View allAll Photos Tagged replication
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 26, 2018. BLM video: Toshio Suzuki
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
Take a virtual tour of the pillboxes via this 360-degree video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgHu5y-TtAw
Photo of symbol on a dumpster. Photo has been color-modified, replicated, and arranged.
Here's the little (unfinished) story about this shot. In the parking lot of our apartment complex sits a shiny green dumpster. This particular, recently-painted dumpster has been there for a few months now, but I hadn't paid it any special attention. A week ago when I was stalking photos, I took a close-up shot of a white symbol that was stencilled on the side of the dumpster. I remember vaguely thinking something like,
"That symbol stikes me more as a warning symbol than (say) a recycling symbol," but I thought no more of it, until today, when I started playing with the photo image. If my search for the meaning of the symbol gave me the right answer, it's a "Radioactive" symbol. I asked the apartment custodian if he knew why the dumpster might have a radioactive warning on it. He said no, and that he hadn't noticed the symbol. He said that the dumpster is used for yard wastes such as grass clippings, which must be kept separate from garbage and trash wastes which are kept in another dumpster in the basement of the building. The custodian said he does think it is amusing that every week the waste hauler comes, empties the garbage dumpster into the truck, and then drives over to the yard waste dumpster. And, yes, dumps that one into the same compartment of the same truck as the garbage. So my challenge for the summer is to discover how and why a dumpster IMBY has been designated as a container of radioactive materials.
Update: Called the local customer service number for the multi-national waste hauling behemoth (~$14B/yr). I asked if they knew why there was an official looking Radioactive symbol on their dumpster. And then I answered their questions about three times. Each question was a variation on "What?" She then put me on hold to go talk to her supervisor. That was about 9 months ago.
IMG_4369ocr
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 26, 2018. BLM photo: Matt Christenson
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 26, 2018. BLM video: Stephen Haney and Matt Bonsi
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
Take a virtual tour of the pillboxes via this 360-degree video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgHu5y-TtAw
MySQL Replication Manager Screenshot
For more information: code.google.com/p/mysqlreplicationmanager/
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 26, 2018. BLM video: Toshio Suzuki
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
Take a virtual tour of the pillboxes via this 360-degree video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgHu5y-TtAw
I tried to replicate the previous shot , at home !
By cooking Scrambled Eggs on Toast , with Bacon and Mushrooms
Bishop’s Stortford , Hertfordshire
Friday 05th-August-2021
The all new re-engineered and rigorously tested MakerBot Replicator+ 3D printer. Single PLA extruder. Large build volume. New, flexible build plate. Controlled via LCD screen and jog dial. On-board camera for remote monitoring. Connect it with USB cable, Wi-Fi, USB memory stick, or Ethernet. Internal power supply. See more at makerbot.creativetools.se
The all new re-engineered and rigorously tested MakerBot Replicator+ 3D printer. Single PLA extruder. Large build volume. New, flexible build plate. Controlled via LCD screen and jog dial. On-board camera for remote monitoring. Connect it with USB cable, Wi-Fi, USB memory stick, or Ethernet. Internal power supply. See more at makerbot.creativetools.se
This is my journey of recreating the scenes of my favorite film, Stand By Me, with my customized American Girls. I traveled to several of the actual shooting locations of the movie to replicate my shots. It has been one of the most incredibly fun, yet challenging, projects I have ever attempted. So much love and hard work was put into each one of these.
The all new re-engineered and rigorously tested MakerBot Replicator+ 3D printer. Single PLA extruder. Large build volume. New, flexible build plate. Controlled via LCD screen and jog dial. On-board camera for remote monitoring. Connect it with USB cable, Wi-Fi, USB memory stick, or Ethernet. Internal power supply. See more at makerbot.creativetools.se
The all new re-engineered and rigorously tested MakerBot Replicator+ 3D printer. Single PLA extruder. Large build volume. New, flexible build plate. Controlled via LCD screen and jog dial. On-board camera for remote monitoring. Connect it with USB cable, Wi-Fi, USB memory stick, or Ethernet. Internal power supply. See more at makerbot.creativetools.se
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 25, 2018. BLM photo: Matt Christenson
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
“Any users, found to replicate, reproduce, circulate, distribute, download, manipulate or otherwise use my images without my written consent will be in breach of copyright laws as well as contract laws.”
