars, the engine would later power the Ferrari Dino road cars and even the Lancia Stratos rally car.
Like the 330 P3, the Dino 206 S was bodied by Drogo’s Carrozzeria Sports Cars. It used a multi-tube frame with alloy panels riveted to it for additional stiffness, in essence a semi-monocoque structure. Ferrari’s intention was that 50 of the cars would be built, qualifying it as an FIA Group 4 sports car, but the financial difficulties that would lead to Ferrari’s merger with Fiat three years later prevented that optimistic goal from being met and in the end only some 18 of these wonderful, quick, beautiful sports racers were built. What started out as a Dino 206 S (for Sport) became known as the Dino 206 SP (for Sports Prototype) when there were not enough built to qualify for Group 4.
Chassis No. 008
The meticulously and accurately restored example offered here, chassis 008, is the fourth of the series production 206 SPs built, (The first 206 S was built on Ferrari chassis 0842) and the third of the standard alloy spider bodied 206 SPs. It was delivered to the SEFAC Ferrari team and used for testing and evaluation. Some sources indicate it was entered by the factory to be run by Luigi Chinetti’s North American Racing Team in the 1000 km race at Monza April 25, 1966 where it was driven by NART driver Bob Bondurant and SEFAC driver Nino Vaccarella, but was damaged in practice and withdrawn before starting the race.
Six weeks later on June 5, Dino 206 SP 008 was again entered for NART in the ADAC 1000 km of the Nürburgring, one of the season’s most demanding races. Driven by the brilliant pairing of Pedro Rogriguez and Richie Ginther, both SEFAC team drivers in 1966, the 206 SP started ninth on the grid and drove to an outstanding third overall and second in class behind another 206 SP, the fuel injected chassis 004 driven by Scarfiotti and Bandini, and the winning Chaparral 2D of Phil Hill and Jo Bonnier which thundered to the overall victory. Remarkably, all three podium finishers were on the same lap of the daunting 22.81 km Nürburgring Nordschleife.
On June 18, 1966, still fresh from its podium finish at the Nürburgring, chassis 008, using a SEFAC Ferrari entry, was on hand at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. The car, however, was now owned by Chinetti, having been sold by SEFAC Ferrari on June 10. Chinetti put Charlie Kolb and George Follmer in the 206 SP and they started in 32nd position. After an excellent start, oil seeped onto the clutch, rendering it useless, and on just the 9th lap the team withdrew, a fate eventually shared by 40 of the 55 entrants - 73 percent of the starting grid.
Kolb’s seat at Le Mans foreshadowed the next stage in 008’s career. After returning to Maranello for servicing and race prep, it was shipped to the U.S. and its next owner, M. Schroeder, who immediately entered it in the August 28 USRRC-Buckeye Cup race in Lexington, Ohio where it was driven by Charlie Kolb. Kolb brought the 206 SP home second in class and sixth overall.
Entries at The Road America 500 at Elkhart Lake and the USRRC race at Bridgehampton followed before 008 was purchased by Fred Baker, who arranged to use a Chinetti entry in the 1967 Daytona 24 Hours. A fresh engine rebuild and gearbox overhaul were not completed in time to qualify, and 008 started from the back of the grid as a result. The driving team was strong – Jo Schlesser, Masten Gregory and Peter Gregg. At just over half distance, after moving within sight of a top 10 placing, Gregory made a routine pit stop only to have the engine develop a misfire when it restarted, which turned out to be a stripped distributor drive.
Baker again used a Chinetti entry for his Dino 206 SP at the Sebring 12 Hours on April 1. Charlie Kolb and Ed Crawford started from 20th on the grid, where they remained when the green flag fell, sidelined by a broken half shaft. For the remainder of 1967, the 206 SP contested SCCA and USRRC races driven by Lee Cutler and occasionally Charlie Kolb.
