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The very last of British Leyland's attempt to replicate the success of the Mini. Though the Metro did sell strong on the domestic market, it's ability to woo the international market like its predecessor was sadly not meant to be. Here is the very last Rover 100 Metro, signed by members of the production team as it left the Longbridge factory for the last time.
Originally conceived by British Leyland, the Metro was built to similar principals as those of the Mini it was intended to replace, with a small, practical platform with as much use available to the passenger as was possible. The car came under various initial guises, including the Austin Metro, the Austin miniMetro, the Morris Metro van and the MG Metro, a version of the car with a 1.3L A-Series Turbo Engine.
Although the car was launched in 1980, development of a Mini replacement had dated back to the beginning of the 70's. Dubbed ADO88 (Amalgamated Drawing Office project number 88), the Metro was eventually given the go ahead in 1977, but wanted to have the appeal of some of the larger 'Supermini' (what a contradiction in terms) cars on the market, including cars such as the Ford Fiesta and the Renault 5. Designed by Harris Mann (the same guy who gave us the Princess and the Allegro), the car was given a much more angular body for the time, but despite its futuristic looks did share many features of the earlier Mini, including the 675cc BMC-A Series engine that dated back to 1959, and the gearbox. Initial cars also included the Hydragas Suspension system originally used on the Allegro and the Princess, though with no front/rear connection. The car was also built as a hatchback, which would eventually be a key part of its success as the Mini instead utilised only a small boot.
The Metro was originally meant for an earlier 1978 launch, but a lack of funds and near bankruptcy of British Leyland resulted in the car's launch being pushed back. This delay however did allow the folks at Longbridge to construct a £200m robotic assembly plant for the new Metro line, with the hope of building 100,000 cars per year. Finally the car entered sales 3 years late and got off to quite promising initial sales, often being credited for being the saviour of British Leyland. The Metro was in fact the company's first truly new model in nearly 5 years, with the 9 year old Allegro still in production, the 1980 Morris Ital being nothing more than a 7 year old Marina with a new face, and the 5 year old Princess not going anywhere!
As mentioned, an entire myriad of versions came with the Metro, including the luxury Vanden Plas version and the sporty MG with its top speed of 105mph and 0-60mph of 10.1 seconds. Eventually the original incarnation of the car, the Austin Metro, went on to sell 1 million units in it's initial 10 year run, making it the second highest selling car of the decade behind the Ford Escort. However, like most other British Leyland products, earlier cars got a bad reputation for poor build quality and unreliability, combined with the lack of rustproofing that was notorious on many BL cars of the time.
The show was not over however, as in 1990 the car was given a facelift and dubbed the Rover Metro. The 1950's A-Series engine was replaced by a 1.1L K-Series, and the angular bodyshell was rounded to similar principals as those by acclaimed styling house Ital to create a more pleasing look for the 90's. This facelift, combined with an improvement in reliability and build quality, meant that the car went on to win the 'What Car?' of the Year Award in 1991.
In 1994 the car was given yet another facelift, with once again a more rounded design and removal of the Metro name, the car being sold as the Rover 100. Engines were once again changed, this time to a 1.5L Peugeot engine and more audacious colour schemes were available for the even more rounded design of the new car. However, the car was very much starting to look and feel its age. Aside from the fact that the design dated back to 1977, the new car was not well equipped, lacking electric windows, anti-lock brakes, power steering, or even a rev counter! In terms of safety, it was very basic, with most features such as airbags, an alarm, an immobiliser and central locking being optional extras.
Eventually the curtain had to fall on the Metro, and in 1997, twenty years after the initial design left the drawing board, it was announced that the car would be discontinued. Spurred on by dwindling sales due to lack of safety and equipment, as well as losing out to comparative cars such as the ever popular Ford Fiesta, VW Polo and Vauxhall Corsa, with only fuel economy keeping the car afloat, Rover axed the Metro in 1998 with no direct replacement, although many cite the downsized Rover 200 a possible contender. Stumbling blindly on, the next car to fill the gap in Rover's market was the 2003 CityRover, based on the TATA Indica, which flopped abysmally and pretty much totalled the company (but that's another story).