“The Eye Moment photos by Nolan H. Rhodes”
nrhodesphotos@yahoo.com
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 25, 2018. BLM photo: Matt Christenson
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
ODC2 - Attempt to replicate something that has been on ODC explore
12/09/11
At first I thought, wow this will be fun, then I couldn't find an image that I thought I could replicate, then I thought it was a bit boring copying someone elses image...lol I went for a fairly easy one.......just because. Here is the link to the original by Iclower 19 www.flickr.com/photos/lclower19/5350194772/
I think a lot of toy buyers at many of our big name stores could do well to replicate the ones working for Home Bargains. Their diecast selection may not be inspiring all year round but in the months leading up to Christmas they can really pull some goodies out of the bag and at prices no one else can or are willing to match! Over the last few years we have seen a heady selection of Majorette Premiums, basic Street Series and multi-packs, Matchbox Power Grabs and multi-packs, Mattel Fast & Furious plus of course various Hot Wheels stuff as well as some nice 1/43 models which sadly I dont collect.
This time last year they treated us to Matchbox Power Grabs and was rather hoping they would repeat it this year, at the time of writing it doesn't seem they have BUT....they are now stocking plenty of Matchbox Jurassic World singles with many castings I've not seen elsewhere and at just 99p each they are a bargain.
Admittedly this 1993 Ford Explorer can indeed still be found elsewhere but invariably at THREE TIMES the price!
I have seen all the Jurassic movies over the years including the latest yet its this particular vehicle which I will always associate with the franchise and the one which sticks in my mind. Its certainly no premium, it has the usual modern Matchbox cost cutting measures implemented into its construction but is still well cast with authentic Jurassic Park livery and a domed viewing roof. Does anyone know whether the Mercedes GLE Coupe was part of this series too?
Mint and boxed.
“Any users, found to replicate, reproduce, circulate, distribute, download, manipulate or otherwise use my images without my written consent will be in breach of copyright laws as well as contract laws.”
“The Eye Moment photos by Nolan H. Rhodes”
nrhodesphotos@yahoo.com
On the right are some modules from a self-replicating robot.
Each module is identical, and the system runs a distributed embedded program (there is neither central node nor broadcast instructions). They draw power from the table top and depend on a feed of modules.
Q-Ped on the left uses evolutionary algorithms to learn how to walk.
“At the Cornell Computational Synthesis Lab we explore biologically-inspired computational and physical processes that allow complex high-level systems to arise from low-level building blocks - automatically. We seek new biological concepts for engineering and new engineering insights into biology.” (CCSL)
Concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers rest on an old cattle farm now an area of critical environmental concern managed by the BLM in southwest Oregon, Sept. 26, 2018. BLM photo: Matt Christenson
A quiet oak savanna in southwest Oregon has a World War II story to tell.
It was the summer of 1942 when thousands of young American troops started arriving in Oregon to prepare for battle.
Only months prior, immediately after the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and America’s entry into WWII, the U.S. Army broke ground on Camp White, a massively ambitious training ground for troops north of Medford.
The national war effort was ramping up, and from the rationing at home to the drill sergeants yelling at new draftees, the task at hand was unified: Get America prepared for war as fast as possible.
At Camp White, in the heart of the Rogue River Valley, it got loud very quick.
Construction crews worked 24 hours a day until the base, consisting of 1,300 structures, was complete. Barracks, mess halls, a railroad, full electrical grid and sewer system were all built in six months.
And then the troops arrived.
The newly reinstated 91st Division went on 91-mile-long hikes.
They fired bazookas, mortars and tanks.
And they attacked concrete pillboxes built to replicate Nazi bunkers.
Despite creating what was then Oregon’s second most populous city at 40,000 people, there are now only a few lasting structures proving Camp White ever existed. Sadly, there are even fewer first-hand memories.
The pillboxes are still standing, though. They simultaneously represent a mostly forgotten military legacy and since 2013, an opportunity for historic preservation.
After decades of private cattle farming, Camp White’s pillboxes now rest on public land.
Read the full story about the Camp White pillboxes that rest on the northeast side of Upper Table Rock, an area of critical environmental concern for the BLM: www.facebook.com/notes/blm-oregon-washington/the-wwii-leg...
Ford hoped to replicate the run-away success of the American Mustang by using a similar formula for the European market.