It was back at Daytona for the 24 hours in 1968 after being rebuilt by Chinetti’s NART mechanics. Now consigned or loaned to Chinetti, he put Kolb and Pedro Rodriguez in Dino 206 SP 008 and Rodriguez qualified an excellent 10th among the three litre Alfa Romeo Tipo 33/2s. Kolb and Rodriguez kept the little Dino among the top 10 until another misfire brought them into the pits and early retirement. Baker decided to sell the car, although Lee Cutler apparently worked out a deal to drive it in later races. Before the end of the year he bought the Dino from Baker, marking the end of its front line racing career.
Harley Cluxton bought it from Cutler in 1971, selling it later that year to noted Ferrari collector and enthusiast, Walter Medlin in Kissimmee, Florida. Medlin did nothing with the beautiful little 206 SP except store it among his other cars where it stayed for more than 20 years. In 1995 it was acquired by Symbolic Motor Car Company and given a complete two-year restoration by Rob Shanahan. After completion, it became part of several important Ferrari collections and was proudly displayed at such diverse and important events as Rosso Ferrari at Rodeo Drive and the Goodwood Festival of Speed (both in 1997) and Cavallino Classic in 2004. It was featured in the Japanese magazine CAR in 1998. In 2003 it was returned to Symbolic’s restoration shop where it received a comprehensive refurbishment.
It was acquired by the present owner after completion of the work and was displayed at Cavallino Classic in 2004. The vendor reports the Dino is on the button and is in excellent overall mechanical condition. It is a personal favorite of his and while he has not competitively raced it regularly, he is drawn to its character and uniqueness just as Medlin was so many years ago. Most recently, the 206 SP has been returned to its glorious NART livery as it appeared at the 1000 kms of Nürburgring when, it finished 2nd in class behind another Dino and 3rd overall.
1966 Ferrari Dino 206 SP 008 retains its original engine, gearbox and bodywork. Its restoration is of the highest quality and is fresh and sharp. Its history includes ownership and entries by both SEFAC Ferrari and NART. It has been driven by some of the greats in the greatest age of sports car and sports prototype racing: Bondurant, Vaccarella, Pedro Rodriguez, Ginther, Kolb, Follmer, Schlesser, Gregory and even Peter Gregg. Its ownership history is clear. It is fast, responsive and, best of all, a beautiful gem of a car.
[Text from RM Auctions]
www.rmauctions.com/lots/lot.cfm?lot_id=162971
This Lego miniland-scale Ferrari Dino 206 SP (1966 - Carrozzeria Sports Cars), has been created for Flickr LUGNuts' 89th Build Challenge, - "Over a Million, Under a Thousand", - a challenge to build vehicles valued over one million (US) dollars, or under one thousand (US) dollars.
This particular vehicle was auctioned by the RM Auction house on Sunday, May 20, 2007, where it sold for €2.420.000 (US$2,567,520)
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Taxonomic classification: Lithic Haplocalcids, sandy, mixed, hyperthermic
The Sha’bbiyat series is a shallow sandy soil overlying bedrock (usually calcareous sandstone but occasionally siltstone or similar). The soils are typically well to excessively drained. They occur on flats and gentle slopes within gently undulating deflation plains. They are formed from eolian sands and occur in older landscapes.
These soils are used for rangeland grazing of camels though vegetation cover is frequently less than 5%. Common vegetation species recorded include Haloxylon salicornicum and Zygophyllum spp.
This soil has predominantly been described in the south-west of the Ghayathi sub-area together with scattered sites in the Al Ain sub-area.
The main feature of this soil is the shallow depth (<50cm) to a lithic contact. The soil shows evidence of the accumulation of carbonates, is non-saline and non-gypsic. The shallow depth to the hardpan layer is the main restriction for this soil. This restricts water movement and presents a barrier to root development further restricting the availability of nutrients. Because of this shallow depth the soil is considered unsuitable for irrigated agriculture.