In the end only 2,078,000 Metro's were built in comparison to the 5.3 million examples of the Mini that it was meant to replace. The main failings of the Metro were down to the fact that the car was too big compared to the Mini, and the rounded old-world charm of the Coopers and Clubmans was replaced by the angular corners. Because of this the car simply didn't have the novelty that the Mini continued to claim even 20 years after the first ones left the factory, and the Mini would even go on to outlive the Metro by another 2 years, ending production in 2000, then going on to have a revival in the form of BMW's New Mini Cooper that's still being built today. Unlike the Mini, the Metro also failed to conquer the international market in the same way, scoring its 2 million units pretty much in Britain alone, although some cars were sold in France and Spain, but only to the total of a few hundred.
The Metro however survived only on fuel economy and its spacious interior, but by the early 1990's, whilst other car manufacturers had moved on leaps and bounds, Rover continued to be stuck in the past with not the money or the enthusiasm to change what was a terribly outdated and extremely basic car. Towards the end the Metro, which had only a few years earlier won awards for its practical nature, was ending up on lists for Worst car on the market.
Today however you can still see Metro's, later editions are especially common on the roads of Britain. Earlier models built under British Leyland have mostly rusted away and are apparently only down to about a thousand nowadays, but the Rover 100's and Rover Metros continue to ply their trade, a lonely reminder of how here in Britain, we can never ever seem to move on!
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
Replicating a stores delivery to Dilhorne Colliery, a Beyer Peacock 'Pug' 04-0ST is shunting vans in the sidings accessed directly from the vicious 1 in 19 'Foxfield Bank'.
Mirror play on a public plaza at the new Bay Meadows mixed use office and residential neighborhood that grew where the horse race track once stood in San Mateo, CA.
Shot with Kodak Retina IIIc folding rangefinder and Schneider-Kreuznach Xenon 50mm f/2 lens at f/16, 1/250sec on Kodak TMax ISO-400 B&W film expired 10/2014, developed in 2018.
Had random moment of inspiration the other night and shot this. It's very etherial and mysteriously creepy, but there's something about the image that's perfect to me. I'm about to start to get completely wild with my work, and I can't wait. I have the new camera, and now all I need is some inspiration, ideas, models, and some locations and I'll be golden. Big things soon I hope!
AB B800 Softbox in different directions.
www.facebook.com/pages/Andy-S-Foster-Photography/15772338...
After taking a number of pictures replicating Jack Vettriano's prints, I built a sim celebrating his art (with the help of a great landscaper, Gazza Tremor). Forty scenes were created to mimic his work (including poses). Wade Masters took pictures using these scenes with the help of many friends as models. The finished pictures were added to the sim gallery. There were many additional areas of the sim that could be enjoyed by visitors including beaches, private areas, boardwalks, music venues (free for anyone to use), among others. In addition to Wade, Krystafer, Jack Parkin, and Looker Lumet helped greatly with this project. I am proud to say that I never took any financial assistance for this creation. It was a wonderful place enjoyed by many!
MySQL Replication Manager Screenshot
For more information: code.google.com/p/mysqlreplicationmanager/
a capture to replicate a day long gone, devoid of anything from the 21st Century - well other than my camera!
The British Railways (BR) ex-WD Austerity 2-10-0 Class was a class of 25 2-10-0 steam locomotives of the WD Austerity 2-10-0 type purchased in 1948 from the War Department. BR officially listed them in running stock in 1948, though most were kept in store until 1949-1950. BR allocated them the numbers 90750-90774. They were mostly allocated to Scottish Region ex-LMS sheds. They were given the power classification 8F. They were withdrawn between 1961-1962.
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
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
© All rights reserved. This image is copyrighted to Tim Wood; 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. Please contact me at woodrot147@aol.com for express permission to use any of my photographs.
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www.flickriver.com/photos/imagesofwales/popular-interesting/
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
I made a product box and tested it out using this old bold and washer. The picture was good but boring so I decided to have some fun using some Topaz plugins I recently purchased. This is using Lens Effects package and the Prism effect.