Using proven and well developed underpinnings based on those of the Cortina, Ford clothed the new Capri in a sexy coupe body designed with a great deal of input from the Mustang’s styling team. The car was made ready for launch at the January 1969 Belgian Motor Show, although production had started two months earlier at the Halewood plant to ensure that every Ford dealer had at least one example on their forecourts.
With its aggressively long bonnet and swooping rear it looked like it was doing 100mph even when standing still. Mechanically straightforward, a traditional live axle with leaf springs was deemed sufficient at the rear, while Ford's excellent Macpherson struts at the front and well weighted rack-and-pinion steering gave the car a sufficiently sporting feel to justify its sports car looks. Available in a wide range of engine sizes from a basic 1.3-litre four to a tarmac-ripping 3-litre V6 it was marketed as ‘The car you always promised yourself’.
Handsome to look at and decently quick, the Capri proved to be a huge success for Ford, remaining in production until 1986 with many upgrades along the way, almost 1.9 million being sold worldwide. Survivors are now increasingly sought after and values have risen sharply in recent times.
This is the Hopi House in the Grand Canyon Village just east of El Tovar Lodge.
I took a little winter trip to the South Rim. Hardly any crowds at this time of year. Temperatures in the upper 20's during the day, mid teens at night with windchills into the single digits. I am well prepared for these temperatures and was comfortable most of the time. I stayed at the El Tovar Lodge.
www.nps.gov/history/history/online_books/harrison/harriso...
In Hopi House, Colter's concern for an ethnohistorical correctness in this replication was an effort fueled by the contemporary scholarly interest in southwestern archeology. The building opened in 1905, at the same time that archeologist Edgar Hewitt of Santa Fe, New Mexico, was promoting the Act for the Preservation of American Antiquities which passed in 1906--an act that resulted in the establishment of a series of national monuments set aside to preserve the southwestern archeological ruins they contained. Colter's design of Hopi House went beyond the basic task of providing a good atmosphere for merchandising Indian goods. She introduced different aspects of Indian cultures--especially their architecture--to the rail-travelling public at a time when the preservation movement in the United States was in its infancy.
Hopi House (1905) is a large multi-story structure of stone masonry, shaped and built like a Hopi pueblo building. The building is rectangular in plan, and the multiple roofs are stepped at various levels giving the building the impression of pueblo architecture. The sandstone walls are reddish in color. Tiny windows, like those of true Hopi structures, allow only the smallest amount of light into the building.
On the interior, the floor finish on the first story is concrete, covered with carpeting in some of the rooms. Most of the rooms have the typical ceiling of that type of architecture: saplings, grasses, and twigs with a mud coating on top, resting on peeled log beams. Corner fireplaces, small niches in the walls, and a mud-plaster wall finish, typical of Hopi interiors, are also characteristics of this structure. Openings from one room to the next are characteristically small, and wood door frames where they exist are made of peeled saplings. The first floor is used as a sales area and an office.
The stairwell to the second story has Hopi murals on its mud plaster. The mural's artist is unknown. The second story, now used only for storage, has a wood floor, ceilings similar to those throughout the building, and mud-plastered walls. The original room configurations remain, and little has been done to change this area that is now closed to the public. One corner fireplace on this story is decorated with a "bulto" (Spanish religious statue) attached to its mantle. Paired gates separating two of the rooms are made of peeled saplings. Also on this floor is a room now erroneously called "the Kiva" which contains a Hopi shrine somewhat similar to the Powamu shrine Colter had constructed inside her Indian Building in Albuquerque. The shrine area holds religious artifacts such as kachinas and prayer feathers (ceremonial sticks with feathers attached) with bald eagle feathers. The opposite side of the shrine room contains more Hopi religious artifacts and some household and utilitarian items such as manos and metates for grinding corn, various pieces of pottery and baskets, and a piki oven for baking the paper-thin piki bread made from blue corn. The floor in this room is hard-packed adobe rather than wood. Access to this room is through a tiny handmade door, now locked for security.
GC2025
LUGNuts' founder Lino Martins has graciously given me permission to replicate his series of automotive illustrations based on various mixed alcoholic drinks.
The next in this series is a Lego -model replication of Moscow Mule' - Zil-130 Truck.
.