Soil profile: A representative soil profile of the Whipple series in an area of Stormjade-Whipple complex, 8 to 50 percent slopes. (Interim Report for the Soil Survey of Chemehuevi Wash Off-Highway Vehicle Area, California; by Leon Lato, Carrie-Ann Houdeshell, and Heath McAllister, Natural Resources Conservation Service)
The Whipple series consists of very shallow and shallow, somewhat excessively drained soils that formed in residuum and colluvium from granite. Whipple soils are on backslopes of hills. Slopes range from 8 to 50 percent. The mean annual precipitation is about 100 millimeters (4 inches) and the mean annual air temperature is about 24 degrees C (75 degrees F).
TAXONOMIC CLASS: Loamy-skeletal, mixed, superactive, hyperthermic Lithic Haplargids
Soil moisture control section: usually dry throughout, rarely moist in some part during summer or winter. The soils have a typic-aridic soil moisture regime.
Soil temperature: 22 to 26.7 degrees C (72 to 80 degrees ).
Depth to argillic horizon: 2 to 4 centimeters.
Depth to bedrock: 13 to 36 centimeters.
Control section - Clay content: averages 12 to 18 percent.
USE AND VEGETATION: Whipple soils are used for recreation and wildlife habitat. The present vegetation is mainly burrobush, brittlebush and creosote bush.
DISTRIBUTION AND EXTENT: Northern Colorado Desert of southeastern California, U.S.A.; MLRA 31. These soils are of small extent.
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/california/CA6...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/W/WHIPPLE.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
A Typic Petrogypsid, shallow-lithic from the interior of the UAE.
These shallow mineral soils that are less than 50 cm deep (from the soil surface) to a root-limiting layer (petrogypsic or petrocalcic horizon, or a paralithic contact). In addition, these soils that have a lithic contact at a depth of more than 50 cm, but within 200 cm from the soil surface.
Petrogypsids are the Gypsids that have a petrogypsic horizon that has its upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. These soils occur in very arid areas of the world where the parent material is high in content of gypsum. When the petrogypsic horizon is close to the surface, crusting forms pseudohexagonal patterns on the soil surface. Petrogypsids occupy old surfaces. In Syria and Iraq, they are on the highest terraces along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. These soils are not extensive in the United States but are extensive in other countries.
The petrogypsic horizon is a horizon in which visible secondary gypsum has accumulated or has been transformed. The horizon is cemented (i.e., extremely weakly cemented through indurated cementation classes), and the cementation is both laterally continuous and root limiting, even when the soil is moist. The horizon typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils (foreground).
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use. One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about describing soils, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_DOCUMENTS/nrcs142p2_052523...
For additional information about soil classification using Soil Taxonomy, visit:
sites.google.com/site/dinpuithai/Home
For more information about soil classification using the UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy, visit:
agrifs.ir/sites/default/files/United%20Arab%20Emirates%20...
sn 008
Specifications:
218 bhp 1,986 cc dual overhead camshaft V-6 engine, five-speed manual transaxle, four-wheel independent suspension with coil springs and four-wheel disc brakes. Wheelbase: 2,280mm (89.75")
Lightweight. Aerodynamic. Powerful. The Ferrari 206 SP is the lithe, sinuous, brilliant V-6 son of the V-12 father. It is similar in many respects, but accomplished with conscious differences.
The Origins of the Dino Legend
When Phil Hill and Olivier Gendebien went to Le Mans in 1962 and were assigned the 330 TRI/LM, the last front-engined car to win at la Sarthe, they felt a little cheated. There were better Ferraris in Ferrari’s entry. There were V-8 and V-6 Dinos. Hill and Gendebien knew the mid-engined Dinos were Ferrari’s future. They drove a dinosaur, and their victory was a tribute to their skill and maturity as drivers as much as it was to the durability, stability, reliability and speed of the four-litre 330 TRI/LM, the ultimate Testa Rossa.