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/
The 'Ksan Historical Village at Hazelton, B.C. was built in the 1970s to replicate a traditional Gitxsan village with longhouses, totem poles and cultural artifacts from this rich indigenous culture. (Richard McGuire photo)
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
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...
Not much to say about this church, as it was locked at nine in the morning.
Is now Diocese Office and offices of the Deanery.
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St Nicholas Church is a former parish church in Rochester, Kent, England, next to Rochester Cathedral. It is now the offices of the Board of Education of the Diocese of Rochester.[1] It is a Grade I listed building.
By 1620 the church was poor condition. It was partly demolished, rebuilt, and on 24 September 1624 John Buckeridge, Bishop of Rochester, reconsecrated it.[4] The rebuilt church was completed with Geometric Decorated Gothic tracery windows: an example of 17th-century English Gothic Survival architecture.[5]
The church was restored between 1860 and 1862, when the windows were replaced with Gothic Revival ones, again replicating a Decorated Gothic style.[6]
In 1963–64 Diocesan offices were inserted in the west end and aisles, which were partitioned off for the purpose. In 1971 the 17th-century pulpit was removed. In 1973 the pews followed it, being replaced with chairs. In 1973–74 the Diocese made major repairs to the stonework at a cost of £21,000.[6]
St Nicholas is now the headquarters of the Diocesan Board of Education.
The church has a north tower (ritually at the northwest corner). It has three stages, and a door on the northwest side. The belfry has a 17th-century frame for hanging three bells. Two bells were owned in 1624[4] though none currently remain in the church's possession.[6]
The church has a five-light west window framed by buttresses, with a doorway below; three-light windows in the south aisle, with buttresses between; and a five-light south window.[2] The tower, and the door below the northwest window, are thought to be 15th-century.[6]
Inside are five-bay arcades on 17th-century Tuscan columns. Tuscan half-columns support the chancel arch.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Nicholas_Church,_Rochester
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THE PARISH OF ST. NICHOLAS, the only one at present within this city, appears to have been a parochial district before the conquest. It certainly was so in the time of bishop Gundulph, who came to this see in 1076, though there was no church belonging to it for some centuries after; but in lieu of it, the parishioners resorted to an altar in the cathedral, called the parochial altar of St. Nicholas; the officiating priest at which was appointed by the convent, and presented to the bishop. (fn. 2)
Walter, bishop of Rochester, who came to the see in 1147, confirmed to the monks of the priory this parochial altar, together with the church of St. Margaret, which belonged as a chapel to it, and he appropriated to them all profits and obventions, as well of the altar as the chapel. This was certainly set aside by bishop Gilbert de Glanvill, in the reign of king Richard I. who divested them of all profits and emoluments belonging to this altar. However, he reinstated them in their old accustomed pension of forty shillings yearly from it. By this means, the bishop recovered the patronage of this parish to the see of Rochester, where it has ever since remained.
This altar is supposed by many to have been placed in the large recess on the east side of the north great cross isle of the cathedral. It was certainly below the choir, and was removed from the place where it before stood by the monks, as appears by the judicial act made in 1312, by which the parishioners were allowed to perform their services at it, and they agreed, that whenever the prior and chapter should cause a proper church to be built for them elsewhere, they would then resort to it, as to their parish church, without any further claim in that, or any other place in the cathedral.
Notwithstanding this, the prior and chapter were so well satisfied at the altar's remaining in the cathedral, that for more than one hundred years no steps were taken towards it; but at length, in the reign of king Henry V. by the endeavours of bishop Richard Young, and by the interposition of archbishop Chicheley, the inhabitants were, by a composition, in 1421, suffered to finish a parochial church for themselves on the north side of the cemetery of the cathedral, the walls of which had been raised several years before, and the bishop by his instrument for this purpose further decreed, that the altar of St. Nicholas should be transferred to the church, when finished, as well as all parochial right, belonging to it; and that the church, when finished, from that time should be called the parish church and rectory of St. Nicholas, and not the vicarage, to the disburthening of his church, and of the prior and chapter; so that for the future all burthens, ordinary and extraordinary, especially as to the reparation and maintaining of the church, should belong to the rector and the parishioners of it, and not to the cathedral church, or the prior and chapter; to whom he reserved their accustomed yearly pension of forty shillings from the vicar of the said altar; and he decreed, that the rector should take institution for it; and he reserved to himself the collation to it, whenever it should become vacant, &c.