In Lino's own words:
"I’m aware that designing vehicles based on mixed drinks is a fairly irresponsible thing to be doing. I have friends who are in recovery or simply choose not to drink and for them I have something cool in mind that will finish out this series. My friend Buell Richardson had a couple of suggestions that I felt rather uneasy about drawing in these rather sensitive times so instead I have rendered the Moscow Mule in hopes that he can still appreciate my design choices in doing so. I went with a custom Soviet ZIL-130 pickup truck in olive green. The Moscow Mule drink itself is not that visually interesting but it is usually served in a copper mug. This got me thinking to adorn the truck with hammered copper gas tanks, rims and other accessories. Buell enjoys painting gaming miniatures and does it quite well so I incorporated a base for the truck that makes it look like it could be one of his painted miniatures. The background is a faded sunburst in colors reminiscent of old Soviet propaganda art. I couldn’t resist finishing off the piece with a red star and hammer and sickle design on the side of the truck. The end result is something I like quite a bit and I hope that you all do too. Stay tuned as I draw more of your suggestions and remember always drink responsibly and never drink and drive."
Shakaland Village Shaka Zulu Kraal Cultural Replication of a Zulu “Umuzi” or Homestead Normanhurst Farm Nkwalini Kwazulu-Natal South Africa May 1998
Sadly, Shakaland has now permanently closed in 2025
www.southafrica.net/au/en/travel/article/aha-shakaland-ho...
Trying to replicate Navia’s plastic hat in felt! I happened to have the perfect color of felt and I went ahead and used her plastic hat as a hat mold.
My version is still a little large, and I haven’t finished stiffening it yet. I can’t decide if I want to cut all the edges to match the jagged leaf style of Navia’s har, or leave it smooth and petal like. I also can’t decide if I want to try to continue the embroidery, or just skip it.
I am almost about to set this aside and start a different hat in purple. Something that more closely resembles a flapper cloche hat, and do some real embroidery and beading on it?? (I don’t think I have the right bead colors so maybe this all goes in the unfinished pile with the other projects that need pink and purple beads.)
“Any users, found to replicate, reproduce, circulate, distribute, download, manipulate or otherwise use my images without my written consent will be in breach of copyright laws as well as contract laws.”
“The Eye Moment photos by Nolan H. Rhodes”
nrhodesphotos@yahoo.com
replicated for safety's sake from the now-deleted TamIAm: "Only the second greatest thing I've ever seen"
photos1.blogger.com/img/89/961/400/cor_blimey.jpg
tamiam.blogspot.com/2004/10/only-second-greatest-thing-iv...
go-blog-go.blogspot.com/2004_10_01_archive.html#109768209...
"Thematic consonance is all, I tell you."
I have passed St Mary a number of times since travelling to see the orchids at a nearby reserve. So with some time to kill a couple of weeks ago, I decide to call in.
The church is nearer to the village of Metfield than the one it is parish church for, and parking was problematic, as the church is off the main road, and the small houses and farms that make this part of Withersdale all had rather unwelcoming do not park here signs, and nearer the church, do not park on the grass signs. So where doe the visitor who arrives by car actually park? I ended up on the verge of the B road that passes close by, but the unwelcoming nature of the area had put me in a bad mood.
St mary is a small and simple church, a small bellcote at the west end, a fine ancient font on a new pedestal, some small but old pews and a fine roof.
------------------------------------------
(Introduction: Back in 2002, Withersdale was the 500th church on the Suffolk Churches site. You might say that the end of the journey was in view. I had recently had a conversation with some friends about writing parodies, using the style of other authors for those things we would have written anyway. One friend, a teacher, claimed to have written an entire school report in the style of Raymond Chandler. Some writers are easy to replicate - TS Eliot and Hemingway, for example - but it is harder to sustain a parody when the parodied writer is best known for going on at length. I said I'd have a go at Proust, which I did here, and James Joyce for church 501, Bungay St Mary. It's not for me to say how successful the parodies are, although the Joyce one has been complimented kindly by some of the man's fans. Nobody has ever said anything about the Withersdale parody - perhaps more people read Joyce than Proust, I don't know. In 2007, when I began revisiting Suffolk churches to replace the old photographs I had taken with brand spanking new digital ones, I came back to Withersdale. Unfortunately, I got here at the dullest hour on a dull day, and so the exteriors are not what I had hoped for. Still, that's a good excuse to go back again. As for the text, I have not seen any reason to change it, other than to add one hyperlink to a page on the Norfolk Churches site. I realise that this will be an annoyance for anyone wanting to find out more about Withersdale and its church. For this, I apologise.)