The V-6 Dinos were introduced in 1957 for the 1.5-litre Formula 2 series. Enzo Ferrari’s son Alfredo – known as “Dino” - had championed the engines’ layout, and Enzo gave the cars Dino’s name after his son’s untimely death in 1956. The detailed design was done by the old master, Vittorio Jano. With twin overhead camshafts, the inherently balanced conventional cylinder bank angle of 60° left no room for carburetors and inlet manifolding, so Jano increased the included angle to 65°, then compensated for the timing problem with crank throws placed 65° and 185° apart. It was ingenious, and it worked. The first Dino sports racing cars were front-engined; mid-engined cars appeared in 1962, the models Hill and Gendebien hoped to drive at Le Mans. Ferrari then dealt with the problems of slipping a V-12 between the driver and the rear wheels, and development of the compact V-6 powered Dinos languished.
The Sports Prototypes
Ferrari was challenged by Ford in the mid 60s and responded with a series of Sports Prototypes that have earned their position as the most seductively beautiful sports racing cars ever built. The first 330 P was introduced in 1964 and its design clearly showed its evolution from the 250 LM. The 1965 season’s 330 P2, however, was something completely different and it evolved into the Drogo-built 330 P3 the following year, surely the most voluptuous sports racing automobiles ever seen.
At the same time Ferrari introduced the 206 S, an even more tightly wrapped, reduced scale rendition of the 330 P3 with the same voluptuous, sensuous shape on a shorter wheelbase that took full advantage of its compact V-6 powerplant. Franco Rocchi designed this third generation twin-cam V-6, returning to Jano’s original 65° vee angle. It would power not only the 206 S but also the street cars needed to meet the FIA’s requirement that Formula 2 engines be based upon a production engine with at least 500 units built – which Ferrari met in cooperation with Fiat in the Dino sports cars. In addition to the Ferrari sports prototypes and Formula 2 cars, the engine would later power the Ferrari Dino road cars and even the Lancia Stratos rally car.
Like the 330 P3, the Dino 206 S was bodied by Drogo’s Carrozzeria Sports Cars. It used a multi-tube frame with alloy panels riveted to it for additional stiffness, in essence a semi-monocoque structure. Ferrari’s intention was that 50 of the cars would be built, qualifying it as an FIA Group 4 sports car, but the financial difficulties that would lead to Ferrari’s merger with Fiat three years later prevented that optimistic goal from being met and in the end only some 18 of these wonderful, quick, beautiful sports racers were built. What started out as a Dino 206 S (for Sport) became known as the Dino 206 SP (for Sports Prototype) when there were not enough built to qualify for Group 4.
Chassis No. 008
The meticulously and accurately restored example offered here, chassis 008, is the fourth of the series production 206 SPs built, (The first 206 S was built on Ferrari chassis 0842) and the third of the standard alloy spider bodied 206 SPs. It was delivered to the SEFAC Ferrari team and used for testing and evaluation. Some sources indicate it was entered by the factory to be run by Luigi Chinetti’s North American Racing Team in the 1000 km race at Monza April 25, 1966 where it was driven by NART driver Bob Bondurant and SEFAC driver Nino Vaccarella, but was damaged in practice and withdrawn before starting the race.
Six weeks later on June 5, Dino 206 SP 008 was again entered for NART in the ADAC 1000 km of the Nürburgring, one of the season’s most demanding races. Driven by the brilliant pairing of Pedro Rogriguez and Richie Ginther, both SEFAC team drivers in 1966, the 206 SP started ninth on the grid and drove to an outstanding third overall and second in class behind another 206 SP, the fuel injected chassis 004 driven by Scarfiotti and Bandini, and the winning Chaparral 2D of Phil Hill and Jo Bonnier which thundered to the overall victory. Remarkably, all three podium finishers were on the same lap of the daunting 22.81 km Nürburgring Nordschleife.
On June 18, 1966, still fresh from its podium finish at the Nürburgring, chassis 008, using a SEFAC Ferrari entry, was on hand at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. The car, however, was now owned by Chinetti, having been sold by SEFAC Ferrari on June 10. Chinetti put Charlie Kolb and George Follmer in the 206 SP and they started in 32nd position. After an excellent start, oil seeped onto the clutch, rendering it useless, and on just the 9th lap the team withdrew, a fate eventually shared by 40 of the 55 entrants - 73 percent of the starting grid.