From this decree the prior and chapter appealed to the archbishop, and alledged, that to the said altar united and annexed to the religious, there was one vicar received and admitted, who used to undergo and bear the care of the parishioners of it; and that the right of taking all parochial ecclesiastical rights, and especially all and all manner of tithes of every sort of corn, of mills and pastures, belonging to it, from the first foundation of the cathedral church did, and ought to belong to the prior and chapter, as rectors of the said altar, and as the superiors, and having the pre-eminence of the vicar in the right and name of their church, in which the altar was situated, of all which rights, parochial and ecclesiastical, they had been in possession beyond the memory of man; and that at all times the chaplain of it had been admitted under the name and stile of vicar, and in no wise as rector, nor had he ever carried himself as such; and lastly, that the ground on which the church was built was the proper soil belonging to them. Upon which, the archbishop, in 1421, decreed, with their consent, among many other regulations, that the parishioners should have leave to build their church, and should entirely finish it within three years, and from time to time to repair it afterwards; that they should renounce all right and title to the aforesaid altar, or to any other thing in the cathedral; and that the vicar of the said church, and the parishioners should for ever have free liberty to bury, without any interruption from, or leave asked of the prior and convent, either in the church, or in the cemetery south of it, and between that and the cathedral, vulgarly called Greenchurch Haw, or in the other ce- metery contiguous to the church, westward of the cathedral, as it was bounded by the walls and gates of the prior; and that the vicar, who before obtained institution, by the name of vicar of the altar, before-mentioned, should perform divine offices in this new-built church, dedicated to St. Nicholas, and should sustain the care of the parishioners, and by the name of the vicar of the church of St. Nicholas, within the precinct of the priory of Rochester, should be instituted and so nominated for the future, and that the parishioners should repair the walls of the cemeteries at their own proper expence; and he decreed, that the vicar, and his successors, should pay for ever to the prior and convent the annual pension of forty shillings, and as to the taking of the tithes of gardens, rushes, mills, and other titheable things, arising within this parish, and the profits and commodities for their support, by which they might be enabled to support the burthens incumbent on them, the archbishop, on account of various and arduous matters by which he was then hindered, deferred determining the same, but reserved it to himself to make his decree concerning them, at his future leisure. (fn. 3)
This church was afterwards consecrated by John, bishop of Dromore, in the absence of the bishop of Rochester, on Sunday, Dec. 18, 1423.
No description is left of this church, which appears to have remained near two hundred years; but the building becoming ruinous, and in 1620 being judged incapable of being repaired, it was taken down, and a new one which is now standing, was erected on the same spot.
This building was consecrated on Sept. 24, 1624, (as was an additional burying-ground the day following) by Dr. John Buckeridge, bishop of Rochester. It extends in length one hundred feet, and in breadth sixty feet; it consists of a nave and two isles. It is a substantial spacious church, handsomely sitted up and ornamented, and extremely well constructed for public worship; at the north-west angle of it is a tower steeple containing two bells.
The present altar-piece was given by Edward Bartholomew, esq. in 1706; he likewise gave for the use of the church two silver flaggons, and a patten of thirty pounds price. Edward Harlow, in 1609, gave a gilt cup. Francis Brooke, esq. in 1703, gave a large silver plate for the offerings at the sacrament; and Henry Austen, gent. gave two handsome large commonprayer books to be placed on the altar.