2002: For a long time, I used to read French novels in bed. And then, mid-morning, I'd get up and wander through an industrial wasteland.
I was living in Sheffield, in South Yorkshire, in the years when the coal and steel industries were finally coming to an end, and I'd walk through the battlefields of Brightside and Attercliffe, wondering at the abandoned factories and mills, and the wasted infrastructure, the boarded-up pubs and shops, the graffiti, the row upon row of derelict terraces. One day, I even found an old railway station, the door onto the platform hanging open, the wind howling through the gap into the tunnel, the line going nowhere.
Often, I would imagine what these places had once been like, when they were still alive, for I was not born to this, coming as I did from the flat fields of East Anglia. The first time I saw it all, it was already over. I loved the litany of names: Attercliffe and Brightside I have already mentioned, and there was Eccleshall and Carbrook, Intake and Millhouses. I don't know now if I knew them from visiting them, or only knew them from their names, bold on the fronts of buses.
I would wander alone through the broken streets, gazing up at the brick-faced shells, and imagine them full of activity, and try to decide what this winch had been for, or the platform where the lorries came, or the booth by the gate. This was all the evidence, and this was all I had to go on, as I reconstructed a world I had never seen. And what really interested me was not the places at all, but the people who had once inhabited them; those people who had now gone, but these buildings were once the focus of their lives, and they had known them very differently to the way I was knowing them now.
Using material evidence to reconstruct their activities, I could perhaps begin to understand their lives.
I was thinking about this as I cycled along the Waveney valley - but then something else happened. I had come to Withersdale from Weybread, up on the Norfolk border. In fact, I had reached Weybread from the northern side of the Waveney, since the most direct route from Mendham to Weybread had been across the river into Norfolk, and through the lanes that lead into Harleston. About fifteen years before all this happened, when I was living on the south coast of England, I had had a brief but passionate affair with a girl who came from Alburgh, a Norfolk village on the other side of the border to Mendham. I hadn't thought of this for years, but suddenly seeing the name of the village, which I had never visited, on a road sign, startled me. And then something extraordinary happened. As I sat on my bike, savouring this shock of recognition, an agricultural lorry passed me, and I noticed that the name of the town painted on the side of the lorry was the same south coast town where this occured.
I was still wondering at this as I threaded through the back lanes between Weybread and Withersdale, a world away from the post-industrial ruins of South Yorkshire, or the misery of the south coast, for I had not often been happy there, and never wish to be so poor or so far from home again. When I moved to the south, I had not many months since finished an increasingly pointless relationship that should have stopped after six months, and unfortunately went on for another two years. My habit of reading Proust in bed had come towards the end of this; that, and wandering around east Sheffield, were, I think, displacement activities of a kind, not only to avoid spending too much time with her, but also to avoid doing anything about it. It also had much to do with me leaving Sheffield shortly afterwards. It was a year later that I moved to the south coast, and I was already seeing the girl who would become my wife. And then I met this woman from a Norfolk village shortly after I arrived in the unfamiliar coastal town, in the warmest October of the century. The leaves were only just beginning to colour and fall, and I remembered the way the woods rode the Downs, and the way the fog hid all day in the valleys.
And then I thought, well, it must have been more than fifteen years ago, because I could remember leaving her bed in the early hours of one Friday morning, the paleness just beginning to appear in the east, and being stopped on a roadblock on the bypass, where it joined the Lewes road. It was the night that the IRA had bombed the Tory party conference at the Grand Hotel, and everyone leaving town was being stopped and questioned. I had no idea what had happened, and the policeman didn't tell me. As I explained where I had been, I watched the police coaches hurtling back westwards out of Kent, away from the miners' strike.
When I had made my life less complicated, I used to cycle around the Sussex lanes, finding lonely churches and sitting in them. When I'd lived in Sheffield, I liked to wander up on to the moors, perhaps to Bradfield, where the church looks out on an empty sky. Standing in its doorway took me out of the world altogether, and was the first time I experienced that sense of communion with the past. St Mary Magdalene, Withersdale, reminded me a bit of Bradfield, although busy Suffolk is much noisier than the peace around Sheffield. Here was an ancient space, plainly Norman in origin, that had stood here stubbornly while the world changed around it. Wars had come and gone, times of great prosperity had warmed it and depressions had made it cold again. Disease and famine had emptied it, until the irrepressible energy of human activity had restored it to life. And it was still here, so unlike our own transitory existences. But perhaps there is a resilience in stone that reflects the human spirit.