Kolb’s seat at Le Mans foreshadowed the next stage in 008’s career. After returning to Maranello for servicing and race prep, it was shipped to the U.S. and its next owner, M. Schroeder, who immediately entered it in the August 28 USRRC-Buckeye Cup race in Lexington, Ohio where it was driven by Charlie Kolb. Kolb brought the 206 SP home second in class and sixth overall.
Entries at The Road America 500 at Elkhart Lake and the USRRC race at Bridgehampton followed before 008 was purchased by Fred Baker, who arranged to use a Chinetti entry in the 1967 Daytona 24 Hours. A fresh engine rebuild and gearbox overhaul were not completed in time to qualify, and 008 started from the back of the grid as a result. The driving team was strong – Jo Schlesser, Masten Gregory and Peter Gregg. At just over half distance, after moving within sight of a top 10 placing, Gregory made a routine pit stop only to have the engine develop a misfire when it restarted, which turned out to be a stripped distributor drive.
Baker again used a Chinetti entry for his Dino 206 SP at the Sebring 12 Hours on April 1. Charlie Kolb and Ed Crawford started from 20th on the grid, where they remained when the green flag fell, sidelined by a broken half shaft. For the remainder of 1967, the 206 SP contested SCCA and USRRC races driven by Lee Cutler and occasionally Charlie Kolb.
It was back at Daytona for the 24 hours in 1968 after being rebuilt by Chinetti’s NART mechanics. Now consigned or loaned to Chinetti, he put Kolb and Pedro Rodriguez in Dino 206 SP 008 and Rodriguez qualified an excellent 10th among the three litre Alfa Romeo Tipo 33/2s. Kolb and Rodriguez kept the little Dino among the top 10 until another misfire brought them into the pits and early retirement. Baker decided to sell the car, although Lee Cutler apparently worked out a deal to drive it in later races. Before the end of the year he bought the Dino from Baker, marking the end of its front line racing career.
Harley Cluxton bought it from Cutler in 1971, selling it later that year to noted Ferrari collector and enthusiast, Walter Medlin in Kissimmee, Florida. Medlin did nothing with the beautiful little 206 SP except store it among his other cars where it stayed for more than 20 years. In 1995 it was acquired by Symbolic Motor Car Company and given a complete two-year restoration by Rob Shanahan. After completion, it became part of several important Ferrari collections and was proudly displayed at such diverse and important events as Rosso Ferrari at Rodeo Drive and the Goodwood Festival of Speed (both in 1997) and Cavallino Classic in 2004. It was featured in the Japanese magazine CAR in 1998. In 2003 it was returned to Symbolic’s restoration shop where it received a comprehensive refurbishment.
It was acquired by the present owner after completion of the work and was displayed at Cavallino Classic in 2004. The vendor reports the Dino is on the button and is in excellent overall mechanical condition. It is a personal favorite of his and while he has not competitively raced it regularly, he is drawn to its character and uniqueness just as Medlin was so many years ago. Most recently, the 206 SP has been returned to its glorious NART livery as it appeared at the 1000 kms of Nürburgring when, it finished 2nd in class behind another Dino and 3rd overall.
1966 Ferrari Dino 206 SP 008 retains its original engine, gearbox and bodywork. Its restoration is of the highest quality and is fresh and sharp. Its history includes ownership and entries by both SEFAC Ferrari and NART. It has been driven by some of the greats in the greatest age of sports car and sports prototype racing: Bondurant, Vaccarella, Pedro Rodriguez, Ginther, Kolb, Follmer, Schlesser, Gregory and even Peter Gregg. Its ownership history is clear. It is fast, responsive and, best of all, a beautiful gem of a car.
[Text from RM Auctions]
www.rmauctions.com/lots/lot.cfm?lot_id=162971
This Lego miniland-scale Ferrari Dino 206 SP (1966 - Carrozzeria Sports Cars), has been created for Flickr LUGNuts' 89th Build Challenge, - "Over a Million, Under a Thousand", - a challenge to build vehicles valued over one million (US) dollars, or under one thousand (US) dollars.