¶Among other monuments and inscriptions in this church are the following—In the chancel, a brass plate for Alice, daughter and heir of John Williams, of Stroud, first married to John Tucke, alderman; and secondly, to Thomas Robinson, regist. ob. 1574; a memorial for Robert Bayley, late minister of this parish, obt. 1701; in the north window, gules on a chevron, 3 crescents sable, and inscription, that the window was set up at the charge of John Cobham, esq. and alderman in 1624; on a gravestone, south of the altar, are the arms of Austen, and under it a vault for that family, made by a faculty; a monument, arms, sable three fishes argent in pale, Barry, with the figures of a man and his three wives, for Thomas Rocke, gent. alderman, and four times mayor, obt. 1625; a monument, arms, three wolves heads couped, within a bordure sable, with the figures of a man and woman kneeling at a desk, for George Wilson, esq. twice mayor, obt. 1629, and Anne his wife, obt. 1630. In the nave, memorials for Elizabeth, first wife of Sir Robert Fane, only daughter of Norton Halke, gent. obt. 1661, and for Elizabeth, his second wife, eldest danghter of Richard Head, esq. obt. 1663; for Henry, son of Richard Head, esq. obt. 1673; for Barbara, wife of William Head alderman, obt. 1703; a monument for George Robinson, four times mayor, obt. 1657. In the south isle, against the south wall, a brass plate for Thomasine, daughter of William Watts, wife of Robert Hall, mayor, obt. 1575. In the north isle, a monument for Robert Conny, M. D. only son of John Conny, surgeon, and twice mayor, the son of Robert Conny, of Godmanchester, in Huntingdonshire, gent. he married Frances, daughter of Richard Manley, esq. of Holloway-court, they both died in 1723; a monument, arms, or, three goats heads erased sable, for Philip Bartholomew, gent. and Sarah his wife, who both died in 1696, placed by Leonard, their only surviving son; in the north window, sable, a chevron between three tuns argent, and a little lower PHILPOT. (fn. 4)
This parish is situated within the diocese and deanry of Rochester. The vicarage of St. Nicholas in 1291 was valued at five marcs. It is valued in the king's books at 20l. 8s. 9d. per annum, and the yearly tenths at 2l. 0s. 10½d. In 1649 the yearly value of it was returned at 59l. 6s. 8d per annum. (fn. 5)
The bishop of Rochester continues patron of this vicarage.
A house was allotted to the vicars of it some centuries ago; it is situated not far from the free-school, and a piece of ground belonging to it extends to the north wall of the city. Some part of the old house was rebuilt by the late vicar, Mr. John Vade.
The pension of forty shillings due from the vicar of the parochial altar of St. Nicholas continued to be paid to the prior and convent till their dissolution, when it was granted by king Henry VIII. to his new-founded dean and chapter, who now possess it.
One last diagram for 2009... this is a Flexagon I designed last october during the Octagons for October challenge at the Origami Tessellations group. I was inspired by Yami Yamauchi's Fireworks modular, and set out to replicate the effect with a single sheet of paper.
The model in the video was wetfolded from 10" x 20" Canson Colorline paper, colored with various spraypaints. Diagrams are here.
And to bring things full circle, we'll end 2009 as we started it: with a new Snowflake CP from Jared. Happy New Year everyone!
Replicate the web link for a possibility to win the reward: giveaway.amazon.com/p/53fbc84770742142 Premium quality plastic container to make use of with traveling toiletries, cosmetics or various other usages. Product: PP Weight: 96g Bundle: 1 x 50ml pump container (12.5 * 3.2 centimeters) 2 x 80ml flip-cap container (11 * 3.5 centimeters) 1 x 50ml
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...
“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
This wedding cake was replicated from an image I was given by the bride. Unfortunately I'm unable to credit the original, as I don't know where it came from. I would have chosen to do a couple of things differently had it been my own design. :)
The bride arranged for a fresh flower topper, so hopefully I'll be able to obtain a picture of the finished product!
The top and middle tiers were both chocolate mud, and the bottom tier was a dummy. It's hard to tell from the pic, but the dots on the quilting are piped royal icing dots which have been painted silver. Ribbons and brooches were supplied by the bride.
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
RepRap is a self-replicating 3D printer. It builds its own gears and components. (detail photos)
The coiled polymer feed looks like an IV bag bobbing over the working tip. The dual print head is affectionately called Zaphod.
Scattered about are sci foo camp tents… and the ubiquitous “foo bar” beckons in the background, serving variable drafts.
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.
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(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.
The 3D model: www.thingiverse.com/thing:69491
The 3D printer: makerbot.creativetools.se
For more information creative-tools.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...