What would I have found most extraordinary back then, on the south coast? That we would now have known ten years of relative peace in Ireland? That the time of the Tories would finally come to an end, and it would be hard to imagine them ever regaining power? That I would be married with children in East Anglia? I think I would have found the Tories being out of power least believable.
I had been looking forward to reaching Withersdale for several years, and it had increasingly become the sole quest of the day, like people who set out on a journey to see with their own eyes some city they have always longed to visit, and imagine that they can taste in reality what has charmed their fancy.
Everybody who writes about it seems to like it, Mortlock calling it a dear little church, Simon Jenkins thought it unusually atmospheric, and Arthur Mee writes as though he actually visited the place for a change, and curiously mentions half a dozen pathetic old benches... which once held an honoured place in God's house and are now a shelter from the sun for a few of God's sheep, which is typical of barmy Arthur.
The church sits right beside the busy Halesworth to Harleston road, which you wouldn't expect from its reputation for being remote and peaceful. Incidentally, this is a road I always find difficult when I'm cycling, since it bends and twists through high Suffolk, and you can never be entirely clear about which way it is heading, and several times I have made the mistake of absent-mindedly turning for Harleston when I wanted Halesworth, and so on. Withersdale was the last piece of the jigsaw in north east Suffolk for me; I had visited every single other medieval church beyond the curve that connects Diss in Norfolk to Halesworth, and then the sea.
It was a crisp, bright afternoon towards the end of February, and my next stop after Withersdale would be the railway station at Halesworth, where I planned to catch the train that left at 4.30pm, en route from Lowestoft to Ipswich. Before Halesworth, the train would pass through Beccles, where I had stepped off of it earlier that morning, and cycled off to visit the churches of Worlingham, Mettingham and Shipmeadow workhouse. It was after this that I had made the somewhat convoluted journey through the Saints to reach Mendham in the early afternoon. Each of the Saints is an event, as if a counterpoint to the time it takes to travel through them, creating a history, a tradition of the distance, each one connected to and yet significantly different from the others, and sometimes events can overtake history and change its course, as I had discovered.
Now, I was nine miles from Halesworth, with less than an hour to go before the train left, which would give me time to visit Withersdale, but would concentrate my mind, since the 4.30pm train was the last that I could reasonably catch, having no lights, and needing to cycle a further two miles from the station when I arrived in Ipswich.
So, if I was to decide that the setting or interior of St Mary Magdalene were in any way timeless, this would have to be set against a pressing urgency - or, if not quite an urgency, a sense that an urgency would be created if I did not remain aware of the passing of time.
I stepped through the gate into the sloping churchyard, passing 18th and 19th century headstones as I walked to the east of the building. Here, I discovered that the church was not entirely rendered rubble, for the east wall had been partly rebuilt in red brick, and the window frame above was made of wood, which would be a memory of times past, and a hint of things to come.
The south side of the building was dappled in winter sunlight, and I remembered how Arthur Mee had found this church surrounded by elm trees, and how their leaves must have sent shadows scurrying along this wall, and how the sunlight had been washing it for generations. I wondered if there could be some kind of photographic effect, perhaps caused by chemicals in the rendering responding to the photons in the sunlight, and I remembered how Proust had watched from his curtained apartment the streets below, imagining scenes into stillness. I thought of my own small world, my transitory journey, and how this would be a blink of an eye, a relative stillness in comparison to the long centuries the wall had stood, and how everything I cared about, my passions, hopes and fears, signified nothing beside it.
I looked up at the pretty weather-boarded turret, and the little porch below. Although the church is visibly Norman in construction, the turret and porch have a later historical resonance, because they were the gift of William Sancroft, later to be Archbishop of Canterbury, who in the long years of the 17th century Commonwealth lived at nearby Fressingfield, during the time that the episcopal government of the Church of England was supressed.
Fressingfield was his native village, but Fressingfield church is a medieval wonder, and it is not too fanciful to imagine that Sancroft made St Mary Magdalene his quiet project, although of course it cannot be the work of one man, or even one generation or epoch, but his touch must have fallen firmly here.