This particular vehicle was auctioned by the RM Auction house on Sunday, May 20, 2007, where it sold for €2.420.000 (US$2,567,520)
Admire that bod. It's the perfect balance of lithe and defined. I got the 2-part torso because I found it more aesthetically pleasing, and I'm sure glad I did.
I am very happy to introduce you my new line BiDoll Lithe. The dolls in this line possess a different type of sexuality, they look tall and skinny. The name BiDoll consists of two parts. Bi translated from Latin means “two” or “double”. When I worked on Lithe characters the double meaning inspired me. I wanted to create two dolls that are different and the same at once. The unicorn, the legendary and magical creature, also inspired me. MonokeRos is one of the names for unicorn that people used from ancient times. It sounded to me that the name consists of two - Monoke and Ros, and I decided to give these names to my new dolls. At the very beginning my goal was to create a complex costumed doll using different techniques such as jewelry making, embroidery, etc. I believe that my goal is accomplished. The costume is very complicated and the embroidery was done over the tiny mesh fabric. Over 100 hours of work was spent on embroidery only. The corset, shoes and the crown are made from metal and gold plated with 18K gold. BiDoll Lithe MonokeRos is a piece of art that made in porcelain, painted with China paints, it comprises the jewelry making and fashion design techniques. MonokeRos is a synthesis of many arts and designs in one object. I am very happy that I could use all my skills in one work and show many sides in the art of making a doll. Please enjoy, one of the dolls of your choice can be yours.
The (remaining) LU tower (they used to be two)
Lith print on Guilleminot paper with Moersch Easy Lith
workshop on photographing movement in dance. Got tips after we shot, so not real productive in the photos. Caught a couple of decent forms
Soil Profile: Bissett very gravelly loam in an area of Bissett-Rock outcrop complex, 20 to 70 percent slopes. Bissett soils contain more than 35 percent coarse fragments, and are shallow soils over limestone.
Landscape: An area of Bissett-Rock outcrop complex, 20 to 70 percent slopes. Vegetation includes sideoats grama, slim tridens, lechuguilla, pricklypear, Gregg's coldenia, and whitethorn acacia. Bissett soils are in the Limestone Hill and Mountain ecological site, Desert Grassland vegetative zone of MLRA 42—Southern Desertic Basins, Plains, and Mountains. (Soil Survey of Big Bend National Park, Texas; by James Gordon, Soil Scientist, James A. Douglass, Soil Scientist, and Dr. Lynn E. Loomis, Soil Scientist, Natural Resources Conservation Service)
Map Unit Setting
Major land resource area (MLRA): MLRA 42—Southern Desertic Basins, Plains, and
Mountains
Elevation: 2,815 to 5,815 feet
Mean annual precipitation: 12 to 15 inches
Mean annual air temperature: 62 to 67 degrees F
Frost-free period: 210 to 250 days
Map Unit Composition
Bissett and similar soils: 55 percent
Rock outcrop: 30 percent
Dissimilar minor components: 15 percent
Minor components:
Soil taxonomic classification: Loamy-skeletal, carbonatic, thermic Lithic Ustic Haplocalcids
Setting
Landscape: Hills and mountains
Landform: Ridges
Landform position (two-dimensional): Summit, shoulder, backslope
Slope: 20 to 60 percent
Down-slope shape: Linear
Across-slope shape: Convex
Representative aspect: Southeast
Aspect range: All aspects
Soil temperature class: Thermic
Soil temperature regime: Thermic
Soil moisture class: Aridic (torric)
Properties and Qualities
Runoff class: Very high
Parent material: Colluvium and residuum weathered from limestone
Depth to restrictive feature: 7 to 20 inches to lithic bedrock
Frequency of flooding: None
Frequency of ponding: None
Depth to water table: More than 72 inches
Drainage class: Well drained
Shrink-swell potential: Low (about 1.5 LEP)
Salinity maximum: Not saline (about 1.0 dS/m)
Sodicity maximum: Not sodic
Calcium carbonate maximum: 80
Available water capacity: Very low (about 1.7 inches)
Gypsum maximum: None
Land capability subclass (nonirrigated): 7s
Hydric soil rating: No
Hydrologic soil group: D
Vegetation
Ecological site name and identification: Limestone Hill and Mountain, Desert Grassland (R042XC249TX)
Existing plants: Cane bluestem, Chino grama, sideoats grama, black grama, hairy grama, Arizona cottontop, tanglehead, range ratany, green sprangletop, slim tridens, lechuguilla, pricklypear, Gregg’s coldenia, whitethorn acacia, perennial forbs, perennial grasses, plains bristlegrass, other shrubs, skeletonleaf goldeneye
Typical Profile
A—0 to 3 inches; very gravelly loam
Bk—3 to 17 inches; very gravelly clay loam
R—17 to 27 inches; limestone bedrock
For additional information about the survey area, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_MANUSCRIPTS/texas/bigbendT...