I stepped inside to a cool light suffusing the nave and chancel, and I climbed up to the tiny gallery at the west end to look down on the space below. St Mary Magdalene is a relatively unspoiled prayerbook church, almost entirely of the 17th century, with some sympathetic Victorian additions. The pulpit is against the north wall as at All Saints South Elmham, to take full advantage of the theatrical sunlight from the windows in the south wall. The pulpit is tiny, barely two feet across, and the benches face it, and so do the box pews to south and east.
The woodwork is mellow, breathing a calmness into the silence, while the chancel beyond is gorgeous, a tiny altar surrounded by three-sided rails sitting beneath the elegant window, two brass vases of pussywillow sweet upon its cloth. I stood for some time looking down, and then descended, finding a superb font carved with a tree of life and a grinning face. It may be Norman, it may be older. It is set upon a modern brick base, but even this is fitting, as are the benches with strange ends, with a hole for the candlepricks, and I ran my hand over the golden curve, an eroticism stirring in the memory as the scent of flowers in a window splay touched my senses, an echo of a spring evening some twenty years before, when I had first ever thought myself in love, and this came to me now.
There was a crisp confidence to this building; it was expressed in the curious elegance of the 17th century English Church which had furnished it that, despite so many traumas, had finally come to represent the simplicity of the Puritans, the seemliness of the Anglicans, and that was the Elizabethan Settlement of the previous century fulfilled. Here Sancroft waited, while the world turned upside down around him, and then Cromwell died, and so too did the Puritan project; Sancroft became Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London, witnessing its destruction by fire in 1666, and overseeing its complete rebuilding in the classical style, and such a contrast with St Mary Magdalene it must have made that perhaps he sometimes wished he was back here. A High Anglican, he crowned the Catholic James II with some misgivings, but then refused to recognise the Protestant coup of William III in 1688, returning once more to Suffolk, where he died.
I sat in the shadowed pew and felt the distant beat, the quiet trick of history turned and played. I thought of the certainty that this interior represented, the triumph of the will, of belief over mystery, and how the rationalist, superstitious 18th century worshippers here could not have conceived of the great sacramental fire that would one day flame out of Oxford and lick them clean.
I sat there, long enough to forget that I must of necessity move on, and the place began to cast a spell which I thought mostly due to the light, which was becoming pale as the sun faded beyond the distant trees, or perhaps the silence, but I knew in fact it was because of the matter on my mind.
You see, there's another thing. A few days before my visit to Withersdale I had spent a weekend abroad with three female friends, one of whom I felt increasingly drawn to, to the extent that I wondered if anything might come of it. This was also on my mind as I sat in the neat coolness of St Mary Magdalene, looking at the pussy willows in the altar vases, and talking to someone, possibly God.
How to understand flowers on altars, I wonder. How the 18th century puritans who furnished this place would be appalled! And yet they were perfect, as if the entire building had been constructed and furnished for them to be placed here, on this day, at this time, with the late afternoon light glancing down the hillside and leading my gaze to the brass vases. What did they mean to me, in comparison with their meaning for the people who placed them there? I ought to mention that the friends I went away with were all younger then me, at least twelve years, and it is to my great delight how younger people reinvent the world I think I understand, just as I must have done, and still do for people that much older than me. This constant process of reinterpretation must be immensely annoying for those who think they have grown old and wise, but I rejoice in it; it is a beautiful chaos, and keeps the world fresh and new, and history could not exist without it. By history, I mean of course the gradual process of constant change, which was also Newman's definition of the word tradition, rather than anything about dates and famous people.
So I sat there, and wondered if I should try and make something happen with the woman I mentioned, if I should tell her how I felt, and discover if what seemed to be the case was actually so, and so as I sit here now, writing this, I know the full story, and how it finally ended some weeks later, and this makes complete the circle from the moment I crossed the Waveney at Mendham, putting in chain an irrevokable sequence that would lead me here now to this computer keyboard, on this sunny spring evening in Ipswich. In A L'ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs, Proust remembers crossing France by train at night, and the dislocation and alienation of being hurtled through an invisible, unfamiliar landscape. He cannot sleep, and in the middle of the night the train stops in a secret valley, far from the nearest town, perhaps because there is a station, or because the track is blocked, I don't remember. He opens the carriage window; it is a hot, sultry night.