For a detailed soil description, visit:
soilseries.sc.egov.usda.gov/OSD_Docs/B/BISSETT.html
For acreage and geographic distribution, visit:
Behind with the news; I only found out this week that Den-Dou shop closed in September. :(
I hope Denchu Dench has gone onto do other cool stuff, but, I will miss the skins.
あなたに感謝。幸運を祈る！
Credits:
Skin: Den-Dou - Keiko ate the chocolate by stealth. (Hunt gift 2010)
Eyes: Ebi Eyes - Brown (no longer available)
Hair: Wasabi Pills - Mimi in Cinnamon
Top: RunoRuno - Loose Body
Brushes: Manga Brushes 3 by Lithe-Fider lithe-fider.deviantart.com/gallery/6493762#/dz02jw
When I first hit the trail in Padley Gorge I was overwhelmed a) by the beauty of the place and b) by the absolute chaos of it all!
Most of my woodland photography has been done in plantation, so mainly pines and birch with lots of repetitive lines and regularity which is fairly easy for the eye to process. Everything in Padley however, is gnarled and twisted and not at all neat or ordered, which made finding frames of interest a difficult task but was made easier by the area being littered with stones and boulders.
I found lots of leading lines pointing to nothing and interesting shapes that had no partner to pair with, but every so often there would be a magic combination of the two and this is the first such example I found.
I must also mention the light! A misting of drizzle was coating everything in the valley causing the light (although overcast) to bounce around, illuminating the moss and leaves.
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
Only a selection of images from each photo-shoot are posted here. If you'd like to see additional images from certain models you'll need to subscribe to my Patreon account where I will be publishing content I don't post here. You'll also have the option to make fan requests for more photos, or new photo-shoots, with your favourite models. My subscription rates are very low , staring from only $1/month, so check it out as I could really do with your support. - www.patreon.com/realitydysfunction
Instagram: @realitydysfunction www.instagram.com/realitydysfunction
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
I am very happy to introduce you my new line BiDoll Lithe. The dolls in this line possess a different type of sexuality, they look tall and skinny. The name BiDoll consists of two parts. Bi translated from Latin means “two” or “double”. When I worked on Lithe characters the double meaning inspired me. I wanted to create two dolls that are different and the same at once. The unicorn, the legendary and magical creature, also inspired me. MonokeRos is one of the names for unicorn that people used from ancient times. It sounded to me that the name consists of two - Monoke and Ros, and I decided to give these names to my new dolls. At the very beginning my goal was to create a complex costumed doll using different techniques such as jewelry making, embroidery, etc. I believe that my goal is accomplished. The costume is very complicated and the embroidery was done over the tiny mesh fabric. Over 100 hours of work was spent on embroidery only. The corset, shoes and the crown are made from metal and gold plated with 18K gold. BiDoll Lithe MonokeRos is a piece of art that made in porcelain, painted with China paints, it comprises the jewelry making and fashion design techniques. MonokeRos is a synthesis of many arts and designs in one object. I am very happy that I could use all my skills in one work and show many sides in the art of making a doll. Please enjoy, one of the dolls of your choice can be yours.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!