Suddenly, a woman appears from the nearest cottage, with a jug of coffee, and he watches her give the coffee to a group of passengers, or perhaps they were the men removing the blockage, which I think was a tree, but may have been an animal of some kind, or perhaps it was to do with a swollen river. Proust thinks of her life in this lost valley ...from which its congregated summits hid the rest of the world, she could never see anyone save those in the trains which stopped for a moment only.
She moves back down the track, and gives the narrator some coffee. Wordlessly, he drinks it, returns the bowl, and the train starts to move, and he watches her silently as she recedes into the blackness, not knowing where he is, and only being certain that he will never see her again.
Instantly, the day is magnified, signified: Il faisait grand jour maintenant, says the narrator, je m'eloignais de l'aurore... This is history, thousands of these events, infuriatingly disparate and yet somehow connected. And this is so for everyone, for millions of us. I think now of Withersdale, and see connections ramifying, spiralling outwards, always becoming endless.
Posing with my para car a couple of years ago..
Now trying a similar pose with my car!!
Not quite the same!! 😅
But taken at almost the same spot in Loxley Sheffield..
So now time for a bit more NHS/YAS stuff again!!
Been retired a year and a bit, so been there and done that!!
CFR-ing is a volunteer roll, no dosh.
Have to use own car, (can claim milage) no blue lights or speeding either!!
www.yas.nhs.uk/get-involved/volunteer-with-us/community-f...
Our Community First Responder (CFR) scheme is a life-saving partnership with local communities. As authorised volunteers CFRs form teams across Yorkshire to help reduce the number of pre-hospital deaths.
Our CFRs are trained to provide life-saving treatment to patients in the vital first few minutes of an emergency until our ambulance crew arrives. If effective treatment is provided quickly, lives can be saved and disability reduced. This is especially true for heart attacks and medical conditions which have caused someone to lose consciousness.
When a 999 call is received in our Emergency Operations Centre (EOC), an ambulance response is dispatched. At the same time, a CFR on-call in the area can be alerted and asked to attend the incident to ensure that help reaches the patient as quickly as possible.
The 3D model: www.thingiverse.com/thing:69491
The 3D printer: makerbot.creativetools.se
For more information creative-tools.com
Replicating the scene taken the previous evening with a PCC, but this time with a Milano. June 8, 2017. © 2017 Peter Ehrlich
The MakerBot Digitizer 3D-scanned Laser Cat model was used in this test of different layer thicknesses. The cat was scaled down to 50 mm in height and then 3D printed at the following layer heights:
- 0.40 mm (400 microns)
- 0.30 mm (300 microns)
- 0.20 mm (200 microns)
- 0.10 mm (100 microns) - Average width of a strand of human hair
- 0.05 mm (50 microns)
- 0.02 mm (20 microns)
All six cats where 3D printed on a MakerBot Replicator 2 with TRUE BLUE PLA plastic at 230 degrees C.
All layers where 3D printed with MakerWare's standard values as follows:
(400 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 90 mm/s
(300 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 90 mm/s
(200 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 90 mm/s
(100 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 90 mm/s
(50 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 60 mm/s
(20 microns) - 15% infill - perimeters 2 - speed 40 mm/s
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The 3D scanner: bit.ly/1a7y8hG
The 3D printer: makerbot.creativetools.se
The 3D model: www.thingiverse.com/thing:146265
Replication of festoon lighting columns and oriental dragon lanterns at Peasholm Park completed by JW UK on behalf of Scarborough Borough Council
I've had 3 printing at once, but never all four. Yet.
From left to right:
- RepRap Kossel
- RepRap Prusa i3
- Ultimaker 2
- MakerBot Replicator 1 XL
After successfully replicating a LUT that I liked from another image processing program, I realized it might work well on some photos I took last May around the Perigord Noir region of France.
From a message shared with a friend here on Flickr -
RawTherapee is free - rawtherapee.com/
You'll need to add Pat David's HaldCLUT film emulation collection - rawpedia.rawtherapee.com/Film_Simulation
Relatedly, if you already use the Gimp (see: www.gimp.org/ ) their most recent versions include 32bit floating-point color-space precision settings. I've been waiting 18 years for this (which is why I went with RawTherapee some years back as it was built to have a large color space to work in).
To get film emulation and some other interesting LUTs into the Gimp, check out G'Mic - patdavid.net/2013/08/film-emulation-presets-in-gmic-gimp/
G'Mic site - gmic.eu/